Signatures on the Landing Serge paused at the mailboxes because a new notice had appeared on the building noticeboard—the one usually reserved for lost cat posters and reminders about meter checks. It was pinned in a rush, the corners askew, and at the top in big letters: “Collecting Signatures: Action Needed.” Beneath, a surname from Flat 15 and a brief list of complaints: noise at night, banging, shouting, “breach of the quiet hours law,” “threat to safety.” At the bottom, signatures had already gathered—some neat, some sprawling. He read it twice, though he’d understood at once. His hand went to the pen in his pocket, but Serge stopped himself. Not out of opposition, just because he disliked being pushed. He’d lived here for twelve years and learned to steer clear of stairwell dramas, like you’d dodge a draft. He had his own worries: shifts at the garage, an ailing mother across town, a teenage son who alternated between brooding silences and sudden explosions. The landing was quiet, only the lift thumping. Serge took the stairs to his fourth floor, got out his keys, but looked up at the steps leading to the fifth. That’s where Valentina Peters lived. Fiftyish, wiry, always with a sharp gaze and cropped hair. She rarely said hello first, and when she replied, it was like you were bothering her. Serge mostly saw her with Sainsbury’s bags or a mop, scrubbing her landing. Sometimes at night, there really were noises from her flat: bangs, shouts, scraping as if something heavy was dragged. He checked the building WhatsApp only when he had to. Usually it was arguments about parking and the rubbish chute. Lately, everyone had only one thing on their mind. “Banging again at two AM! My kid woke up scared!” “My shift starts at six—I feel like a zombie. When will this end?” “It’s not just banging—she’s moving furniture around. I heard it.” “We should call the police. There’s a law, you know.” Serge scrolled, not replying. He wasn’t a saint. When the clatter started at three in the morning, he woke up annoyed too, feeling the anger welling up. At those times he wished someone else would just sort it, and he’d read “Problem solved” by morning. That evening, he wrote in the chat, short and to the point: “Who’s collecting signatures? Where’s the sheet?” Nina Vasilyeva, the tenants’ rep from Flat 3, replied: “On the ground floor noticeboard. Meeting at mine tomorrow 7pm. We need to sort this before it’s too late.” Serge put his phone away. He felt that familiar, school-meeting discomfort—when it’s all decided, and you’re called just to tick a box. Next day, he ran into Val Peters on the stairs. She was lugging heavy bags, breathing hard, refusing help. Serge took one anyway, not asking. “No need,” she snapped. “I’ll carry it,” he said, walking beside her. She grumbled in silence to her door, then snatched the bag handles. “Thanks,” she muttered, like it was an obligatory note in a logbook. Serge was turning to go when a strange sound came through her door—heavy, gasping, like someone struggling to breathe. Val froze, her key shaking in the lock. “You… all right?” Serge asked, not really knowing why. “Fine,” she said sharply, locking up. He took the stairs down, but the sound stuck in his head. Not banging, not music, just that weighty, human noise. A few days later, a new note was taped to Val’s door: “STOP NOISE AT NIGHT. WE SHOULDN’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.” The handwriting was bold, angry. Serge stared at the paper, the tape gleaming like a fresh wound. He remembered, as a child, finding messages on his own front door—when his father drank and shouted. Back then, he hated not his dad, but the neighbours who pretended it wasn’t happening until it was time to whisper. He went up to the fifth floor and listened. Silence. He didn’t buzz. He carefully peeled off the note, folded it, slipped it into his pocket, and later threw it in the bin outside, not in the tenants’ bin—so no one would see. Meanwhile, the chat grew harsher. “She does it on purpose. Doesn’t care about anyone here.” “People like that should be made to move—go live in a bungalow somewhere.” “Community officer says we need one big complaint.” Serge saw how quickly “noise” and “breach” became “people like that.” No longer about a night, but a person as a problem. Saturday, Serge came home late. The