I lived in a ninestorey council tower on the outskirts of Manchester, the walls so thin you could hear a sneeze echo through the radiators. Over the years Id stopped flinching when neighbours slammed doors, ignored the occasional bickering about shifting furniture, and learned to tune out the blaring telly of the elderly lady downstairs.
What the bloke upstairs a certain Mark kept doing, however, was enough to make my blood boil. Every Saturday, without a hint of remorse, hed haul out a drill or a hammerdrill and start working. Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven, but always on a day off right when I was hoping to catch a few extra hours of sleep.
At first I tried to be philosophical about it. Maybe its a renovation that ran over schedule, I told myself, tossing and turning, head buried under the pillow. Weeks passed and the droning of the drill still greeted each Saturday, sometimes in short bursts, sometimes in long, relentless whines. It felt as if Mark would start a job, abandon it, then return to it later.
Occasionally the irritating noise didnt limit itself to the weekend. Around seven in the evening on a weekday, after a long day at the factory, Id come home yearning for quiet. Every time I thought of confronting Mark, fatigue, laziness or a simple aversion to conflict held me back.
One Saturday, the drill roared again right over my head. I could no longer stand it and bolted up the stairs, pounding on his door. No answer came, only the relentless hum of the tool vibrating straight into my skull.
When the time comes Ill I managed to shout, but didnt finish. I didnt even know what I meant by the time. My mind raced through possible reprisals: cutting the power to the whole landing, reporting the noise to the council, even something more elaborate like filing a formal complaint or calling the local constable.
Sometimes I imagined Mark suddenly realising hed become a nuisance and apologising, or moving out, or at least stopping the drilling. Anything would do, as long as the noise stopped.
That clatter became, to me, a symbol of unfairness. I kept thinking, If only someone in the block would stand up and put an end to this! Yet everyone stayed in their own flats, minding their own business.
Then something I never expected happened.
***
One Saturday morning I woke not to the usual racket, but to an unfamiliar silence. I lay there, ears straining for the next whirr, but the quiet was thick, almost tangible.
Did he finally break it? a hopeful thought flickered. Or has he moved on?
The day drifted by in a strange, liberating calm. The vacuum cleaner ran softer, the kettle seemed to whistle kindly, and the television no longer trembled the ceiling. I found myself smiling on the sofa, a grin as wide as a childs.
***
Sunday was quiet too, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday the noise had been snipped right out of my life. The hush from upstairs lingered for almost a week. I stopped blaming a renovation, a holiday or a random mishap. Something about that prolonged stillness felt uneasy, a sharp contrast after months of constant clatter.
I stood at Marks door for what felt like ages, gathering the courage to knock. What was my aim? To confirm everything was alright? To prove I wasnt overreacting? I pressed the buzzer.
The door swung open almost immediately, and I sensed something was wrong. A heavily pregnant woman stood in the doorway, her face pale, eyes swollen. Id only seen her a couple of times before, but now she looked older, as if the years had rushed forward.
You Marks wife? I asked cautiously.
She nodded.
Is something wrong? I havent heard any
The words caught in my throat; I couldnt even explain that Id come because of the silence.
She stepped aside, letting me in, and then whispered softly:
Theres no Lesh anymore.
It took a few seconds for the name to register. When? I asked.
Last Saturday, early morning, she said, wiping a tear. You see, that endless renovation it exhausted him. He always worked on weekends because weekdays he was too busy. That morning he got up before me, trying to finish the babys cot. He was in a rush, feared he wouldnt finish in time
She gestured toward the flat. Against the wall lay a halfassembled infant cot the box, instruction sheets, screws and all the little bits scattered on the floor.
He simply fell, she murmured. His heart gave out. I didnt even get a chance to wake up properly.
I stood rooted, the words sinking slowly, heavily, into my mind.
The very noise that had driven me mad now seemed a distant memory. My gaze fell on the box of cot parts tiny screws, a hex key, stickers with part numbers, all neatly sorted. Only people who truly care about something important would keep things so orderly.
Do you need any help? I asked quietly. She shook her head.
Thank you. Im fine, she replied.
I slipped out on tiptoe, the way one leaves a place after touching fresh grief. As I descended the stairs, each step echoed with a dull, guilty thud that had no shape but burned all the same.
Back in my flat I stared up at the ceiling. The silence pressed in, dense, almost accusing. Perhaps it was my hatred for Mark that had festered hatred because he robbed me of sleep, because I cursed him as if he were merely a nuisance, a sound. Now he was gone, and a woman mourned him, a child would be born fatherless, and a cot that he never managed to finish lay waiting.
I should go to his wife, I thought. Shell need help. She probably wont do it alone.
That evening, after my thoughts settled, I went upstairs again and rang the bell. The door opened, the woman raising an eyebrow in surprise I wasnt expected.
Feeling a bit embarrassed, I said, I know we barely know each other, but if youll let me I can put the cot together. He wanted it ready. If its alright with you, Id like to help.
She stared at me for a long moment, as if weighing my words, then slowly nodded.
Come in, she said.
I entered, careful not to step on the scattered parts. I worked in silence for a long while, fitting the bars, tightening the screws. The woman sat on the sofa, hand resting on her swollen belly, occasionally letting out a quiet sob, trying not to disturb the moment.
When I finally tightened the last screw and adjusted the back of the cot, the room seemed to exhale. The air changed, as if a tension had been released.
She moved closer, her hand brushing the smooth wooden rail.
Thank you, she whispered. You have no idea how much this means.
I could only nod. As I left, a feeling I hadnt experienced in years swelled inside me the quiet satisfaction of having done something truly right, and the sense that perhaps I would return to this building again.
