Signatures in the Stairwell Sergei paused by the postboxes in the lobby, because a new notice had appeared on the board usually reserved for lost-cat posters and reminders about meter readings. It had been pinned up hastily, at an angle. At the top, in large letters: “Collecting Signatures. Action Must Be Taken.” Below—a surname from the fifth floor and a short list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, “breach of quiet hours,” “threat to safety.” At the bottom, signatures had begun to gather—some neat, some sprawling. He read it twice, though the meaning was crystal clear at first glance. His fingers reached for the pen in his jacket pocket, but Sergei stopped. Not because he disagreed—he just didn’t like to be pushed. He’d lived in the building twelve years and had learned to keep his distance from block disputes the way you avoid a draught. He already had enough worries: the job at the garage, shift work, his mother after her stroke across town, a teenage son who alternately stayed silent for weeks or exploded over nothing. The landing was quiet, only the distant thud of the lift doors somewhere above. Sergei climbed to his own floor, the fourth, took out his keys, but before unlocking his door, glanced up the stairs to the fifth. That’s where Mrs Valentine lived. In her fifties at a guess, strong-looking, cropped hair, a gaze that always seemed slightly suspicious. She rarely said hello first, answered as if you were an inconvenience. Sergei saw her most often carrying heavy “Tesco” bags or mopping the landing outside her door with a bucket. Sometimes, at night, he really did hear noises from her flat—a crash, a short cry, the scrape of something being dragged. He only checked the residents’ WhatsApp group as needed. It was mostly arguments about parking and the rubbish chute. But recently, it had revolved around a single issue. “Thudding again at two in the morning! My child was frightened!” “I’ve got a 6am start—now I’m a zombie. How much more?” “It’s not thudding, she’s moving furniture, I know it.” “We need to contact the council. There’s a law.” Sergei read and scrolled on. He wasn’t a saint—when a bang woke him at 3 am, he lay there, feeling irritation build in his chest. What he really hoped was that someone else would sort it, so he could wake up and just see: “All sorted.” That evening, he finally messaged the group, briefly: “Who’s collecting signatures? Where’s the sheet?” The block rep, Mrs Nina from number three, replied: “On the ground floor noticeboard. Meeting at mine 7pm tomorrow to discuss. We need to deal with it before it goes too far.” Sergei put down his phone. An unpleasant, familiar feeling stirred inside—the one he’d felt at school meetings, when decisions had already been made and you were just there to tick a box. Next day, he bumped into Mrs Valentine on the stairs. She was struggling up with two heavy bags, breathing hard but stubbornly refusing help. Sergei took one anyway, unasked. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “I’ll carry it,” he replied, walking with her. She stayed silent until her door, then snatched the bag handles back. “Thank you,” she said, in a tone that sounded more like a register-mark than gratitude. Sergei was about to go when he heard a strange sound from inside her flat—someone breathing heavily, moaning. Mrs Valentine froze, her key trembling in the lock. “Is everything… alright?” Sergei asked, not knowing why. “Fine,” she clipped, and quickly went in. He went down to his own flat, but the sound stayed in his mind—not a crash, not music, just that heavy, human noise. A few days later, a note appeared on Mrs Valentine’s door, stuck with tape: “ENOUGH WITH THE NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.” The letters were fat, pressed hard, marker squeaking anger. Sergei stared at the note; the glint of tape was like a fresh wound. It revived a childhood memory: people used to write on his own family’s door when his dad drank and shouted. Back then, Sergei hadn’t even hated his dad as much as he hated neighbours pretending nothing was wrong—until they started whispering. He climbed to the fifth floor and listened. Silence behind the door. Sergei didn’t ring. He carefully removed the note, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took it outside and threw it in the street bin—not the building one, so nobody would see. In the group chat, the debate turned nastier. “She does it deliberately. She doesn’t care about anyone.” “People like that should be moved out. Let her buy a house.” “Police officer says we need a combined statement.” Sergei noticed how quickly ‘noise’ and ‘disturbance’ became ‘people like that’. Like they’d stopped talking about midnight racket and started talking about a person as a problem. Saturday, Sergei came home late. The lift smelt of air freshener and cigarettes. On the fourth floor, he stepped out and heard a dull crash overhead, then another—not DIY noises, but like something heavy falling. Then a woman’s strained voice: “Hold on… just a minute…” Sergei went up to five. The peephole on Mrs Valentine’s door glowed; light spilled out onto the floorboards. He knocked. “Who’s there?”