The Nuisance
“Good evening, citizens. A neighbour from downstairs complained about noise and shouting from your flat,” said the constable at the doorstep. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course,” replied Emily, her voice trembling—not from fear of the officer, but because her husband had beaten her again. This time, it was for pouring all his whisky down the drain. William had flown into a rage when he discovered it.
“I’m a working man—I deserve to unwind after a hard day! You sit at home on maternity leave, while I’m breaking my back on the construction site! Go and get me another bottle!”
“I won’t,” Emily answered. “You’re drunk every day. Little Alfie is already afraid of you. He’s only a year old, and he’s seen too much! Stop drinking, William!”
Amid the baby’s frantic cries, his mother was beaten once more. The noise reached old Mrs. Winthrop downstairs, who—true to form—did exactly what she always did in suspicious situations: she called the police.
Truth be told, Mrs. Winthrop was quite the character. It wasn’t just that the neighbours disliked her—they couldn’t stand her. Every one of them had been reported by the relentless old woman at some point. Not always to the police—there were other authorities, like the council, the housing association, even social services.
“Listen, I think that boy from flat five isn’t being fed properly. Skinny as a rake, dressed like a ragamuffin,” Mrs. Winthrop would say over the phone. “Best check on that family—his mother looks far too pleased with herself, probably on drugs or something worse.”
The social worker noted the complaint and promised action. Meanwhile, the poor mother of the slightly plucky lad was horrified when inspectors knocked on her door. Turned out, her son was on a special diet—at nine, he weighed as much as a teenager. It was working, hence her relief. As for his clothes, well, the boy was active—his trousers and T-shirts barely lasted a week.
Of course, Mrs. Winthrop knew none of this. She avoided speaking to her neighbours altogether.
The old-timers said that long ago, burglars had broken into her flat. Since then, she never trusted anyone in the building, convinced someone had tipped them off about the money she and her husband had withdrawn to buy an old Morris Minor. Her husband had fought back, badly hurt, and soon after passed. Mrs. Winthrop never recovered.
The younger neighbours, who made up most of the building, didn’t know this.
“Clean up after that mutt of yours!” she’d shout at the young man walking his dog in the evening. “Or you’ll regret it!”
“Worried about it? You clean it, you old bat,” the lad scoffed.
The huge dog growled at her and strained at its lead. Mrs. Winthrop backed away, nursing a grudge that festered into revenge.
The young man discovered that revenge the next morning—stepping right into the mess left neatly by his door, ruining his pristine white trainers.
“Blast you!” he roared, scrubbing away his dog’s handiwork.
Lucky for Mrs. Winthrop, he didn’t know which flat she lived in. Cursing, he tossed the ruined shoes into the bin.
Behind her lace curtains, the old woman smiled, satisfied. From then on, the paths near the playground stayed clean. Word of what happened spread quickly among the dog owners.
“So, what’s happened here?” The constable scanned the room where little Alfie sobbed in his cot.
“Nothing,” William muttered. “Just watching the match, got a bit loud. Worthless lot can’t even score—moving like snails out there!”
Emily cast a fearful glance at her husband. She knew she had to back his lie, or pay for it later. The constable studied her. He knew the truth, but without her word, the law couldn’t touch him.
“Yes, just the telly,” Emily whispered. “Sorry.”
The constable sighed. Always the same—victims protecting their tormentors until it was too late.
“Right. Consider this a warning. Next time, it’s a fine for noise complaints,” he said. “And apologise to your neighbour—she’s sharp as a tack. Rare to find someone so civic-minded. She’s on first-name terms with every officer on duty.”
“Lucky us,” William grumbled.
The constable shot him a warning look, then turned to Emily, shaking his head before leaving.
“Next time, I’ll deal with you quietly—won’t even squeak,” William hissed once the door shut.
Emily cradled Alfie, cursing the day she’d married him.
“He’s no good for you, love,” her friends had warned. “You’re sweet-natured, always laughing—but William? Smiles, but his eyes? Cold. Stay clear.”
“But you don’t know him like I do. He loves me,” Emily would say dreamily. “He stood up for me once—so brave.”
She married him. Soon, the truth showed: jealous of colleagues, picking fights without shame. Emily mistook cruelty for passion. Now, he resented every glance, criticised every move, relishing how she blamed herself for nothing.
“Is this shirt ironed? What’s wrong with you?!” he’d shout.
“I tried—didn’t even eat. Alfie’s teething—I’ve been with him all day,” she’d plead.
Understanding wasn’t William’s strong suit. He only accused: soup too hot, dinner bland, she was a bad mother if the baby cried.
“You woke him screaming—that’s why he’s crying!” Emily retorted. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Won’t kill you,” William sneered. “Women used to birth in fields then get back to work. Soft lot now, always whinging.”
At first, Emily thought stress made him cruel. But swallowing hurt after hurt, she realised: she was just convenient—a girl with a flat and a good job.
Fate stepped in. Her old colleagues visited for Mother’s Day. Emily had cooked what she could, exhausted but happy to see them.
“Lovely to see you!” she beamed—free again, if only briefly.
“Happy Mother’s Day! Show us the little one—we’ve brought gifts,” said James, her work friend who’d shared many trials.
Alfie adored the stuffed rabbit and balloons—but more, the kindness from strangers. Not a whimper, just dimpled smiles. For the first time in a year, Emily felt happy.
“Don’t stay off work too long,” her boss said. “We’ll help with nursery. Everything all right at home?”
Emily lied, smiling.
William returned, ignoring her guests. They left quickly, not wanting trouble.
“Never bring them here again,” he spat. “Especially that James—understand?”
“He’s just a friend!”
“Friend? Ha! Before we married, he walked you to the bus stop! And why was he holding Alfie? Is he even mine?”
“Have you lost your mind? James just had a baby himself!”
“‘Just had’? So Alfie’s his? You tramp! Get out—take your brat with you!”
“My flat—remember?” She clutched Alfie, trembling. “It’s freezing out!”
“Go, before I lose my temper!” He snatched a knife.
Emily fled—barefoot, in her thin robe—onto the landing. Alfie wailed as her bare feet numbed. When his rage seemed to cool, she knocked.
“William, please—Alfie will catch cold.”
“Run back to who fathered him,” came the muffled snarl.
Shocked, she stood helpless. Where could she go in November?
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Winthrop appeared on the stairs. “Emily? What’s happened?”
She braced for another scolding—but instead:
“Come with me—you’ll freeze that child.”
Dumbfounded, Emily obeyed. Inside, the flat sparkled—portraits of Mrs. Winthrop and her late husband covered the walls.
“My dear Edward,” the old woman said softly. “We were happy—unlike you. He threw you out?”
“How’d you know?”
“Walls are thin. And he roars like thunder. Why suffer? You should’ve booted him first.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. Stay here. We’ll fetch your things later.”
Upstairs, doors slammed. William hunted for them—knocking on every door but hers.
Two days passed. Emily adjusted, even borrowing Mrs. Winthrop’s tracksuit. Alfie lacked nothing—the old woman spent her pension on him.
Then, the constable returned. William was arrested—he’d attacked James in a jealous rage.
“Serves him right,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “Now help her change the locks.”
A locksmith fitted a new one. For Emily, it wasn’t just a new lock—it was a new life.
“Come on, girl. Do what you must—I’ll mind AlfAnd as Emily stepped back into her flat with Alfie in her arms, she finally understood that sometimes the most unlikely people become the family you never knew you needed.
