Thin walls
Grace Harris awoke before her alarm ever buzzed, even before the faint tone on her phone could startle her. At fortytwo her body seemed to have a builtin clock that nudged her out of sleep at six oclock each morning, weekends included. She lay staring at the dull rectangle of the window, beyond which a grey winter sky stretched over rows of threestorey terraced houses, and listened to the building.
The block went on with its usual, slightly tired chorus. Somewhere a front door slammed, the stairs creaked under the weight of a neighbours boots, a childs plastic ball thumped down the hallway from the flat above. The pipe in the wall sighed and gurgled. It was as familiar as her own breathing. She could name who left for work at what hour, who turned the radio on, who muttered at the dog in the communal garden.
Her name was Grace. She lived in a twobed flat on the fifth floor of the same block where shed spent her schooldays. First with her parents, then with her husband and son, now almost on her own again. Her husband had walked out three years earlier for an accountant from the office next door. Her son was studying at a technical college in the neighbouring district and spent nights here or with friends. The flat was livedin but modest: an old sofa, a builtin wardrobe, a kitchen set bought on a payment plan, and a perpetual stack of dishes waiting in the sink.
Grace was the senior nurse at the towns community health centre. The bus stop was two stops away, or a fifteenminute walk if the pavement was slick. She liked the earlymorning stroll through the halfempty courtyards, where people in warm jackets emerged from their lifts with shopping bags and thermoses. The little town moved at a measured pace. Everyone knew everyoneor thought they did.
She knew the rhythm at work as well. She could spot the patient faking a sick note, the one terrified of extra tests, the complainant who never quite made it to the reception, and the shy one who kept asking the same question twice. She could speak calmly, persuade, and when needed, lay down the law. Her colleagues trusted her. That trust made her feel useful, but by evening she was exhausted, slumped at the kitchen table, kettle whistling, staring out at the dark courtyard where street lamps flickered.
The unspoken rule in her town was simple: mind your own business. Everyone has their own family, theyll sort it out themselves, shed heard as a child. The lady upstairs tolerated a drinking husband until he died of a heart attack. In the flat opposite, a man shouted at his mother so loudly the whole courtyard heard, and neighbours just shook their heads. The police were called rarely; it wasnt the sort of thing you did.
The first shout from the wall came late autumn, when darkness fell around five. Grace was nursing a cup of tea, scrolling through the news on her phone, when she heard raised voices from the flat next door. At first she thought the television was on. Then a sharp, cracking female voice cut through:
Quiet, the babys sleeping!
A guttural male voice replied, teeth clenched, words indecipherable. A heavy thump followed, as if something solid had slammed into the wall. Graces heart thumped faster. She recognised the family from the hallway: a young mother, a fiveyearold boy, a broadshouldered man in a work jacket with a messenger bag. Theyd moved in six months ago, exchanged a few jokes about the lift that always got stuck, and that was the extent of it.
The shouting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Grace sat a little longer, ears straining for any hint. Nothing. She tried to return to the news, but the letters blurred. Bits of clinic chatter floated back: He shouts, but he doesnt hit, Shes to blame for getting involved, Its none of our business. She switched off the kitchen light, went to her bedroom, turned the TV up a notch. It felt more normal; many did it.
A week later she met her neighbour on the landing. The woman emerged with a bin bag, her face pale, a yellowblue bruise under her left eye as if shed not slept properly. Her hair was tied in a careless ponytail, and the boy clutched her coat, fiddling with his zip.
Morning, Grace said, pausing at the spot under the eye.
Ello, the woman replied, turning her face slightly away.
Grace felt her throat go dry. She wanted to ask, Is that him? but the words stuck. Instead she forced a smile at the boy.
Whats your name?
Charlie, he muttered, hiding behind his mum.
Youre new round here? Grace asked, though she already knew the answer.
Yes, we moved in over the summer, the woman managed, forcing a thin grin. Im Claire.
The name sounded damp, like it was spoken through cotton. Grace nodded, letting them pass. The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and fresh laundry detergent. The lift doors screeched open, Claire slipped in with the boy, and they descended.
That evening the shouting returned, louder. First a male curse, then Claires whimper, then the thin cry of the child. Grace was sitting on the sofa with a book, but the pages remained untouched. Her chest tightened, palms grew slick. She rose, pressed her ear to the wall, catching fragments.
I told you
I didnt take
Youre lying, you
A dull thump echoed. The boy squealed, then his crying stopped abruptly, as if someone had muffled him with a pillow or dragged him away.