—her strained voice. “Sergei, from four. Are you—” She opened the door on the chain. Bathrobe, a red smear on her cheek as if she’d just wiped her face. “Everything’s fine. Please go,” she said. A hoarse groan came from inside. Sergei blurted out, “Do you need help?” She looked at him as if he’d offered her charity. “No. I have it under control.” “There’s someone—” “My brother. Bedbound.” She said it quickly, to cut off questions. “Please go.” She closed the door. Sergei stood on the landing, feeling torn—part of him wanting to leave because that’s what she’d asked, part wanting to stay, because he’d already heard too much to pretend he didn’t know. He went downstairs, but couldn’t sleep. The word “bedbound” rattled in his head—someone falling, being hauled up, ambulances in the night, bedpans and water fetched, a bed pushed against a wall as the neighbours below seethed. He went to the meeting at Nina’s flat not out of curiosity, but because if he didn’t, he knew he’d feel ashamed after. At seven, people were already queuing at her door—some in slippers, some with jackets hurriedly thrown on. Speaking in low voices, but tension hung in the air. Nina sat everyone around her cramped kitchen table. The signature sheet lay in the middle, next to a printout of the “quiet hours” bylaw and the police community officer’s number. “Here’s the situation,” she began. “We can’t keep putting up with this. We have children, we have work. I take my blood pressure every morning now because I don’t sleep at night. We’re not against anyone, but there are rules.” Sergei noticed how deftly she’d said “not against anyone,” as if the phrase itself soothed people. “I woke up at two again,” said a young, tired-looking woman from six. “My baby had only just nodded off, then that bang—it was like a wardrobe falling. I spent the rest of the night soothing him.” “My dad’s post-op,” said a man in a tracksuit. “He can’t get stressed. He hears this and panics there’s a fire.” “We should call the police every time,” someone else chipped in. “Build a record.” Sergei listened, realising people weren’t exaggerating—they were genuinely exhausted. It made their case strong. “Has anyone actually talked to her?” Sergei asked. “I have,” Nina said. “She was rude. Said ‘If you don’t like it, move out,’ and slammed the door.” “She’s always like that,” said the young woman. “Like we owe her something.” Sergei almost mentioned the brother, but stopped. Wasn’t sure he had the right. Silence was a choice too. “Maybe she’s got…” he started. “We’ve all got something,” Nina cut in. “But we don’t slam around at night.” At that moment, the doorbell rang. Nina went to answer it. Mrs Valentine entered in a dark jacket, hair smoothed, folder and phone in hand. Her face was tight, but not afraid. “I hear I’m the subject of discussion?” she said. The air thickened, like a crowded lift. “We’re discussing the problem,” Nina clarified. “You disturb the neighbours.” “I disturb,” repeated Mrs Valentine, nodding slightly as if agreeing with some private thought. “Alright then. Listen.” She laid her folder on the table, opened it, produced a few papers, a doctor’s note, some prescriptions, her phone. “My brother. First-degree disability. Stroke. Completely immobile. At night, he has attacks. Stops breathing, falls out of bed if I’m too slow. I have to turn him every two hours, or he gets sores. That’s not ‘moving furniture’. That’s me lifting a full-grown man heavier than I am.” Her voice was steady but wavered with exhaustion. Sergei saw bruises on her arms, like proof of the weight she bore. “Three times this month, I’ve had to call an ambulance.” She showed her phone, log of calls. “Doctor’s notes, prescriptions. I shouldn’t have to show you this, but you’re gathering signatures like I’m running a nightclub.” Someone coughed. The young woman from six looked down. “We didn’t know,” she said quietly. “Didn’t know because you didn’t ask,” Mrs Valentine shot back. “You wrote on my door. Abused me online. Called for ‘action’. What action? Want me to drag him onto the landing so it’s quieter for you?” “No one said that,” Nina snapped, “but there are laws. You can’t be loud after eleven.” “The law,” Mrs Valentine snorted. “Fine. Let’s have the law. I’ll call the ambulance and police every time, so they can record me lifting him. You’ll sign off every time—witness statements, yes?” “So we’re just supposed to put up with it?” said Tracksuit Man. His voice broke; Sergei suddenly recognised the strain in him. “My dad’s ill too, I’ve said. I can’t take this every night!” “And you think I can?”