Thin walls
She woke before the alarm, even before the faint buzz of her phones ringtone. At fortytwo the body seemed to have its own clock, jolting her out of sleep at six a.m., weekends included. She lay there, staring at the dull rectangle of the window, beyond which a winter sky loomed over rows of brick terraces, and listened to the house.
The building went about its usual, slightly tired, symphony. Somewhere a door slammed, someone shuffled up the stairs, a childs ball thumped dullmuffled against the floor above. The pipes in the walls sighed and gurgled. It all felt as familiar as her own breathing. She could tell who left for work at what hour, who turned on the radio, who cursed at the neighbours dog.
Her name was Helen. She lived in a twobed flat on the fifth floor of the block where shed spent her school years. First with her parents, then with her husband and son, now almost on her own again. The husband had walked out three years ago for a colleague in accounts, the son was studying at a technical college in the neighbouring district and spent nights alternately at her place and at friends houses. The flat was livedin but modest: an old sofa, a builtin wardrobe, a kitchen suite bought on instalments, and a sink perpetually harbouring a few halfwashed plates.
Helen worked as senior nurse at the towns health centre. The bus stop was two stops away, or a fifteenminute walk if the pavement was slick. She liked the morning walks through the halfempty courtyards, where people in warm coats, bags and thermoses filed out of their flats. The little town moved at a measured pace. Everyone knew everyoneor at least thought they did.
She was used to this routine. At the health centre she knew the regulars too: the whiner faking a sick note, the nervous patient terrified of extra tests, the one who always complained about the doctor, the shy one who never asked more than necessary. She could speak calmly, persuade, and when needed, lay down the law. Trust was her badge, and it gave her a sense of purpose, even if by evening she was drained, perched at the kitchen table with the kettle on, staring out at the dark back garden where street lamps flickered.
The towns unwritten rules were simple: keep your head down, mind your own business. Everyones got their own family; theyll sort it out themselves, she’d heard since childhood. The upstairs neighbour tolerated a drinking husband until he died of a heart attack. In the next block a man shouted at his mother so loudly the whole courtyard heard, and everyone just shook their heads. The police were only called on rare occasionscalling them was almost a social faux pas.
The first raised voices beyond the wall came in late autumn, around five p.m., when the sky was already bruised. Helen was at the kitchen with a cuppa, scrolling through news on her phone, when a raised male voice seeped through the plaster. At first she thought it was the television. Then a sharp, breaking female voice snapped out:
Quiet, the babys sleeping!
A gruff, clipped male reply followed, barely understandable, then a heavy thud as if something solid had struck the wall. Helens heart hammered. She recognized the family only by face: a young woman with a fiveyearold boy, a tall broadshouldered man always in a work jacket with a messenger bag. Theyd moved in six months earlier, exchanged a few pleasantries about the perpetually stuck lift, and that was it.
The shouting stopped as abruptly as it had started. Helen lingered, listening for a moment longer. The silence was deafening. She tried to get back to the news, but the words blurred. Snippets from the health centre floated up: He shouts, but he doesnt hit, Shes to blame for getting involved, Other families business is a dark alley. She switched off the kitchen light, shuffled to the bedroom, turned the TV up a notchhabit, really, and the way most people coped.
A week later she met the neighbour on the landing. She was hauling out a bin bag, her face pale, a yellowblue shadow under her left eye like a sleepless nights bruise. Her hair was pulled into a careless ponytail, the boy clutched her coat, fiddling with the zipper.
Morning, Helen said, noting the spot under the eye.
Ello, the woman replied, turning her face slightly away.
Helen felt her throat dry. She wanted to ask, Is it him? but the words stuck. Instead she offered a tentative smile to the boy:
Whats your name?
Serge, he muttered, hiding behind his mum.
Youre new around here? Helen asked, already knowing the answer.
Yes, we moved in last summer, the woman said, forcing a brief smile. Im Anna.
The name sounded muffled, as if spoken through cotton. Helen nodded, letting them pass. The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and laundry powder. The lift doors screeched open, Anna and Serge stepped in, and the lift clanged down.
That evening the shouting returned, louder this time. First a male curse, then Annas sob, then the childs thin whimper. Helen sat on the sofa with a book shed stopped reading ages ago. Her chest tightened, palms slick. She rose, pressed her ear to the wall and caught fragments:
I told you
I didnt take
Youre lying, you
A dull thump echoed. The boy squealed, then the crying stopped as if someone had smothered him with a pillow or dragged him away.
Helen recoiled. The impulse to dial the police surged, but she froze. What if they asked who called? What if the man found out? He was big, angry, would wait on the landing. She was alone; her son was out. And maybe it was just a spat that would blow over, leaving her the neighbourhood gossip.
She paced the room like a caged animal. The shouts rose and fell. Finally the door slammed, heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs, the man left. A muffled sob and rustle followed. Helen never dialled.