Grace jumped back from the wall. The thought of calling the police flickered, then died. What if they asked who made the call? What if the man found out? He was big, angry, and would wait on the landing. She was alone; her son wasnt staying over. And perhaps it was just a fight that would settle itself, leaving her as the nosy neighbour.
She paced the room like a caged animal. The shouts rose and fell. Finally a heavy door slammed, footsteps thudded down the stairs, and the man disappeared. A muffled sob, a rustle, and the flat fell silent. Grace never dialled.
The next day at work she caught herself eavesdropping more than usual. In reception two women were gossiping about a neighbour whod beaten his wife so badly she ended up in intensive care. In the procedure room a junior nurse whispered that shes to blame for putting up with it. Grace kept her mouth shut, stitching needles and filling forms.
That evening she rang her sister, who lived in a detached house on the far side of town and worked as a shop assistant.
Neighbours theyre shouting, fighting, theres a little child, Grace began, voice trembling.
So what? her sister sighed. What are you going to do?
I thought about calling the police.
Dont, love. Youre on your own. If you call, theyll come, the whole town will talk. I saw a constable at the local shop once; a lady called him in, and the next six months her son was sued for libel. Do you really want that?
Grace fell silent. A wave of helplessness and anger rose in her chest. Her sister went on:
If she wants out, shell go. Shes not a child. You cant save a family that isnt yours.
After the call Grace sat in the dark kitchen. Voices drifted up and down the landing, someone going up, someone coming down. The house seemed to breathe through its thin walls, and she felt she could hear not only footsteps but stray thoughts: Dont meddle, Stay quiet, Live your own life.
Neighbourly arguments became a regular thing. Not daily, but at least once a week. Sometimes hushed, sometimes loud enough for the whole block to hear. She watched how others reacted. Some turned the TV up louder. Some hurried their steps on the stairs. Nobody said a word.
One evening, returning from the health centre, she ran into Claire on the landing. Claire was rummaging through her bag, searching for keys. A scarf hung around her neck, but Grace saw a red streak under the collar.
Cold? Grace asked, stopping beside her.
Just fine, Claire smiled, though her lips trembled. Charlie caught a cold again.
What about your husband? Grace blurted before she could stop herself.
Claire froze, then looked away.
Off shift, she replied shortly. Hes on night patrol.
Grace knew that wasnt true. The night before shed heard his voice through the wall, shoes thudding down the corridor. Yet she kept quiet.
If if anything happens Grace began, then stopped. What if anything? Call? Run over? She didnt know.
Thanks, Claire whispered, as if she understood everything. She fumbled for her keys and hurried inside.
A sudden, sharp scream jolted Grace awake later that night. She bolted upright, heart hammering. The shouting had started again, this time a mans shout so clear it cut through the thin plaster:
How many times do I have to work while you just sit like a queen! Wheres the money?
I didnt take it, Claires voice cracked. Maybe you spent it yourself
A heavy blow landed, followed by another. The boy wailed. Grace could no longer stand it. She grabbed the handset, dialed 999. Her fingers shook.
Emergency services, go ahead.
This is my block neighbours are fighting. The husband is beating his wife, theres a child. Fifth floor, flat thirtyfour, she managed between sobs.
The operator asked for the address, her name. His tone was tired but not mocking. He said a patrol was on the way. Grace hung up and stared at the wall, feeling it grow even thinner, each breath amplified for anyone listening.
Within twenty minutes a wail of sirens rose over the courtyard. Boots clanged down the stairs. Grace peered through the peephole. Two officers in dark uniforms knocked on the neighbours door. The shouting had already died down, leaving only sniffles.
Open up, police, they called.
The door creaked. A man appeared in the doorway, only half his face visible reddened cheeks, clenched jaw.
Whats happened? one asked.
Nothing, the man grunted. We had a row. Its over.
The neighbours complained about noise, the second said. Is the wife home?
A pause. Then a faint voice from within:
Im here.
Are you being hit? the officer asked.
No, the woman hurriedly replied. Just an argument.
Grace felt her stomach twist. She understood the answer, but it hurt more. The officers scribbled notes, gave a verbal warning, and left. Their footsteps faded on the landing. The man slammed the door.
A moment later the doorbell rang, harsh and sudden. Graces heart leapt. She looked through the peephole: a neighbour stood there, jacket unbuttoned, face flushed, eyes narrowed.
Open up, lets talk, he said, as if he knew she was watching.
Grace didnt move. Her throat was raw. He leaned closer to the peephole, his lips forming a grin.
You think I dont know who called? he hissed. There are only two flats here. Dont worry, well have a chat.
He lingered a heartbeat, then spat on the floor and stalked back inside. The door slammed. Grace backed away, collapsing onto the stairwell bench, hands trembling.
