It Was Louder That Night

It was harder to brush off.

Usually, I could convince myself it was a light hazing that went too far. A playful fight up until a lamp was accidentally knocked over or something. Not that night, though.

It is interesting; as far as I know, this couple had been together a while. They were here when I moved in and seemed very happy. They had some flower pots out on the close. There were a bunch of little things like that they did that made the building seem more homely. Also, it gave them a sense of authority despite being mere renters, just like the rest of us. But, when there was a problem, we would talk to Rebecca and Jane.

I wasn’t sure who was being abused first. I’m sorry, but screaming women all sound the same to me. I thought maybe they were both abusive; a lesbian relationship seems different. They are both the same size, so part of me thought, “that’s a fair fight.” This calmed me for a while and swallowed my guilt until I saw Jane one cold winter morning.

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“Mornin Jane!”

“Morning Chris.”

Our lack of dialogue from that point onwards would not have been strange; I always felt that Jane and I had a socially anxious bond- we knew when we were both up for talking and when we wanted silence. That day, I thought we chose silence. Something seemed off, however. Typically, her fashion sense was open. That’s the best way to describe it. Everything flowed; even in the winter, she would be wrapped up, but you best believe some piece of clothing is blowing in the wind. It gave her a carefree demeanour that I was envious of. That day she was tight. Buttoned up and ambling down the stairs. I let her walk ahead to examine further. Someone opened the door as she reached the bottom of the close, the wind briefly pushing her hair to the side. She was almost unrecognisable. Severe bruises coupled with deep cuts. Wounds that could only be methodical; you don’t cut someone’s face seventy times because you have a terrible temper. The sores were not automatic.

It was Elizabeth that opened the door. She was an eighty-three-year-old widower who had stayed in the building since her husband died. In a Rebecca and Jane fashion, she had also attempted to make her space a home despite her renting status. I could see the short-lived enthusiasm on Elizabeth’s face. Her readiness for friendliness dyed as she saw Jane beeline past her and out the door. We shared, what she would have thought, was mutual confusion. I guess my concern was masked by my infuriating discomfort with confrontation. Or, perhaps, oor Betty was as cowardly as me.

A week or so later, things got worse. The noise from down below mirrored a crescendo, but ashamedly, I tended to fall asleep before it calmed down. I used to be proud of my ability to sleep through anything. Flights, buses, someone’s floor, it really came in handy. But in those times, I woke up crying after a peaceful sleep.

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January 23rd was the date. A Friday night. Rebecca and Jane had been drinking, no doubt. They were teachers at the same school, which I thought was a bad idea- too much time together.

She never yelled for help. I hold back tears as I type this, but she never fucking cried help! She always opted to scream insults at Rebecca. I did not want to get involved. “That’s their shit,” I’d say to myself.

Sometimes silence is worse. The shouting stopped, and nothing could be heard for about five minutes. I was more than happy to ignore my confusion. Ignore the stories I was telling in my head. The tales ultimately mirrored the work of a stenographer. After the silence came ten or so loud bangs. I heard a neighbour fling their door open. The others, one by one, collected courage until I was the last neighbour to leave their flat.

When we reached Jane and Rebecca’s door, the police were already in the hallway. Rebecca opened the door and let them inside. She had been crying, and her fists were bleeding. The neighbours gathered around, avoiding eye contact with each other. All the innocent bystanders standing at attention. Rebecca was escorted from the building in handcuffs, and her flat was blocked off as a crime scene. Two days later, we discovered Jane had been strangled to death.

The flowers on the close were left untouched for months. They lay dying unattended, and the close felt empty. No friendly conversations in the morning, no greetings, really. Polite smiles occasionally when one of us had the gall to attempt eye contact.

I moved out a few months later.