The next day at work she caught herself eavesdropping more than usual. In reception two women were chatting about a man in a nearby district who had beaten his wife so badly she ended up in intensive care. In the procedure room a junior nurse muttered that her neighbour was herself to blame, just tolerates it. Helen stayed quiet, giving injections and filling out forms.
That evening she rang her sister, who lived in a suburban culdesac on the other side of town, raising two kids and working as a shop assistant.
Weve got neighbours, Helen began, voice wavering. Theyre shouting, fighting, the childs tiny.
What of it? her sister sighed. What are you going to do?
I thought about calling the police.
Dont you meddle, her sister said, weary. Youre on your own. People get into trouble, the police show up, and then the neighbours son ends up suing for defamation. Is that worth it?
Helen fell silent. A wave of helplessness and anger rose in her chest. Her sister went on:
If she wants to leave, shell go. Shes not a child. You cant save a strangers family.
After the call Helen sat in the dark kitchen for a long time. Voices drifted up and down the landings, footsteps, doors opening and closing. The thin walls seemed to carry not just footsteps but thoughts: Dont stick your nose in, Keep quiet, Live your own life.
Neighbourly scandals became a weekly rhythm. Not every day, but every week, sometimes hushed, sometimes loud enough for the whole block to hear. Helen watched how others reacted: some turned up the TV, others quickened their steps on the stairs, but no one said a word.
One evening, returning from the health centre, she ran into Anna on the landing. Anna was rummaging through her bag for keys, a red line peeking from beneath her scarf.
Cold out? Helen asked, stopping.
Just the usual, Anna said, lips trembling. The little one caught a cold again.
Your husband? Helen blurted before she could stop herself.
Anna froze, then looked away. At work, she replied shortly. He does night shifts.
Helen knew that was a lie. The night before shed heard his voice thumping down the corridor, shoes slamming. She kept quiet.
If anything happens, Helen began, then stopped. The words got stuck. If anything meant what? Call? Run over? She didnt even know what to do.
Thanks, Anna whispered, as if she understood. She fumbled for her keys and hurried away.
Later that night a sharp scream ripped her from sleep. She bolted upright, heart pounding. The shouting was back, louder than ever. A mans voice bellowed:
How many times do I have to work while you sit on your throne! Wheres the money?
I didnt take it, Annas voice snapped. Maybe you spent it yourself
A crash, then another. The boys wail cut through the thin walls.
Helen could no longer stand still. She snatched the phone, dialled 999. Her fingers shook.
999, whats your emergency?
This is our block. The neighbours are fighting. The husband is beating his wife, theres a small child. Fifth floor, flat 34, she blurted, throat tight.
The operator asked for the address and her name. She gave them both, her voice steadier than she felt. He said help was on the way.
Within twenty minutes a wail of sirens echoed down the courtyard. Heavy boots clattered up the stairs. Helen peered through the peephole as two officers in dark uniforms knocked on the neighbours door. The shouting had died down, replaced by soft sobbing.
Open up, police, one ordered.
The door creaked. A mans face appeared, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched.
Whats happened? the officer asked.
Nothing, the man grunted. Just a row. All settled.
The neighbours complained about noise, the second officer said. Is the wife here?
A faint voice came from behind the door: Im here.
Are you being assaulted? the first officer asked.
No, Anna replied quickly. Were just arguing.
Helen felt her stomach twist. The answer was a cold comfort. The officers made a note, gave a verbal warning, and left. Their boots faded down the landing, the man slammed the door.
A moment later the intercom buzzed. A neighbours knocker sounded, urgent and low. Helens heart leapt. She opened the door to find a man in a battered coat, eyes narrowed, a smirk on his lips.
You think I dont know who called? he hissed. There are only two flats here. Dont worry, well talk later.
Helen didnt move. She felt the heat rise to her face. He leaned closer, whispering, You think youre some hero? Police, social services you think I dont see where the money goes?
She swallowed. I called because I heard you shouting at a child and hitting your wife, she said, surprised at her own steadiness.
He sneered. I dont hit anyone. We argue like everyone else. You sort your own life first. You didnt keep your husband, now you think you can police other families?
His words cut deeper than any punch could have. Helen clenched the door handle, eyes blazing.
If you raise a hand again, Ill call the policeagainand Ill keep calling until you stop, she warned.
He leaned back, spat on the floor, and stalked back inside.
After that, the atmosphere in the building shifted. Helen felt eyes on her in the health centre, a colleague whispering, Heard the police were called. Youre a bit of a crusader, arent you? The towns gossip mill churned, turning a private squabble into public spectacle.
Her son, hearing from friends that the police had turned up, stormed into the kitchen one evening, slamming his backpack down.
