I woke to a conspicuous quiet early this morning. Something'd gone bump in the black dark and was holding its breath so's not to wake me. I lay still, sweating, waiting for it to move again. I was wondering if I'd imagined it when I heard what sounded like our kitchen chairs tipping back onto the stone flag floor. Motherfucking CAT. He'd tipped his food bowl all over the hallway earlier on that evening. I'd taken the bowl away and left the food scattered on the floor. Fuck him, I thought, I'm not cleaning it up. He can eat it off the floor. He did, but I was still cross with him when we got home from the pub. I assumed he was still cross with me too, and wreaking havoc in the kitchen as petty payback. I slid out from under the duvet, careful not to wake Andrew, and made for the kitchen, feeling felinicidal. But Biscuit was asleep on the couch, and the chairs were where I'd left them. I checked the doors and windows, then got back into bed and lay still to listen again.
Another thud. And another. Then the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor and the contents of a cupboard crashing down. I woke Andrew. There's someone upstairs... A burglar seemed unlikely - we knew that the neighbours upstairs were home.We'd seen their dog Fat Rosie earlier on, her chubby chops poking through the curtains, begging to be brought out for a ramble. It didn't make sense that they'd sleep through the racket, but we couldn't hear any voices and Fat Rosie didn't bark. There was just a terrifying silence, broken every few minutes by a thump or a bang. Burglars don't rob furniture, we reasoned. It might be that someone upstairs just had a few jars. And started walking into doors. Or that they've had a bit of a row. They might be embarrassed if we call, we reasoned. But neither scenario seemed remotely likely to me. My head was spinning with grotesquely violent scenes in which they'd all been murdered in their beds (even Fat Rosie) by a crazed intruder who was now rearranging their living-room furniture for nefarious purposes beyond even my feverish imaginings. "Do you want to call them?" asked Andrew. "I want you to call them" I squeaked, because I'm that brave that I was utterly terrified that they might answer the phone. Or worse, that they might not, and then I'd know for sure that they'd been murdered. "Also" I said "will you please close the bedroom window and get the hockey sticks? I'm scared." (I am both polite and practical in the face of impending death). Andrew got up and, naked and vulnerable, drew back the curtains to close the window. I couldn't look. In scary films, it's always just as the nudie victim looks away from the window to reassure their terrified wives that the psycho comes smashing in through the glass and chops their heads off.* Andrew made it back to bed though, a hockey stick in each hand, and we waited. This time, the silence was broken by the sound of smashing glass. Galvanised, I picked up my mobile and called upstairs. Antonia answered, woken by the smash seconds before her phone rang. "They're not in here" she reassured me "but I can hear them on the street. I'll call the Guards". More smashy-breaky sounds from overhead, then my phone lit up again and I promptly hung up on Antonia in my panic to answer. I called her back. "It's okay" she said "number 28's on fire." And in my head (maybe even out loud, I'm not sure) I said "oh! that's alright then!" The Garda had reassured her that the fire brigade was on its way and sure enough the blue lights washed over our bedroom minutes later, and the street thrummed to the sound of the hose.
We stayed in bed, not wanting to add to the scene on the street outside. I felt so relieved that we were okay, that Antonia and her family were okay, that our homes were safe and sound and secure. And then I felt sick to think that our unknown neighbours in the house behind weren't. That at the very least their possessions had been destroyed. That they may well have lost more. That they might not have anywhere to sleep that night, or anyone to take them in. Do the fire brigade provide them with temporary accommodation, we wondered? These are things we've never thought about. "Do you want me to go out?" asked Andrew "to see if we can help?" But I didn't know what we could do. We heard the rumble an hour later as the engine rolled off down the street. I lay still again, still scared, listening, though there was no more noise. I fell asleep with a sick feeling in my stomach, worrying about people I don't know and my unwillingness to get out of bed to see how I might help them.
I woke again at 5 to a scrape scrape scrape and hollow clatter, coming from our bathroom. This time, though, I could place the sound. Biscuit had stolen the soap dispenser from the drum of the washing machine and was skittering it around on the tiled floor, amusing himself not-so-quietly while he waited for me to get up and give him a sleepy rub before I left for work. Motherfucking cat.