lift smelt of air freshener and stale smoke. On the fourth floor, he heard a dull thump above, then another—less like DIY, more like someone had fallen. Then a woman’s voice: strained, but clear. “Hold on… just a sec…” Serge went up to the fifth. Under Val’s door, the light shone bright. He knocked. “Who is it?” Her voice was tense. “Serge, fourth floor. Is everything…” She opened on the chain. Dressing gown, a red mark on her cheek as if she’d just wiped her face. “It’s fine. Go,” she said. Behind her came a rasping groan. “You need help?” Serge couldn’t help himself. She looked at him as if he’d offered her pity. “No. I’ve got it under control.” “That’s someone in there…” “My brother. He’s bedridden.” She said it quickly, slicing off further questions. “Go, please.” Door shut. Serge lingered on the landing, two impulses battling inside him: leave—she’d asked; stay—he knew too much to pretend ignorance. He went home but couldn’t sleep. “Bedridden,” she’d said. He pictured a man falling, someone lifting him, calling ambulances at night, shifting beds, changing water bowls—while those below listened and fumed. Serge went to the meeting at Nina’s, not out of nosiness, but guilt. By seven, a small crowd was by her door—slippers and coats, uncomfortably hushed. Nina lined everyone round her tiny kitchen. On the table—the signatures, printouts about “quiet hours” and the community officer’s numbers. “Here’s the situation,” she began. “We can’t go on. We have children, we have work. I check my blood pressure every morning because I can’t sleep at night. It’s not personal, but there are rules.” Serge saw how deftly she’d said “not personal,” and how some faces looked relieved. “I woke up at two,” said a tired young mother. “I’d just got the baby down, and then it sounded like a wardrobe fell. I had to rock him straight till daylight.” “My dad’s recovering from surgery,” said a bloke in a tracksuit. “He can’t get worked up. When he hears that, he thinks there’s a fire.” “Call the police every time,” someone said. “Make them log it.” Serge listened. He knew they weren’t making it up—they really were exhausted. In that was the strength of their argument. “Anyone talked to her?” Serge asked. “I did,” Nina replied. “She was rude. Said, ‘If you don’t like it, move.’ And slammed the door.” “She’s always like that,” the mother agreed. “Like we owe her something.” Serge wanted to mention the brother, but stopped. It wasn’t his to share. Still, silence was a choice too. “Maybe she’s got… something going on…” Serge tried. “Everyone’s got something,” Nina cut in. “But we’re not making noise at night.” Then the doorbell rang. Nina answered. Into the kitchen came Val Peters—dark coat, hair slicked back, face tight but not afraid. She carried a folder and her phone. “I assume you’re talking about me?” she said. The kitchen shrank, lift-like. “We’re talking about the situation,” Nina corrected. “You’re disturbing people.” “I’m a problem,” Val echoed, nodding at a private truth. “All right. Listen then.” She opened the folder—medical forms, printouts. Laid them out with her phone. “That’s my brother. Wheelchair-bound. Post-stroke. Can’t walk, can’t sit up. At night, he seizes up. He falls out of bed if I’m too slow. I turn him every two hours so he doesn’t get bedsores. That banging? Not furniture—I’m lifting a grown man heavier than me.” Her calm voice trembled with fatigue. Serge saw bruises on her arms, real marks from heavy lifting. “Ambulance, three times this month. Here.” She showed the phone—calls logged. “I shouldn’t have to justify, but you’re signing papers like I’m running a nightclub.” Someone coughed. The mother from six looked away. “We didn’t know,” she said, quietly. “You didn’t ask,” Val snapped. “You stuck things on my door, gossiped in the group chat—you wanted measures. What—move him to the stairs so you get some peace?” “No one said that,” Nina bristled. “But there are laws about noise after eleven.” “Ah, laws.” Val smirked. “Fine. Want the law? Every time he has an episode, I’ll call the ambulance and police together—will you sign, confirm you heard it? Be witnesses, yes?” “So what, we just have to put up with it?” the tracksuit guy croaked, near tears. “My father’s ill as well. I can’t take this every night.” “Do you think I can?” Val stared him down. “You think I want this?” A long