Mom, why are you sticking your nose into other peoples business? he snapped. Everyones shouting now. Do they think Im the scandal aunt?
I did it because theres a child, Helen replied, exhausted. You hear the screams.
And what? Everyone screams. Do you expect everyone to stop because youre a good neighbour? What if he comes after you? he retorted.
Im not responsible for his actions, she said, but he cut her off.
I dont want trouble because of you, he said, turning up the music. Do what you want, just dont drag me in.
He retreated to his room, the music thumping. Helen sat at the kitchen table, hands trembling, wondering if shed crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
In the weeks that followed she recorded the sounds that seeped through the thin walls, not constantly, but whenever the arguments peaked. She placed her phone on the windowsill, hit record, and sat listening to the other familys life break into shouting, sobbing, slamming doors. It felt like a way to capture the truth, lest anyone later claim, Nothing happened.
She took the recordings to the local constable, a tired man in his forties with a permanent frown.
You understand we need a statement from the victim, he said, listening to the snippets. We can issue a noise complaint, but without a formal report we cant do much. Ive seen dozens of cases like this in this ward.
Im scared, Helen said. He threatens the child, uses the child as a shield. You know this, right?
He sighed. Im not a wizard. I can come back, write a citation for a breach of peace. But if he finds out youre the one who called, you might end up moving out yourself.
She nodded, the weight of his words sinking in.
That night, lying awake, Helen replayed Annas gaunt face, the yellowblue bruise under her eye, the boys thin voice. She thought of her own husband years ago, harmless-looking but capable of squeezing the air out of a room with a stare. She had stayed, thought it was the right thing, and eventually he left. That memory lingered like a cold draft.
She now faced a choice: retreat to a quieter life where the biggest problem was a queue at the health centre and an overdue creditcard bill, or keep pushing, knowing peace would never return fully.
One night the fighting erupted after midnight. A deep male growl, the sound of furniture being thrown, the boys scream Mum, no! cut through the thin plaster like a knife. Annas voice cracked, Leave him! Then a harsh slap, another, the childs crying spiralling into a fullblown tantrum.
Helen sprang up, flicked the light on, grabbed the phone, and without hesitation dialled 999 again.
This is again, same address. The childs now hysterical. Please, come quickly, she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her throat.
She didnt wait for the police. She threw on a robe, slipped into slippers, and marched to the landing, heart hammering. The shouting continued, relentless. She knocked hard on the neighbours door.
Open up! I hear what youre doing, she shouted.
Silence, then heavy steps. The door cracked. The mans face appeared, twisted with rage. Youve lost your mind, he snarled. Its night, go away.
I called the police, Helen said, eyes fierce. If you dont settle down, Ill keep knocking on every door until someone stops you.
He spat, raised his hand, but before he could swing, two officers burst in, shouting Police! Their boots thudded, the man flinched, and the door slammed shut behind them.
Inside, Anna clutched her son, a fresh red mark on her cheek, the boy huddled in the corner, eyes wide with terror.
Do you need medical help? one officer asked.
No, Anna whispered. Just thank you for coming.
They escorted the man out, handcuffed, his eyes never leaving Helens. He muttered something about youll pay for this, but it was lost in the hallway.
Back in her flat, Helen slumped into a chair, hands shaking. Shed crossed a point of no return.
The following morning social workers arrived, the same stern lady from before and a younger assistant. They spread out papers on the kitchen table.
Youve been hearing these disturbances for a while, the senior worker said. Well be applying for a court order to limit the fathers contact with his son.
Helen explained everything, showing the recordings. The women listened, asked the usual procedural questions, and nodded. Well do what we can, the senior said. But the court will decide the final steps.
After they left, the building fell eerily quiet. The man was gone, and Anna seemed to be managing a fragile peace. She still appeared at the lift with a tired smile, eyes shadowed, but she no longer shouted.
One afternoon, while Helen was taking out the rubbish, she met Anna on the landing. Annas face was pale, dark circles under her eyes, a bag of groceries in hand.
Hello, Helen said.
Ello, Anna replied, then hesitated. You called the police, the social services.
Annas fingers tightened around the bag handle.
Hes now on a construction site in another town, she said softly. They said it might be for the best.
Helen nodded. Take care of yourself, Anna.
Anna managed a small, weary grin. Thanks. Well manage.
Later that evening, as Helen stood by her kitchen window, the thin walls no longer carried nighttime thuds and screams, but the ordinary sounds of life: children laughing in the courtyard, a distant dog bark, the hum of a radio. The house breathed a more ordinary rhythm.
She put the kettle on, fetched two mugs, and poured herself a tea. One was for her, the other left on the counter, just in case Anna stopped by. The water boiled, fillingShe realized that, at last, the thin walls were no longer cages of fear but simply the quiet, ordinary borders of a life she could finally breathe within.
