The New Neighbours

by Costeloe Diney

  Chantal made no move to stop him, she was hazy and lethargic from the hash, and her body quivered at the touch of his hands, even though that touch was far less gentle than before. She leaned against him as he began to kiss her and when his hands reached round under her skirt, pulling at her tights, she stood on tiptoe, rubbing herself against him.

  Suddenly he let her go and she sat down on the bed with a bump, watching as he stripped off his shirt and jeans. She could see a huge bulge between his legs that leapt towards her as his boxers followed his jeans on to the floor.

  “You’re going to love this, babe,” he grunted as he pulled at her skirt and tights. “You’ve been begging for this ever since I first saw you. You’ve been waiting for this.” And he pushed her back on to the pillow.

  Twenty

  Sheila and Gerald Colby had gone to bed early, well before the student party had left the pub, and she was fast asleep, when a loud thudding began to penetrate her dreams. For a few moments it was part of her dream, and then she was wide awake. She sat up with a jolt. The whole of her bedroom seemed to be vibrating with the sound, not only of heavy reggae music, but of voices and loud shouts of laughter.

  “Gerald! Gerald!” she shook her still-sleeping husband awake. “Can’t you hear that din?”

  Gerald grunted that he could.

  “It’s worse than we thought,” hissed Sheila. “Whatever time is it?” She peered at the alarm clock and then answered her own question. “Past midnight! Listen to them!”

  “I can hear them,” said Gerald, “and I agree it is a bit loud.”

  “A bit loud!” snapped Sheila, “It’s deafening! The whole Circle must be awake! We must do something.”

  “Like what?” asked Gerald wearily.

  “Bang on the wall,” Sheila said. “I’m going downstairs to bang on the wall.” She got out of bed and struggled into her dressing gown. “I’ll bang on the wall of the stairs,” she said and disappeared.

  Gerald sighed. He knew banging on the wall wouldn’t be any good. He doubted if they would even hear it above the racket they were making, but he did agree that the noise was too much at this time of night. He decided he’d better get up too, if only to stop Sheila setting off round to the students’ house on a one-woman crusade. When he got downstairs, he found Sheila standing on the lower flight banging on the wall with a broom handle.

  “Sheila, love,” he protested, “it’s a waste of time. They’ll never hear you above that din.” But he was wrong. Even as he spoke there was an answering knock from next door, but a rhythmical one, bang bang-bang-bang bang, bang bang. Sheila hammered angrily on the wall with her fists, but little sound came from them so she had another go with the broom handle. The answering knocks sounded again, and there was a gale of laughter.

  “Oh this is ridiculous!” she exploded. “I always said this would happen with a house full of students next door. I’m going to ring the police.”

  “Now Sheila, steady on,” Gerald said, stopping her reaching for the telephone. “They are being very noisy, but it may settle down in a little while, and be fair, it is the first time they’ve done it.”

  “The first and the last,” stormed Sheila. “Well, I’m going to ring Anthony Hammond then. He’s chairman of the residents’ association. He can come over and deal with them.”

  “Why don’t you ring the students themselves and ask them to turn the music down a bit?” suggested Gerald. “Let’s face it, Anthony won’t be too delighted to hear from you in the early hours of the morning either.”

  “I imagine he’s awake already,” Sheila snapped.

  “Even so, let’s give the students a ring first.”

  “I don’t know their number,” Sheila grumbled.

  “It’s in our book,” Gerald replied calmly. “Remember, the girl, Madeleine, gave it to us when she first moved in and we wrote it in our book.” As he spoke he reached for their telephone index and looked up the number. “Here we are,” he said and passed it across to her.

  Sheila sniffed, but she took the index and dialled the number. The line was engaged. “Either someone else is ringing to complain, or they’ve taken it off the hook,” she said.

  “Probably the Redwoods,” Gerald said soothingly. “Let’s give it a minute and see if they turn down the noise. I’ll make us a cup of tea while we’re waiting.”