silence. Serge wanted to say something easy to break the tension, but nothing was easy anymore. Nina sighed, gentler now. “Val, you must see how hard it is for people. If you’d just warned us…” “Warned you what? My brother might die tonight?” She shut her folder. “I don’t know how to ask for help. It’s not really an option.” Serge realised it was true. They’d lived beside each other, but weren’t “neighbours”—more like locked doors on a corridor. “Let’s not shout,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “Either we fall apart now, or try to make things bearable for everyone.” People looked at him. Serge never wanted the spotlight, but it was too late to hide. “I didn’t sign—and I won’t,” he said. “Doesn’t solve anything, just makes enemies. But pretending there’s no noise isn’t fair either. People genuinely aren’t well.” Nina pressed her lips tight. “So what do you suggest?” Serge thought of the sound on the landing that night. “For a start—let’s communicate. Val, if there’s going to be noise, just a quick heads-up in the group—‘Ambulance’ or ‘Episode’. Not an excuse, just so people know it’s not a party.” “I don’t have to,” she retorted, then paused. “All right. If I can.” “Next,” Serge addressed the group, “if it sounds bad, let’s knock or call before canvassing for the police. Not to complain, just check if she needs help. If she won’t answer, take it from there.” “What if she’s rude again?” the mother asked. “Then at least you know you tried to do the right thing,” said Serge. “That matters—for you, not her.” Nina huffed but didn’t argue. “And… maybe some practical stuff—rugs, rubber foot pads, move the bed away from the wall. I can help with that.” Val was silent. Then softer: “Bed won’t move. It’s got a DIY hoist attached to the frame. But rug, yes. And… if someone could sit with him sometimes so I can pop to Boots, that would… “ She trailed off. Someone shifted. “I can Wednesday,” the young mum offered, blushing. “My mum’s local—she can watch the baby. I’ll pop up an hour.” “Me too,” the tracksuit guy mumbled. “Not at night, but I can help lift during the day.” Serge felt the tension soften, though not vanish. Just a change of shape. Nina picked up the signatures. “What do we do with these?” Serge looked at the names—his friendly neighbour from the lift among them. “I think we take it down. If anyone really needs to report something, do it direct, with dates. Not broad strokes.” “So you’re against order?” Nina’s tone was sharp. “I’m for order. But order shouldn’t be a club.” Val looked up. “Take it down. I don’t want to come downstairs and see myself signed away.” Nina slowly folded the sheet up. Serge wasn’t sure if it was respect, or just sensing the mood had shifted. Afterwards, people left quietly. Someone tried to joke on the landing, but it fell flat. Serge went out onto the landing with Val. They took the stairs down together. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said. “Maybe,” Serge replied. “But I didn’t want police and rows.” “It’ll get there anyway,” she said, weary. “When he gets worse.” Serge wanted to ask her brother’s name but held back. Instead, “If things are bad and you need a hand at night… knock mine. I’m not far.” She nodded, not looking at him. The next day, the notice was gone. But the chat pinged with a new message—Nina: “Agreed: Val to send heads-up for emergencies. Please, no rows at night. If you can help with daytime cover, message me.” Serge was surprised at the word “rota.” Too official for their lot. But an hour later, people posted: Monday, Friday—some went silent. The first night after, the banging started anyway. Serge woke with a jolt. 2:17am. In the chat, Val quickly wrote: “Episode. Ambulance coming.” No emojis, no apology. Serge lay there, listening to doors creak upstairs and hurried footsteps. He pictured Val supporting her brother, stopping him from choking. Irritation lingered, but something else crept in: heavy, quiet. In the lift next morning, Serge met Nina—creased with worry. “Well, they were at it again last night.” “Ambulance,” Serge said. “I know. Still… Serge, I really can’t sleep. My heart is…” He nodded. He couldn’t fix her heart. “Maybe try earplugs?” he suggested, knowing how feeble it sounded. “Earplugs…” she smiled wryly. “Look what it’s come to.” A week later, Serge visited Val in the day