Tom lived in a ninestorey council block on the outskirts of Manchester, where the plaster was as thin as tissue and every neighbours sneeze seemed to reverberate through the radiators.
Hed stopped flinching at slammed doors, ignored the occasional argument over furniture rearrangements, and never heard the old lady downstairs yelling at her telly.
What the man upstairs a fellow called Gary did, however, kept getting under his skin and made him curse.
Every Saturday, that troublesome bloke would, without a hint of shame, fire up a drill or a rotary hammer.
Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven. Always on the weekend, always right when Tom was trying to catch a few extra hours of sleep.
At first Tom, a normally easygoing chap, tried to be philosophical: Maybe its just a long renovation I can understand, he thought, tossing and turning, pulling the pillow over his head.
Weeks passed and the hammers whine still jolted him awake each Saturday, in short bursts or long, drawnout drags. It was as if Gary would start something, abandon it, then go back to where he left off.
Occasionally the dreadful noise didnt limit itself to the mornings; it would creep in on a weekday around seven oclock, when Tom got home from work hoping for quiet. Each time he wanted to march up the stairs and tell the neighbour everything he thought of him, but fatigue, laziness, or a simple desire to avoid a row kept him in his flat.
One Saturday, when the drill roared again, Tom finally snapped. He raced upstairs, knocked, rang the bell and got nothing but the relentless roar of the hammer vibrating straight into his skull.
When I get a chance! Tom blurted out, but the rest of the sentence never left his mouth. He had no idea what when I get a chance would actually mean.
He imagined all sorts of retaliation cutting the power to the whole block, calling the local council, even more elaborate schemes like filing a formal complaint, getting the police involved, or blocking the ventilation with foam.
Sometimes he pictured Gary suddenly realising hed become a nuisance, coming down to apologise, or moving out, or anything at all, just to stop the drilling.
The sound had become for Tom a symbol of injustice. He kept thinking, Someone should have a say and put an end to this madness! Yet everyone stayed in their own flats, watching nothing.
And then something Tom never expected happened
He woke up one Saturday not to the clatter of a drill, but to an eerie quiet.
He lay there, straining to hear the dreaded machine. The silence was thick, calm, almost tangible.
Did he finally break it? Tom thought, a flash of relief crossing his mind. Or has the monster moved out?
The day passed with a strange sense of freedom. The vacuum cleaner ran softer, the kettle seemed gentle, the television no longer rattled the ceiling.
Tom lounged on the sofa and caught himself smiling, a broad, childlike grin.
Sunday was quiet too. So was Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. The noise seemed to have been cut out of his life entirely. The hush from above lasted almost a week.
Tom stopped blaming it on renovation, holidays, or bad luck. There was something unnerving about the sudden contrast after months of constant clatter.
He stood for ages before Garys flat door, gathering his nerve, wondering why he even wanted to go up. To make sure everything was alright? Or to confirm he wasnt imagining things?
He pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost at once, and Tom instantly sensed something was wrong.
A pregnant woman stood on the landing, her face pale, eyes swollen. Hed only seen her a couple of times before, but now she looked older, as if years had been added to her.
Are you Garys wife? Tom asked cautiously.
She nodded.
Did something happen? I havent heard anything for ages.
Toms throat tightened; the words caught. How could he possibly explain that hed come because of the silence?
She stepped back, letting him in, and then whispered softly:
Lesh is no longer here.
Tom didnt catch the meaning straight away; it took a few seconds for the pieces to fall together.
When how?
Last Saturday, early morning, she sniffed, wiping a tear. You see, the endless repairs wore him out. He always did the work on weekends because he never had time during the week. That day he got up before me wanted to finish the cot. He was in a rush, scared hed miss the deadline
She gestured toward the back of the flat.
Against the wall lay a halfassembled baby cot, its instruction booklet, packs of bolts and nuts spread on the floor.
He simply fell, she murmured. His heart gave out. I didnt even get a chance to wake up.
Tom stood rooted, as if his feet had fused to the carpet. The womans words settled heavy in his mind.
The dreaded noise that had driven him mad on Saturdays, the very sound hed cursed along with the man who made it, now seemed distant. Toms gaze fell on the box of cot parts tiny screws, an Allen key, stickers with part numbers, all neatly sorted. Only someone who truly cared about something important would organise it like that.
Do you need any help? he asked quietly, but she shook her head.
Thank you. No, Im fine
He left on tiptoe, the way you step away from fresh pain.
Descending the stairwell, his hand on the banister, each step carried a dull, nameless guilt that burned inside him.
Back in his flat, he looked up at the ceiling, the thick silence pressing down like a reproach.
Perhaps hed hated Gary not just because he kept him awake, but because hed become the very embodiment of annoyance. To Tom, Gary was no longer just a neighbour; he was merely a nuisance, a source of inconvenience.
Now he was gone.
In his place was a woman grieving a husband shed never really known, a child on the way, and a cot that would never be finished.
I should go to her, Tom thought. Maybe I can help. She wont do it alone.
That evening, after his thoughts settled, Tom glanced again at the ceiling still dead quiet. He lingered in the dim kitchen, realizing he wouldnt manage to fall asleep that night. He went back upstairs, rang the buzzer. The door opened, the woman raising an eyebrow in surprise; she wasnt expecting him.
Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Tom spoke softly:
Listen I know we barely know each other, but if youll let me I could put the cot together. He wanted it ready, and if its alright with you, Id like to help.
She stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing his words, then slowly nodded.
Come in.
Tom stepped over the boxes of parts, working in silence for hours, tightening the last screw, adjusting the backrest. The air in the room seemed to shift, as if a weight had been lifted.
The woman sat on the sofa, hand resting on her belly, a quiet sob escaping now and then. When Tom finished, she drew nearer and ran a hand along the smooth wooden rail.
Thank you, she whispered. You cant imagine how much this means.
Tom could only nod, unsure what else to say.
As he left, he felt, for the first time in ages, that hed done something genuinely right, and he knew hed be back.