  He made the tea, but there was no sign of the noise next door diminishing, and further efforts to phone were all greeted with the engaged signal.

  “That’s it,” Sheila said when she’d drunk her tea, “I’m going to phone Anthony and demand he does something.” She consulted their phone index again and dialled the Hammonds’ number.

  It was answered at the first ring. “Hallo. Jill is that you?”

  Not really taking in what he had said, Sheila launched into her complaint. “Mr Hammond? Anthony? This is Sheila Colby.”

  “Mrs Colby?” Anthony sounded confused.

  “Sheila Colby,” she repeated, “from number six. I’m ringing up to ask what you are going to do about the dreadful noise that those students are making. It’s nearly one in the morning, and our whole house is vibrating to that dreadful music. Can’t you hear it?”

  “Oh, Mrs Colby. Yes, yes I can hear something.”

  “Something!” retorted Sheila, “It’s positively head-banging from here. We’ve tried knocking on the wall and they just knock back. The phone is engaged, off the hook I should think. It’s up to you to go over there and tell them to turn it off.”

  “Up to me? Why? You live next door.”

  “Mr Hammond, the whole street is being deafened by this din. You are chairman of the residents’ association, it’s up to you. Otherwise I’ll call the police.”

  Anthony sighed. He didn’t want the police called if it wasn’t necessary.

  “All right,” he agreed reluctantly, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Sheila rang off. “He’s going across,” she told Gerald.

  Anthony put the phone down with a groan. He was still up and dressed, wondering with increasing anxiety where on earth Jill was. She had obviously gone out for the evening somewhere; Isabelle had only been able to say that she had gone to drinks with friends, but she didn’t know who.

  Anthony had come home unexpectedly because his Sunday meeting had been cancelled, and he, himself, hadn’t got in until just after half past eleven. Jill wasn’t at home, and as it got later he was becoming more and more worried. Perhaps her car had broken down and she was stranded somewhere. But if she were stranded, why didn’t she ring? Of course she didn’t think he was at home, so she might have stayed over with the friends if her car wouldn’t start and would ring Isabelle in the morning. If only he knew where she’d been for the evening, he could have gone out to look for her, but it was far too late to ring round their various friends to see if Jill had been there. And now this stupid woman was insisting that he go over to the student house and get the music turned off.

  He opened the front door and started across the grass towards the Madhouse, aptly named, he thought as he was treated to the full blast of the music from the open windows of number seven. Suddenly he stopped short. There, parked outside in the road was Jill’s car. He ran and peered in through the windows. There was no one in it. He tried the door, but the car was locked. He stood on the pavement, looking round him, but there was no sign of her, or anyone. He looked round the Circle. Could she have been having drinks with one of their neighbours? Several houses had their lights on now, but that was probably due to the party in number seven. He called her name, softly at first, and then loudly, shouting in case she was in the central garden for some reason, but there was no reply. At that moment Paul Forrester’s door opened, and he emerged with a torch.

  “Paul? Is that you?” Anthony called.

  The torch flashed across the garden and Paul made his way over.

  “Anthony?” He stopped by the car and looked across at the Madhouse. “We used to have parties like that o
nce upon a time,” he said reminiscently.

  “Paul. Have you seen Jill?” Anthony asked urgently. “Is she with you?”

  “Jill? No. Should she be?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s just that she went to drinks with some friends, I don’t know who, and she isn’t home yet. I’m getting worried.”

  “Isn’t this her car?” asked Paul. “She must be in the Circle or pretty close by if her car’s here.”

  “That’s what’s so odd,” explained Anthony. “It wasn’t here when I got in… at least I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. I mean, I must have seen it if it had been here when I got home, mustn’t I?”

  Paul shrugged. “I’d have thought so,” he agreed.

  “And now, Sheila Colby’s on to me about the noise from the student house, demanding that I should do something about it…”

  “And saying I told you so.”