like he’d promised. He had a bag with rubber feet for stools and a thick rug from Wilko. She answered immediately, as though expecting him. It smelled of medicine in her flat. The bed by the wall, her brother thin and blank-eyed, a homemade hoist bolted on. Serge understood: the bed could not move. “Here,” he said, holding up the rug. “Should muffle things. The pads too.” “Stool bangs when I move his basin,” Val explained. “I do try, but my hands…” She broke off, staring at palms raw from scrubbing. Serge laid out the rug, carefully. His back tensed under the strain. Val hovered, watching her brother’s sling. “Thank you,” she said. This time, it sounded different. Serge nodded, was leaving, when her phone rang in the hall. The call was tense. “No, not now… yes. No, honestly.” She switched off and looked at him. “Social services. Carer, two hours a week if you’re lucky. But I need help every day.” He had no answer. Serge knew: their rota was a patch, not a solution. That evening, someone wrote in the chat: “Why should we help? It’s her family—she should get proper support.” Replies came flooding—some cross, some kind, some just a string of dots. Serge didn’t join in. The tiredness was back. Not with Val, but with how every step toward being human became a row about fairness. A few days later, a new sheet appeared on the entrance board—not “actions,” but a neat timetable: days, times, names, Val’s number, and a note: “For night emergencies, I’ll text the group. If you can help with lifting or meeting paramedics, please contact me.” The paper was straight this time. Serge realised the sheet unsettled him just as much as the old signature list. Only now it was different—a sign the building had admitted: misery could be rota’d too. One night, the banging was loud enough for Serge to go up. He heard Val cursing quietly—not at people, but at a body that wouldn’t cooperate. He knocked. She opened up at once, no chain. “Help me,” she said flatly. Inside, he helped her lift the brother back to bed. His own hands trembled. Val neither thanked him nor cried, just sorted a pillow and checked her brother’s breathing. Back in the corridor, Serge saw a neighbour poke his head out below—silent, cautious. Then the door closed again. The whole landing seemed to hold its breath. In the morning, Serge ran into Victor—the neighbour who’d signed. Victor looked away. “Look, I… signed because honestly, it was too much. But I didn’t know. Otherwise…” “It’s okay,” Serge replied. “Doesn’t matter now. What matters is what next.” Victor nodded, something hard left in his expression—a man who hates admitting a mistake, even to himself. The compromise worked. Not perfectly, but it worked. At night, brief messages appeared—“Ambulance,” “Fall.” Fewer angry posts in the small hours, more in the morning after people cooled off. Some really helped Val, some dropped out. Nina maintained the rota, though some days went blank. Serge noticed people spoke less freely in the block—greetings were careful, as if anything might set things off again. Banter about bulbs in the hallway now carried an edge—“Let’s not start…” One night, Serge came home to find Val by the lift with a bag of meds and a battered thermos, her face grey. “How is he?” Serge asked. “Alive. Quiet night.” They took the lift. On four, Serge paused by his door. “If you need…” he said, “just knock.” She nodded and, suddenly, “At the meeting… I wasn’t trying to…” She trailed off, waving her hand. “I know,” Serge said. The lift doors shut. Serge stood there, alone on the landing. He opened his flat, hung up his coat, set his shoes on the mat. The flat was peaceful. His son sat in headphones, his mum rang asking when he’d visit. Serge gazed at his phone, then the door to the stairs. He thought about the sheets—one for complaints, one for helpers. The space between them smaller than the space between neighbours divided by a party wall. That evening, someone posted: “Thanks to everyone who helped today. Please, no personal stuff in the group. Questions in private.” The message was soon buried under bin and lift updates. Serge put his phone down and set the kettle on. He knew he might wake again in the night to a thud. And that now, when he did, his thoughts wouldn’t be only of his own sleep. That didn’t make him a better person. It just made him a part of things.

