The Nuisance
“Good evening, folks. The neighbour downstairs has complained about the noise and shouting from your flat,” said the constable standing at the door. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course,” Emily replied, her voice shaking. “Just give me a moment to settle the baby.”
Truthfully, Emily wasn’t trembling because of the police officer—it was the fresh bruises from her husband. This time, he’d lashed out because she’d poured his whiskey down the sink. When William discovered it, he flew into a rage:
“I’m the one working my fingers to the bone on the building site while you sit at home in your cushy maternity leave! Go get me another bottle!”
“No,” Emily said. “You’re drunk every night. Jamie’s barely one, and he’s already terrified of you. Enough, William!”
The child’s wails drowned out her words as his mother took another beating. The noise reached old Mrs. Whitmore downstairs, who, true to form, did what she always did when suspicious—called the police.
Mrs. Whitmore was quite the piece of work. The neighbours didn’t just dislike her—they couldn’t stand her. There wasn’t a single person in the building she hadn’t reported at some point—not just to the police, but to the council, the housing association, even social services.
“That lad from Flat 5—his mother barely feeds him. Skin and bones, dressed like a ragamuffin,” she’d say over the phone. “Someone ought to check on them. Far too cheerful, that one—probably on something.”
The social worker took note, promising action. Meanwhile, the poor mother of chubby little Oliver was stunned when a full inspection team turned up at her door. Turned out, Oliver was on a strict diet—at nine, he weighed as much as a teenager. His mum was thrilled it was working. As for his clothes? The boy was lively, and trousers never lasted long.
Mrs. Whitmore didn’t know that, of course. She avoided the neighbours like the plague.
Long-time residents said that years ago, burglars had broken into her flat. Since then, she’d trusted no one, convinced someone in the building had tipped them off after she and her husband withdrew their savings for a second-hand Ford. Her husband had fought back, got badly hurt, and died soon after. She’d never quite recovered.
But the younger neighbours—most of them—didn’t know that.
“Clean up after your dog! Think you can just leave messes about? You’ll regret it!” she snapped at a young lad walking his Rottweiler at night.
“You fancy it, you clean it, you daft old bat,” he scoffed.
The massive dog growled, straining at its lead as Mrs. Whitmore retreated, nursing a grudge that demanded payback.
And payback came—the young man found a neatly placed “gift” outside his door the next morning, squashing it in his brand-new white trainers.
“Damn it!” he yelled, scraping the mess off his shoes.
Lucky for Mrs. Whitmore, he didn’t know which flat was hers. Cursing, he chucked the trainers into the bin.
Behind her lace curtains, the old woman smirked. After that, the pavements near the playground stayed spotless. Word spread fast.
“So, what’s the trouble?” The constable scanned the room where little Jamie sobbed in his cot, gripping the rails.
“Nothing,” William muttered. “Just got carried away watching the match. Useless lot, barely moved out there.”
Emily shot him a fearful look. She had to back his lie—or suffer later. The constable eyed her. He knew the score, but without her testimony, there’d be no consequences.
“Yes, the telly got too loud,” she lied. “Sorry.”
The officer sighed. Same old story—victims protecting their abusers until it was too late.
“Right, consider this a warning. Next time, it’s a fine,” he said. “And apologise to your neighbour. Sharp as a tack, she is. Calls us whenever something’s amiss—knows us all by name now.”
“Lucky us,” William muttered.
A warning glare from the constable, a meaningful glance at Emily, and he was gone.
“Next time, I’ll make sure you don’t make a sound,” William hissed as the door shut.
Emily clutched her son, cursing the day she’d married him.
“He’s no good for you, love,” her mates had said. “You’re kind-hearted, full of life. That one—smiles sweet, eyes dead. Walk away.”
“You don’t know him like I do. He loves me,” Emily had insisted, starry-eyed. “He stood up for me once.”
She married him. Soon, the truth showed—jealous fits, public rows, controlling every move. Emily mistook cruelty for devotion. Now, he raged at imagined slights, delighting in her guilt.
“Is this ironed? Useless!” he barked.
“I tried. Jamie’s teething—I haven’t even eaten,” she pleaded.
But William didn’t do understanding. Too hot, too bland, a bad mother—always her fault.
“You woke him, shouting!” she protested. “I think I’ve caught a cold.”
“Won’t kill you. Women used to work fields hours after giving birth. Weak lot now,” he scoffed.
Emily once thought stress made him cruel. Now, she saw the truth—she was just convenient. A flat, a job, a punching bag.
Then fate stepped in. Her old coworkers visited for her birthday. She’d baked despite exhaustion.
“So good to see you!” Emily beamed, clinging to her past freedom.
“Happy birthday! Where’s Jamie? Brought him a teddy,” said Daniel, her old workmate.
Jamie adored the toy and the attention—smiling, dimples flashing. For the first time in a year, Emily felt happy.
“Don’t stay off work too long. We’ll help with nursery,” her boss said. “You’re not yourself. Everything alright?”
Emily smiled. She didn’t mention the hell at home.
When William returned, he ignored her guests. They left quickly, sensing trouble.
“Keep them out. Especially that Daniel,” he sneered. “Fancy him, do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Oh? He walked you home before we married. Why was he holding Jamie? Is he the father?”
“Are you insane?” Emily gasped. “His wife just had a baby!”
“‘Just’? So Jamie’s his? You slag! Out—both of you!”
“It’s my flat!” she cried, clinging to Jamie. “It’s freezing!”
William grabbed a knife. “Go, or I won’t stop myself.”
Barefoot, in her dressing gown, she fled to the landing. Jamie screamed. She knocked, pleading—the door stayed shut.
Then—
“What’s all this?” Mrs. Whitmore stood on the stairs.
Emily braced for another scolding. But—
“Come inside, before the lad catches his death.”
Shocked, Emily followed. The flat was immaculate, walls lined with photos of a younger Mrs. Whitmore and her late husband.
“My Reggie,” she said, catching Emily’s glance. “We were happy—unlike you lot. Kicked you out, did he?”
“How’d you—?”
“Walls are thin. Why put up with it?”
“I’m scared.”
“Stay here. We’ll fetch your things later.”
Footsteps thundered above. William banged on doors—all but Mrs. Whitmore’s.
Two days passed. Emily wore borrowed clothes. Mrs. Whitmore bought Jamie nappies, dipping into her pension.
Then—news. William was arrested for attacking Daniel in a jealous rage.
“Serves him right,” Mrs. Whitmore told the constable. “Help her change the locks.”
The new door meant more than security—a fresh start.
Mrs. Whitmore babysat while Emily divorced William, returned to work. Jamie, growing fond, called her “Gran.”
Now, the neighbours didn’t call her a nuisance. They said—
“Our Auntie Win.”