—Mrs Valentine fixed him with a direct stare. “You think I want this? You think I get any sleep?” Silence. Nina sighed, a little softer: “You have to understand. People are struggling. If you’d only explained…” “Explained what? That my brother might die in the night? I don’t know how to ask for help. Don’t have anyone to ask.” Sergei realised it was true. They lived “next” to each other, but were never truly neighbours. Just doors. “Can we not shout,” he managed hoarsely. “We’ll either tear each other apart or try to make it bearable for everyone.” All eyes turned to him. Sergei didn’t like being the centre, but it was too late to hide. “I didn’t sign,” he said. “And I won’t. That doesn’t solve it, only creates enemies. But ignoring the noise isn’t right either. People have a point.” Nina pursed her lips. “So what do you suggest?” Sergei thought of the night he’d stood listening to someone moaning. “First, let’s communicate. Mrs Valentine, if you know there’s going to be noise—ambulance, an attack—could you send a quick message to the group? Just ‘Ambulance’ or ‘Attack’. No details, but so people know it’s not drilling.” “I don’t have to,” she snapped, then paused. “Alright. When possible.” “Second,” Sergei addressed the room, “if you hear something loud, instead of threatening the council, why not call or knock? Not with complaints—just check if she needs help. If she doesn’t answer—then take it from there.” “What if she’s rude again?” said the young mum. “Then at least you’ll know you did the decent thing,” Sergei replied. “That matters—for yourselves, not just her.” Nina snorted, but didn’t argue. “And,” Sergei added, turning to Mrs Valentine, “maybe we can look at rubber mats, pads for the furniture legs, moving the bed… I can help, if need be.” Mrs Valentine thought, voice quieter: “The bed won’t move. The hoist is fixed to the frame. But mats—yes. And if someone could sit for an hour during the day sometimes, so I can go to the chemist…” She trailed off. Someone shifted in their chair. “I can do Wednesday,” the mum from six offered, blushing. “My mum’s nearby, she can mind the baby. I’ll pop in.” “Me too,” muttered Tracksuit Man. “Not nights, but during the day, I can help lift him, if that helps.” Sergei felt the tension ease, just a fraction. Nina picked up the signature sheet. “What do we do with this?” Sergei glanced at the names. Even the neighbour who always smiled signed. “I think it should come off the board. If someone needs to make a formal complaint, do it individually, with facts—not just ‘take action’.” “So, you’re against order?” Nina put force into the word. “I’m for order,” Sergei replied. “But order shouldn’t be a sledgehammer.” Mrs Valentine looked up. “Take it down, please. I don’t want to come down every day and see the whole block signing against me.” Nina folded the sheet and put it away. Sergei wondered if she did it begrudgingly or because she sensed the mood had shifted. People left quietly. On the landing, someone attempted a joke; it fizzled out. Sergei and Mrs Valentine left together. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said. “Maybe not,” Sergei replied. “But I didn’t want it ending with the police.” “It will anyway—next time he gets worse.” Sergei wanted to ask the brother’s name, but couldn’t. Instead he said, “If you really get stuck at night, if you need help lifting—knock. I’m nearby.” She nodded, not looking at him. Next day, the notice was gone. Instead, a new message was posted in the group: “Agreed: in emergencies, Mrs Valentine will give a heads up. Please, no disputes at night. Daytime help—sign up with me.” Sergei was surprised by the word “rota”. It sounded more formal than their little block deserved. An hour later, people were genuinely arranging days—Monday, Friday, some just stayed silent. The first night after, the banging didn’t stop. At 2:17am, Sergei was jolted awake. In the group, a single message: “Attack. Ambulance on its way.” No emojis. No pleas. Sergei lay listening to doors slamming above, footsteps on the stairs. Imagined Mrs Valentine holding her brother, stopping him from choking. The old anger didn’t vanish, but something heavier replaced it. Next morning, in the lift, Nina looked rumpled. “Well, it was noisy again last night,” she said. “Ambulance was here,” Sergei replied. “I… I saw. I didn’t know it was like that. But still—Sergei, I really can’t sleep. My heart…” He nodded. He couldn’t substitute her heart. “Maybe earplugs?” he suggested, wincing at how weak it sounded. “Earplugs—” Nina gave a gentle, tired laugh. “Look what we’ve come to.” A week later, Sergei dropped by Mrs Valentine’s. He had a pack of rubber pads for the furniture and a heavy floor mat. She opened the door at