  Anthony laughed ruefully, “And saying I told you so. Well, I’d better try I suppose.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Paul said, “that’s what I really came out for, to see if I could get them to turn it down a bit. We did try ringing, but it’s always engaged. Phone’s probably off the hook. Anyway, they’ve woken the kids which is a pain, and we’d all like a bit of sleep.”

  The two men walked over to number seven. Anthony looked up and saw Sheila and Gerald Colby watching from the window. There were lights on in the Redwoods’ house too, though David and Shirley were not at their window.

  They’ve got kids in the house too, Anthony thought, they must be loving this noise!

  The front door of number seven was ajar, and after some futile knocking Anthony was about to go in when the whole frontage was lit up by headlights, and a police car pulled round the Circle. Anthony drew back from the door and turned to meet the police. A constable got out of the car and said, “Good evening, sir, PC Woodman. Mr Redwood, is it?”

  “No, Anthony Hammond, from number three.”

  “You didn’t phone us, sir?”

  “No. If it was David Redwood, he’s next door at number eight. I was just going to see if I could get them to turn down the music a bit. I’m chairman of the Residents’ Association and I’ve had a complaint from the neighbours the other side, the Colbys.”

  At that moment he was aware of someone at his side and turned to find Sheila Colby, dressed in her dressing gown. She had rushed down into the road when she saw the police car. “Thank goodness you’ve come, officer,” she said to the policeman. “This noise has got to be stopped, it’s a public nuisance.”

  “We’ll see what we can do, madam,” he promised and then turning to Anthony again, said, “I’m not surprised someone complained, sir. It is very loud isn’t it? Who owns this property, or is it rented?”

  “A girl called Madeleine Richmond. She’s a student herself and rents out the other rooms.”

  “Well, sir, we’ll deal with this now,” said Woodman, “if you’d all like to go back indoors.” Nobody moved. At that moment David Redwood emerged from his house, also dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown. “Good, you’re here,” he said without preamble. “You can hear the problem yourself, and this racket has been going on for nearly an hour now. It’s too loud and too late!”

  “Mr Redwood? Don’t worry, sir, we’ll sort it now, if you’d just like to go back indoors.”

  David didn’t go back indoors, but crossed over to join Sheila, Paul and Anthony as they stood aside and watched the police. A policewoman had joined Constable Woodman on the pavement, and together they went to the front door of number seven and pressed the bell. If it rang, no one heard it above the noise of the music. Woodman pushed open the door and they went in. He went straight upstairs and immediately smelt what Dan had, when he had arrived.

  “You stay at the top of the stairs,” he said to WPC Ford, “someone’s using drugs in here.” Then he strode across the room to the stereo system and turned off the power. For a moment the silence was deafening, then there was a babble of complaints before everyone realised who had turned the music off. WPC Ford switched on the overhead lights and Woodman said, “Right, everyone stay where you are.” He spoke to Ford. “Ask for back-up,” he said, “and then search upstairs, let’s have everyone in here. No one’s to leave this room,” he ordered. “Which of you is Miss Richmond, and who else lives here?”.

  Cirelle came forward, looking scared. “I live here,” she said. “That’s Mad there.” She pointed to Madeleine who was sprawled on the sofa, but beginning to surface, woken by the sudden silence.

  “Miss Richmond?” Woodman said as she looked up at him blearily. “We’ve had a complaint about the noise, and I’m not surprised. However, I’m more concerned by the use of drugs in this house. I intend to search everyone here.”

  Madeleine was suddenly wide awake, and looking round the crowd in the room, shrugged helplessly. “If you must,” was all she said.

  Dean, realising that something untoward was happening, came out of his bedroom, and stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he muttered.

  No one answered him, so he closed his door gently behind him and waited.

  Mad looked across at Cirelle and murmured, “Where’s Dan?”

