Wheres it written that the air here belongs to you? This landing is for everyone, love. If I want to have a fag or spit, thats my choice. Perhaps you should learn the law.
Chloe, the twenty-year-old daughter of Mrs Martin from next door, blew a thick cloud of sickly-sweet vapour into Mrs Helen Thompsons face. Chloe lounged on the windowsill, two lads beside her hooting with laughter. The concrete floor was a mess of cigarette butts, empty Red Bull cans, and sunflower seed shells.
Mrs Thompson, senior accountant at a large manufacturing firm in Birmingham, didnt cough or wave her hands as the teens had expected. Instead, she adjusted her glasses and fixed Chloe with that hard, appraising look usually reserved for underperforming department managers during audits.
This is a communal space, Chloe, she said coolly. That means no smoking, no spitting, and no turning it into a tip. Youve got five minutes to clean up this pigsty. Otherwise, the conversation changes, understand?
Oh, Im shaking in my boots! Chloe sneered, pointedly flicking ash onto the freshly mopped floor. Off you pop for your blood pressure tablets, then, darling. Going to tell my mum? She let me sit out here, so I didnt smoke in the flat.
The lads roared. Mrs Thompsons front door snapped shut, shutting out the racket.
The corridor smelt of fried potatoes and old wooda homely, comforting smell, now tainted by the reek of cheap cigarettes seeping in under the door. In the kitchen, hunched over the table, sat Paul.
Paul was thirty-two but looked near forty, balding and with poor posture. He was the nephew of Helens late husband, had lived with her for ten years, and was the quiet, reluctant sort with a mild stammer. Paul worked at the local watch repair shop and was so timid, even his shadow would startle him. For the neighbours, he was an easy target for mockery.
L-l-len, are they out there again? Paul tensed at the clattering on the landing.
Eat your dinner, Paul. Leave it to me, Helen said briskly, spooning potatoes onto his plate, though inside she seethed with rage.
That evening, she went upstairs to see Mrs Martin. Her neighbour answered in a dressing gown, phone glued to her ear, a clay mask smeared on her face.
Claire, your daughters turned our landing into a den. The smoke is coming into my flat, and the racket goes on half the night. Im asking you to do something about it.
Claire rolled her eyes, not even moving the phone from her ear. Oh, come off it, Helen. Let them be, theyre young. Where else will they go? Its freezing outside. Theyre not criminals, just socialising. Maybe relax a bit. You never had kids, so you just dont get it. And Pauls half-witted, isnt he? So whats he going to care?
The insult was sharp, deliberate. Helen exhaled slowly.
So, its all just fun? And you think my Paul is the problem? Fine, Claire. Ive heard you.
Back in her flat, Helen sat at her writing desk and pulled out a folder of documents. Emotions were for the weak. The strong had the Civil Code, housing associationsand evidence.
The next week, Helen was quieter than usual. Chloe decided the old cow had given up and took over the landing completely. An old, stained armchair now blocked the fire exit, and dance music blared on late into the night.
The reckoning came on Friday.
Paul was returning from work, groceries in one hand, a small box for a client in the other, when he neared the group on the landing. One of the ladsChloes boyfriend, known as Spudstuck out his leg.
Paul tripped, bag splitting open; apples rolled across the grimy floor, straight into the pile of butts. The little box with the clockwork mechanism skidded away.
Oi! Look at him go, the ostrich can fly! Spud hooted.
Chloe exhaled smoke lazily. Watch your step, thicko! You walk about, stinking the place up. Be quick and pick up, before I do!
Red-faced and shaking, Paul scrambled about on hands and knees, fighting tears of humiliation. He was used to this; used to being nobody, kicked and laughed at, with no one to stand up for him.
Helens door flew open. She came out holding her phone, camera pointed straight at Spud.
Criminal damage, harassment, and littering, she said loudly and clearly. Its all recorded. Ill ring the warden now, and tomorrow, the council and the police will get the evidence.
Oi, put that away, you old bat! Spud barked, but didnt dare step forwardthe look in Helens eyes was ice-cold and dangerous.
Paul, get up, she commanded. Go inside.
B-but, the apples he stammered.
Leave them. Thats rubbish now. Like everything out here.
When the door closed behind Paul, Helen turned to Chloe, who was suddenly quiet.
Listen up, love. Think I put up with your nonsense for a week? Ive built a case.
A case?! Chloe laughed, but her voice trembled.
Ive contacted the landlord. Your mums not the owner, is she? No, its your father. He lives in London, believes his kid is a model uni studentnot someone turning the building into a squat, inviting drunks round.
Chloe went pale. Her father wasnt just stricthe was a tyrant who funded them so long as his daughter behaved impeccably.
You wouldnt dare she whispered.
I already have. Hes got the photos and video clips of your little partiesten minutes ago. As well as my complaint to the council, and the housing associationcomplete with dates, times, and pictures of the rubbish, noise, and smoking indoors. The warden will be here in half an hour. Your father says hell be here first thing tomorrow.
On Saturday, the stairwell echoed with a booming male voice.
Helen sipped tea when the bell rang. At the door stood a tall, heavy-set man in an expensive overcoatChloes father, Mr Richard Martin. Claire, eyes red from crying, stood beside him, ashamed. Chloe herself was nowhere in sight.
Mrs Thompson? Richard spoke politely, but his tone left no room for argument. I apologise for my daughter and my former wife. The cleaners are scrubbing the landing now. Ill pay for redecorating. Chloe is moving out to halls, and Ive stopped their allowance.
Helen nodded, accepting his apology without warmth.
Thats only fair. But one more thing.
She called Paul out. He emerged, head down, braced for more trouble.
Your friend insulted my nephew yesterday, Helen said quietly. He broke his work. Paul is a specialist. He restores watch mechanisms that even the Swiss refuse.
Richard regarded Paul with interest.
A watchmaker?
R-restorer, Paul answered, almost inaudible.
Is that so Richard stepped forward, and Paul flinched. But Richard only extended his hand. Ive got a collection of pocket Breguets. Ones stopped for a year; three shops couldnt fix it. Fancy a look?
Paul glanced up. For the first time, someone looked at him not as a nobody, but as a craftsman.
I I can try, if the springs still whole.
Deal. Richard shook Pauls thin hand. And sorry, mate, for the attitude. I dropped the ball on her upbringing. I owe youboth a job and some compensation.
After the door closed, Paul gazed down at his palm. Slowly, his shoulders straightened. For the first time in years, he stood tall.
Auntie Helen, he said in a halting but stronger voice, Maybe Ill go fetch those apples. No sense letting good food go to waste.
Helen turned to the window so he wouldnt see her eyes glisten.
Do, Paul. And put the kettle on. Todays a special day.
The landing was silent and spotless. A faint smell of bleach and fresh paint filled the air. From inside Helens flat came the aroma of baking pies and Pauls confident voice, explaining to his aunt the workings of the tourbillon.
The smoking den was closed. For good.