once, as though expecting him. The flat smelt of medicine, sharp like a hospital. In the room: a bed jammed against the wall. On it, a thin man, unmoving, eyes open but staring ahead. Nearby, a homemade hoist, bolted in place. Sergei saw why the bed “couldn’t be moved.” “Here,” he offered, showing her the mat. “If we slip this under, maybe the sound won’t carry. And these for the stool—you said it bangs?” “The stool bangs when I put the basin down,” she said. “I try, but my hands…” She gazed at her palms, cracked from constant scrubbing. Sergei quietly helped put the mat in place, gentle so as not to disturb the hoist. His own back twinged from the effort. Mrs Valentine watched anxiously. “Thank you,” she said, and this time, it sounded different. Sergei nodded, ready to leave when her phone rang. She listened, her face clouded. “No, I can’t, not now… Yes. No.” She hung up and looked at Sergei. “Social services. They said only two hours a week for a carer—if I wait my turn. But I need help daily.” Sergei didn’t answer. He knew their DIY “rota” was just a sticking plaster. That evening, someone in the group wrote: “Why should we help? It’s her family—do it properly.” Replies flew; some angry, some explaining, some just full stops. Sergei scrolled past. He was weary, not of Mrs Valentine, but of how easily any act of kindness devolved into a fight over what’s fair. A few days later, a new sheet showed up on the downstairs board—not demanding “action”, but a timetable: days, times, names. At the bottom—Mrs Valentine’s number and a note: “If it’s an emergency at night, I’ll message. If you can help lift or meet the ambulance, let me know.” This sheet hung tidily. Sergei found he disliked seeing it almost as much as the signatures—only now, it was for another reason. The block had admitted: calamity could be scheduled, slotted neatly onto a timetable. One night, the noise was too much, and Sergei climbed upstairs. Mrs Valentine was cursing under her breath—as if at a body that wouldn’t obey. He knocked. She opened, no chain. “Help me,” she said simply. Inside, her brother was sprawled on the floor, gasping. Together, they lifted him back to bed—slow, careful, back muscles straining. Mrs Valentine didn’t cry or thank him, just adjusted his pillow, checked his breath. As Sergei left, he heard a neighbour opening their door, peeking out quietly. Then it shut. No one came to help, no one called out. The block held its breath. Morning—Sergei saw Victor, who’d signed against Mrs Valentine, avoiding his gaze. “Look—I, I signed because, well, it got to me. But I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have…” “I get it,” Sergei said. “Doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do next.” Victor nodded, face tight, unwilling to admit fault. The compromise worked. Not perfectly, but it worked. At night, sometimes a “Ambulance” or “Fallen” pinged in the chat. People were less likely to vent their rage at 2am, more likely to grumble in the morning once tempers cooled. Some dropped in to help Mrs Valentine, others did it once and faded away. Nina kept the rota, but empty slots opened up. Sergei noticed less small talk in the block. People said hello more cautiously, as if every word risked starting another argument. No more nasty notes, but also none of the old friendliness. Even lightbulb discussions sounded tense: “Let’s not go there again.” One evening, Sergei found Mrs Valentine by the lift, bag of medicines and a flask in hand, her face grey from exhaustion. “How is he?” he asked. “He’s alive,” she said. “Quiet today.” They went up together. On the fourth floor, Sergei lingered a moment. “If you ever—need anything—knock.” She nodded, then added quietly, “At the meeting, I… I didn’t mean—” She couldn’t finish, waved a hand. “I know,” Sergei said. The lift doors slid shut; Sergei was left on the landing alone. He opened his door, shrugged off his coat, lined up his shoes on the mat. The flat was silent: his son in headphones, his mum on the phone asking when he’d visit. Sergei stared at his screen, then at the door that led back to the stairwell. He thought about those sheets of paper that can change people—one with signatures against someone, another with names of those able to help for an hour. And how the distance between those sheets was somehow shorter than the distance between neighbours living through just one wall. That night, the chat filled up with posts about rubbish and the lift. Someone thanked those who’d helped that day; asked to keep things private in future. The message was quickly drowned in everyday chat. Sergei turned off his phone, set the kettle to boil. He knew he might be woken by a crash in the night—and knew, now, that when he did, his thoughts wouldn’t just be about his own sleep. It didn’t make him better. It just made him part of it.