The next morning she went to work as usual, but the corridor of the health centre felt different; people stared a little longer. In reception someone whispered, Did you hear the police came to Graces block? Rumour travelled fast in a small town.
At lunch the senior nurse, a sharptongued woman in her fifties with neatly combed hair, called Grace into her office.
Grace, come in a minute, she said.
Inside she closed the door and sat opposite Grace.
The HR department called, she began, not meeting Graces eyes. Theres a complaint that you well, that youre causing a stir at home.
What sort of stir? Grace felt a surge of indignation rise.
I get it, you called the police because the husband beats his wife, the senior nurse said. But youre a nurse. People look at us. Our reputation is already on thin ice. Dont drag your personal drama into work.
Its not my drama, Grace whispered. Theres a child.
The senior nurse shrugged. Youre an adult, you decide. Just remember, any complaint could be a reason for cutbacks. Were already under pressure.
Grace left the office, legs feeling like jelly. She sat in the treatment room, stared at her hands tiny scratches from endless needle work. The words kept echoing: any complaint is a reason.
That evening the voices behind the wall returned, but this time a muted, restrained argument. The man spoke quietly, though his tone carried threat.
If anyone comes again, Ill know its you, he muttered. Youll end up with a suitcase at Mums.
I didnt call, Claire whispered.
Grace sat at the kitchen table, listening, feeling the whole scene turn inside her. It was as if she had become part of the drama, even if only through plaster.
The following day, while returning from work, she stopped at the notice board on the landing. Between adverts for doubleglazed windows and a garage sale, a flyer from Childrens Services read: If you know of any child suffering abuse Call 0800111222. Grace stared at it, then snapped a photo of the number with her phone.
She waited two days before she finally dialled. First she tried to convince herself it would settle down, that the husband would be scared off by the police and quiet down. But another midnight clash, where the boys cries sounded as if someone were slashing his throat, shattered that hope.
Childrens Services, how may I help you? a weary, professional female voice answered.
I I want to report, Grace swallowed. In my block, the man behind the wall is constantly shouting at the child. I havent seen any hits, but there are fights, the police have already been called.
The operator asked for the address, the boys name Charlie and his age, about five. She thanked Grace, said they would monitor the family and thanked her for speaking up.
After the call, instead of relief, a hollow emptiness settled over Grace. It felt like shed pushed open a heavy door only to find another waiting behind it.
A week later two women in dark coats arrived on the landing, folders in hand. They knocked on the neighbours flat. Grace watched through the peephole as Claire, pale, opened the door with a frozen smile.
Were from Childrens Services, one said. We received a report. May we come in?
The husband appeared, wiping his hands on his trousers, face swollen, eyes burning.
What report? he growled. Everythings fine here.
Were obligated to check the childs welfare, the other replied calmly. Its a routine check.
They entered. The door closed behind them, and Grace stood in the corridor, rooted to the spot, unable to move. After half an hour the women emerged, their faces as businesslike as ever.
Thank you, one said. Well be in touch.
The door clicked shut, and silence returned, heavy as stone. Then the buzzer rang, sharp and insistent. Graces heart leapt. Through the peephole, the same neighbours face stared back calmer now, eyes cold.
Open up, we need to talk, he said.
Grace took a deep breath, turned the lock, and opened the door. What do you want? she asked.
Thought you were a hero? he sneered. Police, services you think youre doing something noble? You cant even keep your own son from going off to a night shift on the trains. Youre meddling in other peoples lives.
She felt her fingers clench the door handle. If you raise your hand again, Ill call the police, she said, voice steadier than she felt. And Ill keep calling until you stop.
He leaned in, his breath smelling of cheap whisky. Just remember, youve got a son whos out late at the depot. This towns small. Word gets around.
He turned and walked away, the hallway echoing his steps.
After that, the world seemed to shift a little. On the way to work she felt someone trailing her, in the shop people gave her sideways glances, neighbours offered curt nods or turned away. Gossip floated like pollen, but some old acquaintances actually stopped to say, Good on you, Grace. The senior nurse at the centre started to nip at Graces paperwork a bit more, but at least she wasnt being shouted at by the whole block.
Graces son, having heard from his mates that the police had been called, came home one evening, angry.
Mum, why are you sticking your nose in other peoples business? he slammed his bag down. Everyones calling you the troublemaking auntie now.
Im doing it because theres a child in danger, Grace replied, exhausted. You hear them yelling too, dont you?
Theyre just yelling, he shrugged. Whats the point? If theyre going to keep shouting, what can IIn the quiet that finally settled over the block, Grace realized that being a good neighbour meant listening rather than just hearing, and that simple act was enough.
