Martin Clarke lived in a ninestorey tower block where the walls were as thin as tissue paper, and every neighbours sneeze reverberated through the radiators.
Hed long stopped flinching when doors slammed, when people shuffled furniture, and he never bothered with the television blare from the pensioner downstairs.
What the man upstairs a certain David did, however, drove him to the brink and made his mouth spill curses.
Each Saturday that dodgy bloke showed up, without a hint of conscience, with either a drill or a hammerdrill in hand. Sometimes at nine in the morning, sometimes at eleven. Always on a day off, always when Martin wanted to catch up on sleep.
At first Martin, a calm sort of fellow, took it philosophically: Maybe its a renovation maybe itll finish soon. He tossed from side to side in bed, pushed his pillow over his head, and tried to convince himself it would pass.
But week after week the hammerdrill roared on Saturday after Saturday. Short bursts, long droning stretches the neighbour would start something, abandon it, then go back to it.
Occasionally the hated clatter spilled over into weekday evenings around seven, just as Martin came home yearning for peace. He wanted to march up and tell David exactly what he thought, yet fatigue, laziness and a plainspoken desire to avoid a row held him back.
One day, when the drill roared again overhead, Martin snapped. He bolted up the stairs, rang the buzzer, knocked only the cursed drill kept screaming, its vibrations rattling his skull.
When the day comes! he blurted out, but didnt finish the sentence. He didnt know what he meant by the day.
He entertained all sorts of fantasies: pulling the main fuse in the hallway, lodging a complaint with the council, calling the housing officer, even blocking the vent with foam. Sometimes he imagined David suddenly realising hed become a nuisance, apologising, moving out, oranythingjust to stop the drilling.
That relentless sound became for Martin a symbol of injustice. He kept thinking, Someone ought to stand up and put an end to this nonsense! Yet everyone kept to their own flat, and nobody interfered.
Then something Martin never expected happened.
He woke one Saturday not to the whine of a drill but to a thick, palpable silence. He lay there listening, waiting for the cursed machine to scream, but the quiet was dense, almost tangible.
Done for! Hes gone, or that monster moved out! he thought, a grin breaking across his face.
The day passed with an odd sense of freedom. The vacuum cleaner whirred a little softer, the kettle seemed gentle, the television no longer shivered the ceiling. Martin sat on the sofa and caught himself smiling, widegrinned like a child.
Sunday was quiet, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday too. The noise seemed to have been carved out of his life. The quiet upstairs lingered for almost a week. Martin stopped blaming it on renovations, holidays or sheer chance. The pause felt unnatural, unsettlinga sharp contrast after months of constant clatter.
He stood before Davids door for ages, gathering his courage, wondering why he was doing this. To make sure everything was all right? To check whether hed been overreacting?
He pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost at once, and Martin sensed something was wrong.
A pregnant woman stood on the landing, her face pale, her eyes swollen. Hed only glimpsed her a couple of times before, but now she looked older, worn.
Are you Davids wife? he asked cautiously.
She nodded.
Is something wrong? I havent heard
The words lodged in his throat. How could he explain that hed come because of the silence?
She took a step back, letting him in. Then, in a soft voice, she said:
David isnt here any more.
Martin didnt grasp it straight away; it took a few seconds for the meaning to settle.
When when? he asked.
Last Saturday, early morning. She brushed away a tear. You know the endless renovations it wore him out. He always worked on weekendsno time during the week. That morning he got up before me wanted to finish the babys cot. He was in a rush, scared hed be late
She gestured toward the flat. By the wall lay a halfassembled baby cot, the instruction booklet, boxes of fittings, bits scattered on the floor.
He just fell, she whispered. His heart gave out. I didnt even get a chance to wake up.
Martin stood rooted, as if his feet had grown into the floorboards. Her words sank slowly, heavily, into his mind.
The same noise that had tormented him on Saturdays was gone. He looked down at a box of cot partstiny screws, a hex key, stickers with part numbersall neatly arranged, the sort of careful order only someone who truly cared would make.
Do you need anything? he asked quietly, but she shook her head.
Thank you. No
Martin left almost on tiptoe, as if stepping away from fresh pain. He descended the stairs, clutching the handrail; each step echoed a dull guilt that had no shape but burned him fiercely.
Back home he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. The silence was thick, as if it were a reprimand. Perhaps it was that Martin had hated David only because he kept him awake? Hed cursed him, reduced him to a nuisance, just a sound.
Now David was gone, and there was a woman mourning him, a child on the way, and a cot he had wanted to build but never finished.
I should go to her help. She probably cant do it alone, Martin thought.
That evening, after his thoughts settled, Martin looked up at the ceiling again. The dead quiet remained.
He lingered in the dim kitchen, realizing he wouldnt be able to fall asleep that night. He went upstairs, rang the buzzer. The door opened; the woman raised an eyebrowshe wasnt expecting him.
Martin, visibly embarrassed, said softly:
Look, 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.
Martin stepped over the boxes of parts, worked quietly for a long while. She sat on the sofa, hand on her belly, occasional soft sighs, careful not to disturb. When Martin tightened the final screw and lifted the cot to adjust the back, the room seemed to exhale, as if a tension had been released.
She leaned forward, ran her hand along the smooth wooden rail.
Thank you, she whispered. You have no idea how much this means.
Martin could only nod, unsure what to say.
As he left, he felt, for the first time in ages, that hed done something truly right, and he knew he would return.
