Not a sound could be heard.
The plane bashfully poked its nose from the clouds, glanced about, circled in a slow arc, and gently folded itself onto the runway, like a groom brushing his beloveds cheek at the altar.
Applause erupted, though the pilots were oblivious.
Nor did Peter Chapman hear a thing; his ears clogged up during the flight.
Chapman kept pinching his nose and blowing, but air escaped from everywhere except where he wanted, and his head remained filled with a ghostly hiss.
Peter had just returned from visiting his mum in Manchester, early enough to get ready for work.
His wife hadnt slept and was dashing about the flat, frantically rearranging things.
He wandered into the kitchen and began to pack his lunch.
Hearing still hadnt returned.
Im leaving!
Ive had it!
Im sick to the back teeth with this life, your pitiful pay, and our flat in the middle of nowhere.
I thought I was chronically in love, but its clear Ive just caught something nasty! his wife flung her confessions at Peters retreating back as he calmly transferred his potatoes from the pan to a thermos.
Im going off with Henryyou dont know him, he doesnt know you, but hes wonderful.
I actually feel something for him.
Proper feelings, the ones youre meant to have.
And dont fret, Im leaving before anything actually happened, so I go as a decent woman.
Dont you dare say anything about me, especially to your mum!
Peter finished sorting his lunch into his bag and began to make coffee.
Anything to say?
Ive just laid my soul bare! she exclaimed.
Love! Peter called over his shoulder, Would you mind ironing my jeans?
What?
Jeans?
Unbelievable I tell you about my feelings, and you talk about ironing!
Forget it!
Thought maybe youd stop me.
With that, she grabbed her bagin her fury, mixing up her handbag with the one Peter packed for workand rushed out.
Only when the vibration from the slamming door rolled through the flat did Peter register she was gone.
Wheres she off to at this hour?
And the jeans?
Damn, wheres my lunch? he pondered, enduring this early morning marital split.
Unable to locate his thermoses, Peter trudged to work in rumpled trousers.
He greeted the buildings residents association chaira woman, whose monthly demands made one suspect she still delivered cash straight to the Tower of London.
Rumour had it her perfume resurrected horses and smoked enemies out of hiding for Genghis Khans descendants.
Peter held his breath, stepped inside the lift, and stared out.
The doors closed, and the gas chamber began its descent.
You havent paid for the pest control.
Today were gassing cockroaches across the whole block, came the chairs voice.
Peter, stone-faced, watched as her perfume melted the rubber seals on the doors.
You must pay by this eveningcan you transfer to my bank card? she pressed on.
Peter didnt utter a word.
The chair leaned toward his ear and barked, I want that payment today.
Congratulations.
And where are you being transferred to?
Back to Nottingham? Peter came to life.
He genuinely believed the stories about her being descended from Genghis Khan.
The chair muttered many things to Peterincomprehensible fragments like -ck, -don, -ing, -it, forming something close to ancient Mongolian.
Peter didnt bother deciphering and nodded as at a modern art exhibition.
As the lift doors sprang open, Peter eagerly escaped for fresh air, while the chair headed toward flats to collect more dues.
Peter worked as an electrician.
For the past week, hed been assigned to a project where the client, lacking both creative and financial talent, dreamed of getting a masterpiece.
The customers materials and blueprints matched his characterdodgy and questionable.
Peter wasnt suffering alone.
A plumber and decorators were jammed in the same creative corner.
While Peter hacked into walls for wiring, and his colleagues sweated in other rooms, the customer waltzed in.
Hed been out celebrating a friends birthday all night, was still in an artistic mood, and dropped by before sleep to check progress.
Everythings wrong! the client shouted, stamping his feet.
Sockets must be in a chessboard pattern, and the chandelier three degrees off-centre from the Earths axis.
Do what I say or youll not see a penny!
He spread his original ideas and threats in every room, then locked himself in the nursery and fell asleep on sacks of plaster.
Seven hours later, he emerged and surveyed the results of his innovative instructions.
In that time, the builders had connected the living room and kitchen with a new passage, and even installed a guest loo in the combined bathroom.
The clients clothes were white from plaster, his face pale with shock.
He recalled nothing of his orders and tried to accuse the contractors of lying, but they played back recordings as evidence.
Only Peter hadnt made any changes, as his clients instructions had floated past his deaf ears.
Whether from emotion or despair, the client awarded Peter a modest bonus for stoicism against drunken creativity and fired the others for not resisting him.
Yet, under the weight of the video, he paid for the completed works.
In the evening, hungry and weary, Peter set off to see the doctor in hopes of regaining his hearing.
On the way, an irate dog began to shadow him, barking fiercely.
The world, for Peter, was a silent filmpeople and animals acted out parts, but without subtitles, he couldnt tell what the emotional beast wanted.
Peter simply carried oncalm and confident.
Eventually, the dog grew bored and disappeared.
May the sounds be with you! proclaimed the doctor as he drilled Peters ears clear.
Returned to the world of sound, Peter hurried home.
He stopped en route, withdrew his unexpected bonus from his wallet, bought a sausage roll and a modest bouquet for his wife.
By the flats, he was met by a glum neighbour.
Heard the news? the neighbour asked.
Mate, I havent heard a thing all day, Peter replied, sticking a finger in his ear.
That womanwhats her name, the Tower of London herselfcollected money from the whole block and vanished into the sunset.
Moved to another city, cut all ties.
Had it all planned, crafty devil.
Seven blocks she cleaned out.
Did you pay?
No, didnt pay, Peter shook his head.
This morning, she mentioned something about her transfer, but I had no clue.
Lucky you.
Me, I paid like a prat.
At least, while she was on the rounds, the cockroaches died anyway from her perfume. The neighbour grinned.
Doesnt sting so much now.
The flat welcomed Peter with the smell of cooking and an impossibly tender wife.
Forgive me, you daft thingI just lost the plot.
Something came over me; dont know what.
Must have been solar flares!
I take everything back, and I swear nothing bad happened.
Theres no Henrywent to see my sister, cooled off, and my head sorted itself.
The way you handled things this morningproper manlythat sobered me up.
Will you forgive your silly wife?
After showering Peters face with warm kisses, she invited him to the dinner table.
I didnt hear a thing, to be honest, Peter admitted, feeling as if hed received an unearned reward.
Thank you! his wife squeezed him tight.
Blimey, thought Peter, who hadnt done anything out of the ordinary that day.
Might be worth going deaf more oftenlife gets easier.From the kitchen window, the city glowed under a patchwork of tired street lamps and twinkling flats.
Peter and his wife sat together, sharing sausage rolls and laughter, while the radio hummed softlyeach tune now sparkling, alive, woven with the day’s peculiar misadventures.
The silence he’d carried all day slipped away, replaced with the comforting noise of home.
He glanced at his wife, who reached for his hand with a gentle smile.
Somewhere in the flat, a cockroach tried its luck, then reconsidered as perfume memories lingered in the air.
Peter grinned.
Deafness had turned chaos into tranquillityand now, with hearing restored, the world sounded richer than before.
He didnt know what tomorrow would bring, but tonight, he decided, was exactly enough.
Outside, a plane soared overhead, its engines rumblinga sound Peter caught with new appreciation.
For the first time in ages, he listened not just with his ears, but with his heart.
And, as clouds drifted past the moon, Peter thought: Maybe, sometimes, all you need is a bit more quiet to realize just how loud love can be.