Author Emily TaylorReading 19 minViews 1

Signatures in the Hallway

Simon paused near the postboxes because he noticed a new sheet pinned lopsidedly to the noticeboard, the one usually reserved for lost cats and reminders about gas checks. Across the top, bold letters declared: Petition. Action Needed. Underneath was a surname from flat seventeen and a brief list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, breach of noise regulations, risk to residents. Signatures were clustered at the bottom, neat and sprawling.

He read it through twice, though the meaning was plain as day. His hand drifted to the biro in his pocket, but he hesitated. Not because he disagreedhe simply hated being pushed. Hed lived at Abbotsbury Court in Reading for twelve years, and experience had taught him to sidestep the corridor squabbles, the way you avoid a draught. His own life was plenty: long shifts at the garage, a mother with a stroke now living across town, a teenager who sometimes didnt speak for days, then erupted over nothing.

The landing was quiet, only the faint thud of the lift closing somewhere above. Simon climbed to the third floor, fished out his key, but found himself glancing up towards the next flight. On the fourth, lived Valerie Porter. A woman in her early fifties, tough, lean, always with a cropped bob and the sort of stare that weighed heavy. She rarely greeted anyone, and her answers sounded as if your hello annoyed her. Most often, Simon spotted her with Sainsburys bags or a bucket, scrubbing the threshold outside her door. Sometimes, though, noises came from her flat at night: a crash, a stifled cry, a dragging sound across the floor.

Simon only checked the tenants WhatsApp chat when strictly necessary. Most of the time, it brimmed with parking rows and complaints about the bin chute. Lately, though, it was dominated by one topic:

More banging at half two! My little boy got a fright he cant sleep now!

My alarms at five, dont they care? Cant take much more.

Shes only shifting the furniture, I heard it clear as day.

Call the police. There are laws, you know.

Simon scrolled by, staying out of it. He was no saint. When a crash woke him at three a.m., he too lay there, feeling irritation build in his chest. What he wanted, in those moments, was someone else to sort it out, so in the morning, he could read: All sorted.

That evening, he sent a quick text: Whos collecting signatures? Wheres the sheet?

Janet Morris, from flat ninethe buildings unofficial chiefreplied, Noticeboard on the ground floor. Meeting at mine tomorrow, seven p.m. We really need to sort this.

Simon put his phone aside. It gave him the same prickle of discomfort as school meetings: when the decisions already made and youre just there to tick a box.

The next day, he bumped into Valerie Porter on the stairs. She was lugging two heavy bags, breathing hard but too stubborn to ask for help. Simon took one anyway, without a word.

No need, she snapped.

Ill get it up there, he replied, keeping pace.

They were silent until her door. She yanked the handles from his grasp.

Ta, she said flatly, as if marking an entry in a ledger.

Before he could walk off, Simon heard something strange from within her flata wheezing, guttural sound, almost a groan. Valerie had stilled altogether, her hand unsteady on the key.

Everything all right in there? Simon heard himself ask, unsure why.

Fine, she barked, and shut him out.

He headed down, but the sound lingered. Not the slam and thump of rowdy nights, but something human in its misery.

Two days later, a note appeared on Valeries door, taped fast: PACK IT IN WITH THE NOISE. WE DONT HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS. Thick black marker, stubby, pressed hard.

Simon stood for a moment, reading. The tape gleamed like a fresh cut. He remembered his own childhood, ugly scrawls on their council flat door when his father drank and shouted. Hed hatednot his father, but the neighbours, for pretending nothing happened, until the whispering began.

He headed to the fourth floor, listening. Silence. He didnt knock. Simon peeled off the note, folded it and slid it into his pocket, dropping it in the outside bins later so nobody would see.

Back in the group chat, the tone had sharpened.

Shes doing it on purpose. Couldnt care less about us.

People like her ought to live in the countryside, not a block of flats.

Neighbourhood police said we should lodge a complaint together.

Simon noticed how quickly noise and disruption turned into people like her. They werent talking about sleepless nights anymore, but about someone as a problem.