Signatures on the Landing

Simon pauses by the letterboxes in the communal entrance, drawn by a fresh notice pinned, haphazard and hurried, onto the board where lost cat flyers and reminders about gas meter readings usually crowd for space. Bold letters at the top: Petition: Action Needed. Beneath, a familiar surname from the flat on the fifth floor and a brisk list of complaints: loud noise at night, banging, shouting, breach of noise regulations, safety risk. Below, signatures have already begun to snake across the papersome tidy, some impatiently scrawled.

He reads the notice twice, although its meaning is clear straight away. His fingers instinctively reach for the biro in his coat pocket, but Simon hesitatesnot out of objection, but because he dislikes feeling pressured. Twelve years in this block, and he’s learned to sidestep the corridor squabbles much like one avoids a draught. He has enough on his plate: shifts at the auto repair, his mother recovering from a stroke across town, a teenage son who cycles between sulking silence and volatile outbursts over nothing.

The landing is quiet; somewhere above, the lift thuds shut. Simon climbs the stairs to his fourth floor, fishes out his keys, but before unlocking, glances upwards to the next flight. Up there on the fifth, Mrs Mildred Thompson lives. Fifty-something, built solid and lean, always cropped hair and a guarded glare. She rarely greets first and, if forced, replies coolly as if youre an interruption. Simon sees her most often with Tesco bags or a bucket, scrubbing her bit of the landing. Sometimes, late at night, noises seep from her flat: a crash, a sharp shout, a dragging thud across the floor.

He pops in to the buildings WhatsApp group only when necessary, mostly for parking spats and bin complaints. Yet for weeks, the chats been obsessed with one topic.

Again, banging at 2am! My child woke up frightened!

Im up for work at six, Im wrecked. How long must this go on?

Not just banging, shes shifting furniture around. I can hear it.

Report her. Theres a law for a reason.

Simon scrolls through without replying. Hes no saint; 3am clatters wake him too, and he lies there, irritation swelling in his chest, wishing someone else would sort it and hed read All Sorted in the morning.

That evening, he finally posts a short message: Whos collecting signatures? Wheres the sheet?

The reply comes from Mrs Nina Rayner in flat threeblock rep, always diligent. On the ground floor noticeboard. Meeting at mine seven oclock tomorrow night. Well sort it before it gets worse.

He puts down his phone, that uneasy feeling from school meetings welling upthe sense its all decided and youre just there to rubber-stamp.

Next day, Simon bumps into Mrs Thompson on the stairs. Shes weighed down with shopping and breathing heavily, but stubbornly doesnt ask for help. Simon takes one of her bags without saying a word.

No need, she snaps.

Ill just give you a hand, he replies, walking beside her.

She stays silent until her door, then yanks the handles from his grip. Thank you, she mutters, not so much grateful as ticking a box.

Simons about to leave when he hears, inside her flat, a strange soundlaboured breathing, a moan. She freezes, a trembling key in the lock.

Is everything alright? he hears his own voice, unsure why he asks.

All fine, she clips out, pushing the door swiftly behind her.

Back at his flat, the memory lingers: not clatter, not music, but raw, human effort.

A couple of days later, Simon notices a note stuck with tape to Mrs Thompsons door while taking out the bins. ENOUGH NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DONT HAVE TO PUT UP WITH IT. Bold strokes, angry marker lines.

He stands and stares. The tape shines like a fresh wound. His mind flashes to his childhoodtheir door used to get scrawled on too, when his dad was on a bender. Back then, Simon hatednot his father most, but the neighbours who pretended not to notice until the gossips began.

He walks up to the fifth, listens; silence behind the door. He doesnt knock. Quietly, he peels off the note, folds it, and pockets it before dropping it directly into the council bins outsideout of sight.

Meanwhile, the group chat discussion sours.

She does it on purpose. Doesnt care about us.

People like that should be forced to move. Stick her in a bungalow.

Police say get a group complaint letter signed.

Simon notices how quickly noise and breach morph into people like that. Its no longer about a single nightit becomes about a person being branded as the problem.

That Saturday, returning late from work, Simon rides the lift (someones smoked, air freshener battling to cover it), heads for the fourth floor, but up above, a dull thump grabs his attention, then anothernot a DIY job, more like something heavy falling. A womans voice, muffled, strained: Hold on just

Simon climbs to five. Mrs Thompsons door is brightly lit beneath. He knocks.

Who is it? comes a tense voice.

Simon, downstairsdyou everything alright?

A crack appears; the chain still on. Mrs Thompson, dressing gown on, a red patch on her cheek as if from a damp cloth.