  Cirelle raised her shoulders in ignorance, but she knew why Mad was asking. Dan occasionally smoked pot, and Mad didn’t want him caught with it on him. However, Mad’s question was soon answered. After calling for assistance, WPC Ford had gone upstairs and now reappeared, shoving Dan downstairs in front of her and pulling Chantal along behind her. Dan was wearing only his boxer shorts, carrying his shirt and jeans, and Chantal was wrapped up in Charlie’s bedspread.

  Mad saw them emerge into the room, and staggered to her feet, but it took her a moment to realise just what she was seeing. “Dan?” she whispered incredulously “Dan… you haven’t…?” But she could see by his face that he had. “You bastard,” she cried. “You shitty, fucking bastard.” She launched herself at him, her arm swinging to hit him across the face, but WPC Ford caught her, held her firmly.

  “No need for that, Miss Richmond!” she warned.

  “Isn’t there?” She gave Dan a look of pure pain and with the fight draining out of her, she turned away. Immediately Dean was beside her, and putting his arms round her, he held her close, as she fought to control her tears.

  Chantal looked terrified, and Woodman said, “And just how old are you then?” Chantal didn’t answer at once and at that moment Dean’s bedroom door opened again, and Pepper peered out bleary-eyed, to see what was going on.

  “And still they come crawling out,” remarked Woodman. “Right, out of the house, the lot of you, the party’s over.”

  At that moment the back-up arrived in the form of another police car, its blue light and head lamps flashing, with two more officers in it, one of them a sergeant. Woodman quickly brought him up to date.

  “Right,” said Sergeant Trump, “I smell cannabis in here. Search them all, Woodman. Dawes,” he turned to the man who had arrived with him, “look round the rest of the house, and see if anyone else is here. Start downstairs.” Dawes nodded and disappeared down the stairs, while Woodman and Trump moved to begin their searches.

  Denroy was first, but he looked the policeman in the eye and said softly, “I don’t think, so, man. I’m leaving,” and quietly, he stalked from the room. Others followed him, and soon very few of the party remained.

  In the meantime, WPC Ford, instructed by Trump, took Chantal back upstairs and told her to get dressed.

  She asked her name, and then said, “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” lied Chantal. “Hmm, and where do you live?”

  “Across the road, at number four.”

  “I see. And does your mother know where you are?”

  “She said I could go out,” Chantal said defensively. “With your boyfriend.”

  “Yes,” Chantal was more defiant now. She felt braver with her clothes on.

  “I don’t think the girl downstairs thought he w
as your boyfriend,” Ford remarked. She reached into the plant pot on the table and retrieved two cigarette ends.

  “Smoking, were we?” she enquired.

  “So?”

  “So, it’s an offence to smoke cannabis, you must know that.”

  “Cannabis?” Chantal’s hard-won courage evaporated. “I didn’t… I mean it was just a cigarette.”

  “Did he give it to you, your boyfriend?”

  “Dan? Yes, I don’t smoke really.”

  “I see.” WPC Ford looked sceptical. “Well, now you’re decent again, we’d better go back downstairs.”

  It was the sudden death of the music that alerted Ben. He and Jill were lying exhausted on his bed, about to drift off into sleep when the silence descended and then there was the sound of strange voices in the hall. As Ben dragged himself out from under Jill, she giggled and made a catch at him.

  “Sssh!” he said fiercely, “there’s something going on.” He pulled on his jeans, and eased the door open. Looking along the passage he saw that the front door was open, and in the light, which revolved lazily blue, he saw a small crowd gathered outside.

  “Christ!” he exclaimed, closing the door hurriedly and turning the key, “It’s the fuzz!”

  “What—” asked Jill a little muzzily, “what did you say?”

  “Police,” Ben said tersely. “They’re here! Someone must have called them because of the noise. Shit! What are we going to do?” He picked up Jill’s bra and tossing it to her, said, “Quick. Get dressed. We’ve got to think of something.”