That Saturday, returning from work, Simon rode up in the lift, holding his breath through the smell of someones smoke and Febreze. As he stepped out on the third, a heavy thud came from abovea fall, not DIY. Then a voice, choked but clear: Hold on nearly

Simon raced up to the fourth. Light shone under Valeries door, a narrow stripe. He knocked.

Who is it? Her voice was taut.

Its Simon, from below. Everything

The door opened a crack, secured by the chain. Valerie stood in her dressing gown, a red blotch on her cheek, as if wiped with damp hands.

Its nothing. Please, just go, she told him.

Inside, that wheezing groan came again.

Do you need help? Simon asked.

She looked at him like hed offered charity.

No. Everything is fine.

Theres someone in there

My brother. Hes bedbound. Her words were brisk, final as a slammed door. I can handle it.

And she shut him out.

Simon felt himself splitone half obeying her wish for privacy, the other aware he now knew too much to pretend otherwise.

He went home, but sleep stayed distant. Bedbound. He pictured someone falling, being lifted, the emergency calls in the middle of the night, heavy breath, the effort of moving a grown man, the neighbours below steaming.

Simon didnt attend Janets meeting out of curiosity, but because he knewif he skipped it, hed feel ashamed later. At seven, people were already crowding outside, some just in slippers, others in coats as if theyd only stay a moment. Quiet voices, a strain in the air.

Janet corralled them in her narrow kitchen. The sheet with signatures lay beside a printout: noise regulations, the local constables number.

Heres the situation, Janet began. We cant go on like this. People have jobs, children. I get palpitationsIm not getting proper sleep. Were not against anyone, but there are rules.

Simon noticed how smoothly she said not against anyone, and watched as a few seemed relieved by it.

I was up at half two last nightthey woke my little one with a crash, said a young mother from flat twenty, drawn and tired. He wouldnt settle again till morning.

My fathers just home after an op, a man in a tracksuit chimed in. Stress is the last thing he needs. He hears a bang, thinks its a fire.

We should phone the police every time, someone else said. Start a paper trail.

Simon didnt doubt they were sufferingsleep deprivation, nerves frayedthere was justice in their grievance.

Has anyone actually spoken to her? Simon cut in.

I did, Janet said. Shes rude. Told us if we didnt like it, we could move out, then slammed the door.

Shes always been difficult, agreed the mother from flat twenty. As if we owe her something.

Simon hesitated to mention the brother, feeling it wasnt his place. Yet saying nothing was a choice too.

Maybe shes dealing with he began.

We all have problems, Janet interrupted. But we dont keep neighbours up at all hours.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Janet went to answer it. Valerie entered, her face strained, hair slicked down, holding a folder and her phone. She was composed, not cowed.

I gather youre talking about me? she said.

The kitchen felt even more crowded.

Were discussing the situation, Janet replied. Your noise is disrupting families.

Im a nuisance, am I? Valerie repeated, nodding as if agreeing with herself. All right then. Listen.

She placed the folder on the table, opened it, pulled out documentsdoctors letters, medical formsand her phone.

This is my brother. Registered disabled after a stroke. Cant walk or sit up. He has attacks in the night. He cant breathe, he falls out of bed unless I get there fast enough. I turn him every two hours or he gets sores. You think its furniture? Its me, lifting a fully grown man who outweighs me.

Her tone was flat but steely with fatigue. Simon noticed bruises across her wrists and hands, as if from wrestling dead weight.

Ive called ambulances three times this month. Here are the call logs, the hospital letters. I shouldnt need to show you, but you decided to collect signaturesas if Im throwing parties.

Someone coughed. The young mother looked down, uneasy.

We didnt know, she murmured.

You didnt know because you never asked, Valerie retorted. You left notes, slagged me off online. Demanded action. What action? Dump him outside so you can sleep through?

No one suggested that! Janet snapped, defensive. But there are noise laws, you know. After eleven, its illegal.

Law, Valerie echoed drily. Fine, lets do this properly. I can call an ambulance and the police every time I lift him. You want to be witnesses? Sign the paperwork every timetheyll love that.

So we just have to put up with it now? the man in the tracksuit demanded. His voice shook; Simon could see he was at breaking point. My dads ill. I cant hear people crashing about all night.

And you think I want to? Valerie shot back. You think Im enjoying any of this?

The silence was heavy. Simons urge was to offer some easy reassurance, but he realised there wasnt one.

