Enough is enough
– That dreadful racket again! – shrieked Ethel Jenkins, pounding her fist on the radiator. – One in the morning and they’re having a blasted rock concert up there!
– Mum, calm down, – sighed her daughter Emily, barely glancing up from her phone. – Talk to them tomorrow.
– Talk? How many times can I talk? Put up with these… these… – She waved her hands, groping for the right word. – Druggies or something!
– Mum, don’t shout. You’ll wake Sophie.
– Good! Let her wake! Let her see what sort of neighbourhood we live in! – Ethel stormed to the window and flung it open. – Hey, up there! Keep it down!
A tousled young man’s head appeared from the second-floor window above.
– Cool it, Granny! People are trying to sleep!
– Granny? Cheeky little sod! – Ethel’s voice rose sharply. – I’m calling the constable!
– Do it! – the lad yelled back, slamming his window shut.
The music swelled even louder.
Ethel sank onto the sofa, clutching her chest. Her hands trembled; her breath caught. Emily finally looked up from her phone, concern flickering in her eyes.
– Mum, you alright? Need your pills?
– Valerian drops, – Ethel whispered.
Emily fetched the bottle and a glass of water. Her mother swallowed the drops and leaned back against the cushions.
– I can’t take it, Emily love. Truly can’t. Used to be such decent folk lived here. Quiet and orderly. And now…
She waved a dismissive hand towards the ceiling, ceiling shuddering with drumbeats.
– When did they move in? – asked Emily.
– Month ago. Young couple. Seemed normal enough at first. Polite. Said hello in the hall, smiled. Turned out to be…
Ethel trailed off as something crashed thunderously overhead, followed by shrieks of laughter.
– Druggies, mark my words, – she muttered. – Respectable folk are asleep at this hour.
Emily stretched and yawned.
– Mum, I’ve got to head home. It’s late.
– Don’t leave me alone with these… lunatics!
– Mum, honestly, what can I do? I’ve work tomorrow, Sophie school. You sort the neighbours out.
Emily gathered her things and left. Ethel remained alone in the flat, every thump from above a fresh pang in her heart.
She pulled a notebook from the side table, finding the local constable’s number. No answer. She tried the station desk.
– Duty desk, – came a weary voice.
– Hello? Ethel Jenkins from Church Street. Our neighbours have music blaring; won’t let us sleep.
– What time is it?
– Past one in the morning!
– Right. Complaint logged. Patrol will swing by when a unit’s available.
– When might that be?
– Couldn’t say. Call volume’s high.
Ethel hung up, fists clenched. When available? Morning? Tomorrow? Next week?
She went to the window. The street was deserted, silent, only lamplight glowing. While inside her home? Pure bedlam. Music pounding, feet stamping, voices shouting. And no one cared.
She remembered life before. Thirty years in this flat. Watched neighbours come and go, children born and grown. Everyone knew each other, respected each other. Perfect quiet after ten.
And now this. Young folk moving in, Lord knows from where, thinking rules don’t apply. Parents probably wealthy, buying flats, raising children with no manners.
A new song started upstairs. Ethel recognized the tune – something modern, wailing guitars, pounding bass. The walls vibrated.
She couldn’t bear it. Back to the window.
– Turn that music off! – she screamed with all her might. – People are sleeping!
No reply. The din continued.
Ethel threw on her dressing gown and marched onto the landing. Up the stairs she went and rang the bell. Silence. Finally, footsteps.
– Who’s there? – demanded a male voice.
– Your downstairs neighbour. Open up please.
The door opened a crack on the chain. One young man’s eye peered out.
– What d’you want?
– Young man, could you lower the volume? It’s gone one o’clock.
– What, bothering you, are we?
– Of course it’s bothering me! How can anyone sleep?
The lad snorted, tried to shut the door. Ethel jammed her foot in the gap.
– Wait! I’m speaking to you!
– Give over, Gran. We ain’t hurting no one.
– Not hurting? The whole terrace can hear it!
– Not our problem. We’ll do as we please in our own home.
The door slammed. Ethel stood stunned on the landing before slowly descending.
Inside her flat, the noise felt worse. The music thumped at full blast, punctuated by more voices – visitors had arrived upstairs.
Ethel crawled into bed, pulling a pillow over her head. Futile. The sound penetrated everything, echoed in her bones, her very core.
She rose, went to the kitchen. Poured some tea, sat by the window. Calm outside; a madhouse within.
How exhausted she was by it all. The rudeness, the indifference, having to beg for simple respect.
She used to be different. be active, decisive. Run the library, raise her daughter, help with her granddaughter. People respected her, listened.
Now? She was nothing. An old pensioner to be brushed off. Forced to endure abuse from young upstarts.
Ethel finished her tea. Resolve hardened. entered her voice.
Enough. She would tolerate this no longer.
She opened the cupboard, pulling out a hammer. Her late husband’s, used for hanging pictures. She weighed it in her hand. Heavy. Solid.
Ethel approached the radiator and swung the hammer with all her strength against the pipe. An earsplitting clang, like a bell. She struck again. And again.
The music upstairs cut out. Voices, frantic footsteps.
– What was that?!
– That barmy old bat downstairs, – came the familiar voice.
Ethel struck the pipe again. The sound reverberated through the building.
– I’ll show you barmy! – she shrieked. – I’ll wake the whole street!
She kept pounding. Rhythmically. Methodically. Blow after blow.
Panic erupted overhead. Running feet, scraping furniture, shouts.
– Turn it off! – Ethel roared between strikes. – Turn it off or I’ll bang all night!
The music died. Ethel lowered the hammer, listening. Silence. Sweet, blessed silence.
She sat on the sofa, felt her heart rate gradually slow. Her hands still shook with adrenaline, but a weight lifted.
A knock sounded at the door. Ethel peered through the spyhole
The shadow of that hammer resting in the hall closet framed every future noise complaint from Valerie, a quiet testament she would never again live completely at the mercy of thoughtless neighbours.