*At least that's how I imagine it happens in scary films. I don't actually watch them, for perhaps obvious reasons.
Another thud. And another. Then the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor and the contents of a cupboard crashing down. I woke Andrew. There's someone upstairs... A burglar seemed unlikely - we knew that the neighbours upstairs were home.We'd seen their dog Fat Rosie earlier on, her chubby chops poking through the curtains, begging to be brought out for a ramble. It didn't make sense that they'd sleep through the racket, but we couldn't hear any voices and Fat Rosie didn't bark. There was just a terrifying silence, broken every few minutes by a thump or a bang. Burglars don't rob furniture, we reasoned. It might be that someone upstairs just had a few jars. And started walking into doors. Or that they've had a bit of a row. They might be embarrassed if we call, we reasoned. But neither scenario seemed remotely likely to me. My head was spinning with grotesquely violent scenes in which they'd all been murdered in their beds (even Fat Rosie) by a crazed intruder who was now rearranging their living-room furniture for nefarious purposes beyond even my feverish imaginings. "Do you want to call them?" asked Andrew. "I want you to call them" I squeaked, because I'm that brave that I was utterly terrified that they might answer the phone. Or worse, that they might not, and then I'd know for sure that they'd been murdered. "Also" I said "will you please close the bedroom window and get the hockey sticks? I'm scared." (I am both polite and practical in the face of impending death). Andrew got up and, naked and vulnerable, drew back the curtains to close the window. I couldn't look. In scary films, it's always just as the nudie victim looks away from the window to reassure their terrified wives that the psycho comes smashing in through the glass and chops their heads off.* Andrew made it back to bed though, a hockey stick in each hand, and we waited. This time, the silence was broken by the sound of smashing glass. Galvanised, I picked up my mobile and called upstairs. Antonia answered, woken by the smash seconds before her phone rang. "They're not in here" she reassured me "but I can hear them on the street. I'll call the Guards". More smashy-breaky sounds from overhead, then my phone lit up again and I promptly hung up on Antonia in my panic to answer. I called her back. "It's okay" she said "number 28's on fire." And in my head (maybe even out loud, I'm not sure) I said "oh! that's alright then!" The Garda had reassured her that the fire brigade was on its way and sure enough the blue lights washed over our bedroom minutes later, and the street thrummed to the sound of the hose.
We stayed in bed, not wanting to add to the scene on the street outside. I felt so relieved that we were okay, that Antonia and her family were okay, that our homes were safe and sound and secure. And then I felt sick to think that our unknown neighbours in the house behind weren't. That at the very least their possessions had been destroyed. That they may well have lost more. That they might not have anywhere to sleep that night, or anyone to take them in. Do the fire brigade provide them with temporary accommodation, we wondered? These are things we've never thought about. "Do you want me to go out?" asked Andrew "to see if we can help?" But I didn't know what we could do. We heard the rumble an hour later as the engine rolled off down the street. I lay still again, still scared, listening, though there was no more noise. I fell asleep with a sick feeling in my stomach, worrying about people I don't know and my unwillingness to get out of bed to see how I might help them.
I woke again at 5 to a scrape scrape scrape and hollow clatter, coming from our bathroom. This time, though, I could place the sound. Biscuit had stolen the soap dispenser from the drum of the washing machine and was skittering it around on the tiled floor, amusing himself not-so-quietly while he waited for me to get up and give him a sleepy rub before I left for work. Motherfucking cat.
*At least that's how I imagine it happens in scary films. I don't actually watch them, for perhaps obvious reasons.
3 comments:
I brought the missus to a horror once, she screamed in the cinema, morto. Youse types are best off staying away form the frighteners, even though you most out of them.
"get the" are the missing words there, insert as you feel appropriate.
they showed a trailer for Insidious when we went to the cinema last, and i had nightmares about it that night. trailers appropriate to the feature presentation my arse.
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