Janet, quieter now, ventured, You must see its hard for everyone. If youd let us know in advance…

Warn you what? That my brother might die tonight? Im not good at asking. And anywaywho would I ask?

Simon saw the truth. They lived side by side, but they werent together. They were just doors in a wall.

Lets stop shouting, Simon managed at last, croaky. Were either going to rip each other apart or work out something tolerable for everyone.

People turned to him. He disliked attention, but it was too late to duck away.

I havent signed and Im not going to. Getting signatures makes an enemy, not a solution. But we cant ignore the noise either. Peoples health is at stake.

Janet pursed her lips. So whats your idea?

Simon thought of the night on the landing, listening to suffering.

For starters, if theres an emergency at night, Valerie, can you just fire a message to the group, a quick ambulance or emergency? No explanation needed, he said. So we know whats going on and its not redecorating. If you can manage, I mean.

She glared at him, then softened slightly. All right. If I can.

And second, if someone hears a crash, instead of calling the police or moaning online, give her a quick knock or ring. Ask if she needs helpno accusations. If you get no answer, escalate from there.

What if shes rude again? the young mother asked.

Then at least youll know you did the decent thing, Simon said. Thats importantfor your own conscience.

Janet rolled her eyes but didnt argue.

And perhaps, Simon turned to Valerie, we could look at mats for the bed legs, rubber feet for stools, maybe shifting the bed if possible. I can help if you want.

Valerie hesitated, then her voice fell. The bed wont move. Theres a hoist attachedhomemade, my mate fixed it up. Mats could work, though. And if anyone could just stay with him for an hour now and then, so I can get his medication, that would be

She trailed off. Someone shifted.

I can spare an hour Wednesday afternoon, said the mother from flat twenty, blushing. My mum can mind the little one. Ill pop round.

I can, too, the man in tracksuit muttered. But only in the day, mind.

Simon felt the tension ease a bitbut not vanish, just transform.

Janet eyed the petition.

What about this? she asked.

Simon met her gaze. Names he recognised, friends from the lift.

I think it should come down, he answered. If anyone still wants to make a formal complaint, they can do it themselves, with dates, in writingnot this blanket lets take action.

So youre against order now? Janet prodded.

Im for order, Simon replied, just not order as a bludgeon.

Valerie looked up. Take it down. I dont want to see it every time I pass.

Janet slowly folded the sheet and slipped it away. Whether out of respect or because she sensed opinions had shifted, Simon couldnt tell.

Afterwards, the residents dispersed quietly. Someone tried a joke on the stairs, but it fell flat. Simon stepped onto his landing just as Valerie caught up. They descended together.

You shouldnt have got involved, she said stiffly.

Maybe not, replied Simon. But this didnt need to be about police and bust-ups.

Itll get there in the end, she sighed. If he gets worse.

He wanted to ask her brothers name, but lost his nerve. Instead, he said, If it gets bad at night and you need muscleknock on my door. Im here.

She nodded without looking at him.

The petition vanished from the noticeboard the next day. In the WhatsApp group, Janet posted: Arranged: Valerie will signal emergencies in the chat. Please, no drama at night. Daytime helpmessage me if you can take a slot.

Simon thought rota sounded too official for that stairwell. Yet, an hour later, sign-ups began: Monday, Friday. Some, of course, said nothing.

That very night, more crashing overhead. Simon woke at 2:17. Minutes later, Emergency. Paramedics on way. appeared from Valerie. No emoji, no flannel.

He lay in bed, listening to doors, ambulance boots on stairs. He imagined Valerie lifting her brother, fighting to keep him breathing. The irritation was there still, but now something heavier mingled with ita quiet empathy.

Next morning in the lift, Simon met Janet. She looked crumpled.

Well, she sighed, another night of racket.

Paramedics, Simon said.

I saw them. I honestly didnt realise her situation. Still Simon, Im not sleeping. My heart cant take much more.

He nodded. He couldnt mend her heart.

Earplugs, maybe? he suggested, knowing how feeble it sounded.

She almost laughed. Earplugs. Is this what weve come to?

Later that week, Simon called on Valerie as promised, bringing rubber feet for chair legs and a heavy-duty mat. She answered straight away, as if expecting him.

The flat smelt of medicines and something sour, like a hospital. In the main room, a man lay on a slim bed clamped to the wall by a homemade frame. Wasted, blank-eyed, distant. Simon understood about the bed. There was no shifting it.