All fine. Please go, she says.

A grunta moanechoes from within.

Do you need any help? Simon asks, unable to help himself.

She glares, as though hes offering charity.

No. Ive got it under control.

Is there someone in there?

Thats my brother. Hes bedridden. She spits out the words, slicing off the subject. Now, please.

Door closes.

Simon remains a while, torn between leaving, as asked, and knowing now he cant pretend not to have heard.

He returns to his flat but struggles to sleep. Bedridden. He pictures a body falling, someone struggling to lift, late-night calls for an ambulance, fetching bowls, water, shifting a bed. And neighbours, listening, seething below.

He turns up to Mrs Rayners meeting, not from curiosity but, knowing hed be ashamed if he didnt. At seven, folks have gathered outside her doorsome in slippers, others half-in, half-out, as if stopping by for a minute. Low voices, tension ripe in the air.

They squeeze round the kitchen table. The petition sheet beside a print-out about council noise rules and the local constables number.

Thing is, Nina Rayner begins, we simply cant go on. Kids, jobsmy own blood pressures all over from sleepless nights. Its not about the person, just the rules.

Simon spots how deftly she says not about the person. The relief is palpable.

A younger woman from six, face exhausted: I woke at two, baby finally down, then a crash like a wardrobe toppling. He wouldnt settle till dawn.

My dads had surgery, says a tracksuit-clad man, hits the ceiling and thinks theres a fire every time it happens.

Call the police every instance, someone else puts in. Get it logged.

Simon listens. These arent made-up complaintsthey really are worn thin, and with that comes a certain validity.

Has anyone tried speaking with her? Simon asks.

I did, Nina answers, Shes rude. Told me, If you dont like itmove, then slammed the door.

Shes always like that, says the young mum, As if we owe her something.

Simon wants to mention the brother but holds back. Is it his business to expose someone elses private life? Still, staying silent is a choice too.

Maybe theres something going on” he tries.

Everyones got something, Nina interrupts, but we dont make a racket.

At that moment, a knock comes from the hall. Nina goes, and Mrs Thompson walks into the kitchendark coat, hair slicked back, holding a folder and her phone. Her face is tense, but not frightened.

I see Im the topic, she says.

The room shrinks, as if the lift doors have closed on them.

Were talking about the disruption, Nina says gently. Its upsetting people.

Im the problem, Mrs Thompson echoes, nodding, almost to herself. Alright. Listen, then.

She lays down her folder, opens it, fishes out papers, a medical certificate, lettersand her phone.

My brotherhes a registered invalid, after a stroke. Completely immobile. He cant walk, cant even sit up. At night he has attacks; he cant breathe, sometimes falls from the bed before I reach him. I have to turn him every two hours to stop his skin breaking down. The noise isnt moving furniture; its me lifting a man heavier than I am.

Her voice is level, but steel-tired. Simon notices bruises showing on her forearms.

Ive called ambulances three times this month. Look she holds up a list of 999 calls on her phone, references a discharge letter. Im not obliged to show you this, but you start about taking action as if Im throwing parties.

A cough. The young mum from six lowers her eyes.

We didnt know, she whispers.

You didnt ask, Mrs Thompson retorts. You post things on my door, slag me off in the chat, but you want action? Am I meant to drag him onto the landing so you can get some sleep?

No one said that! Nina flares. But the laws the law. No loud noise after eleven.

The law. Mrs Thompson almost laughs. Alright, the law, then. Ill call the police and ambulance every nightdocument that Im lifting a human being. Will you sign each time as witnesses? Happy to.

So what, we just put up with it? the tracksuit man objects, voice edged rawSimon senses hes barely holding things together. My dads ill, Ive told you. I cant keep hearing people falling every night.

And I can, is that it? Mrs Thompson fires back, eyes steady. You think I enjoy it? Think I want to be awake all night?

A tense, wordless minute. Simon itches to say something simpleto break the standoffbut theres no simple answer.

Nina sighs, quieter: Mrs Thompson, people are really struggling. If youd just said

Said what? That my brother might die in the night? She snaps her folder closed. I dont know how to ask for help. Not that theres anyone to ask.