Here you gostick this under the bed, itll dull the noise. Pads for the stool, too, he said.

Its the stool when I fetch the basin at night, Valerie replied quietly. I try, but my hands

She looked at her palmscracked, red-raw from scrubbing and lifting.

Simon quietly slid matting underneath, working slow so as not to disturb the hoist. Valerie hovered to guide him.

Thank you, she said, the words softer this time.

Simon nodded, and was about to leave when the phone rang. Valerie answered, her face shutting down.

No, I cant today Yes, I know No, there isnt anyone else.

She hung up.

Social Services, she explained. Said I can have a carertwo hours a week, and a waiting list, anyway. I need cover daily.

Simon had nothing to say; he realised their rota was a makeshift patch over a real problem.

That evening in the group, someone wrote, Why should we have to chip in? Its her family. She should do it properly. It set off a long string of replies, not all hostile: some tried to explain, some bickered, others just left it at a full stop.

Simon read, but didnt join in. He felt a different exhaustion, not with Valerie, but with how any act of kindness became a battleground about fairness.

A few days later, a new paper appeared downstairs: not a demand, but a neat schedule of daysnames beside each slot. At the bottom, Valeries number, and a line: If theres a night emergency, Ill update the group. If anyone can help me lift or meet paramedics, please message. The paper was straight.

Simon still disliked the sight of it, just as much as the petition. But now the discomfort was about something else: the awkward knowledge that even crisis could become timetable routine.

One night, a crash overhead convinced Simon to go up. He heard Valerie swearing softly, not at her neighbours, but at her own exhaustion. At his knock, she unlatched the door straight away.

Quick, help me, she said.

Simon stepped in, left his shoes by the door. Her brother lay on the floor, struggling to breathe. Together, they levered him back onto the bed, careful, counting under their breath. Simons arms shook with effort. Valerie didnt thank him, didnt cryshe just checked her brothers pulse, tidied his pillow.

Back on the landing, Simon heard a door below quietly open and close. Someone had peeped out, but stayed inside, silent. The block seemed to hold its breath.

The next morning, he bumped into Victor from next doora name hed seen on the petition. Victor looked away.

Lookabout signingI only did it out of frustration. I didnt knowelse I wouldnt have, he mumbled.

I get it, Simon said quietly. But what matters is what you do now, not then.

Victor nodded, but his jaw was set, stubbornly unwilling to admit he was wrong even to himself.

The compromise worked, after a fashion. Sometimes Valerie messaged the group at 3 a.m.Ambulance, fallen. The angry posts died down; people vented in the morning once the heat had passed. Some actually popped in to help; others disappeared after signing up once. Janet maintained the rota, but blank gaps crept into it.

Simon noticed the neighbours spoke less freely nowno more chitchat in the hallway. People still said hello, but something in their voices had changed, more cautious, as if any word might rekindle trouble. There were no more angry notes, but no return to ease either. Even harmless grumbles about lightbulbs carried an undertone: Lets not start that again.

One evening, Simon returned to find Valerie waiting for the lift, a Sainsburys bag and a small flask in her hands, her face grey with tiredness.

How is he? Simon asked.

Still going, she replied. Its been a quiet day.

They went up together. At his door, Simon lingered.

If you need help, you know where I am.

She nodded and surprised him by saying, At the meeting I didnt want to I just couldnt

She broke off, waving her hand.

I know, Simon replied.

The lift doors shut, leaving him alone on the landing. He went in, removed his coat, set his shoes straight on the mat. Inside, the house was peaceful. His son wore headphones, his mother called to ask when hed visit.

Simon glanced from his phone to the doorbeyond it, the stairway. He thought about the two kinds of lists: one collecting names against someone, the other for those prepared to give up an hour to help. And how, really, there was less space between them than between neighbours on either side of a wall.

That evening, someone wrote in the group, Thanks to everyone who helped. Please dont discuss private matters heredirect message if you need to. The message quickly disappeared under new posts about the bins or the lift.

Simon put the phone away and filled the kettle. He knew hed probably wake again to a crash. And that this time, lying awake, hed feel more than just annoyance about lost sleep. It didnt make him a hero. But it made him part of it all.

Sometimes the toughest lesson in a crowded world is that real neighbourliness isnt silence at nightits the willingness to notice each others struggles and try, if only a little, to help carry their weight.