Simon sees the truth: all these years as neighbours, yet not really neighbours. Theyve just been doors.

Lets calm down, he manages, his own voice hoarse. Were either going to tear this apart or try to make it workfor everyone, somehow.

They look at him. Simons always avoided the spotlight, but theres no shrinking away now.

I havent signed, he says, and I wont. This just makes an enemy, not a solution. But pretending theres no noise doesnt help either; people do have health concerns.

Nina presses her lips together. What would you suggest? she asks.

Simon thinks of the moans he heard one night above, not quite knowing what to say.

Firstly, he says, Could we agree on communication? Mrs Thompson, if its going to be an especially rough night, could you just pop a quick messageambulance or attackinto the WhatsApp, so everyone knows its not random banging?

I dont have to, she shoots back, but then, seeing Simons intent, relents. Fine. If I can.

Secondly, Simon turns to the group, if you hear really loud noises, instead of jumping to call the police, maybe try knocking or ringing first? Not accusatoryjust, does she need help? If not, then escalate.

What if shes rude again? the young mum asks.

Then at least youll know you acted decently, Simon says. That matters. For you, if not for her.

Nina snorts, but lets it pass.

And Simon looks at Mrs Thompson, Maybe some rubber pads on furniture, a rug under the bed, or even moving it away from the wall might help. I can help with that if you like.

Mrs Thompson is silent; after a moment, she says, Bed cant be movedits got a homemade frame for hoisting. Rugs yes, could try. And For a moment she struggles with the words. If anyone could sit with him an hour sometimes, so I can get out for prescriptionsthatd help.

She trails off. Someone shuffles.

I can Wednesday, the young mum offers, blushing as though apologising for her generosity. Mum can watch my baby. Ill pop in.

So can I, mutters the man in the tracksuit. Not nights, but I could help lift him in the day.

Simon feels the tension easejust a little.

Nina picks up the petition sheet. What to do with this, then?

Simon runs his eye over the signaturesnames he recognises, including Victor across the hall, whos always so cheerful in the lift.

I say take it down. If anyone wants to make an official report, do it themselves, with dates. None of this action to be taken floating about.

So youre against order? Nina says sharply.

Im for order, Simon answers, but order shouldnt be a stick to beat people with.

Mrs Thompson glances at him. Take it down, she says. I dont want to keep passing it, seeing whos signed against me.

Nina folds up the sheet, tucks it away. Whether its respect or a sense that support has shifted, Simon cant quite tell.

Afterwards, everyone leaves quietly, tension still thick. Someone tries a joke on the stairs, but it falls flat. On the landing, Mrs Thompson stands next to Simon; they descend together.

You shouldnt have got involved, she remarks.

Maybe so, Simon says. But I didnt want this blowing up with police and rows.

It still will, she sighs. Sooner or later, when he gets worse.

Simon nearly asks her brothers name, but doesnt. He says, If you ever need a hand lifting him at night, just knock. Im close by.

She nods, eyes averted.

By next day, the petition sheet is gone. Instead, in the group chat, Nina Rayner posts: Agreed: for emergencies, Mrs Thompson will notify us. Please no arguments in the night. Daytime help rotamessage me if you can spare an hour.

Simon smirks at rotafar too formal, but within an hour people volunteer: Monday, Friday, so on. Not everyone chimes in.

That first night, theres noise all the same. Simon wakes, heart thumping. 2:17am. Within minutes, Mrs Thompson messages: Attack. Ambulance on its way. No emojis, no plea.

He listens to doors slamming upstairs, footsteps on the stairs as paramedics run. He imagines Mrs Thompson cradling her brother, fighting to keep him breathing. The old irritation mingles with a different heaviness.

In the lift next morning, Simon bumps into Nina. She looks haggard.

Another rough night, she sighs.

Ambulance came, Simon replies.

I saw. I didnt realise it was that bad. Still She hesitates. I really dont sleep, Simon. My heart

He nods. He cant fix her heart.

Maybe try some earplugs? he offers, realising as he says it how feeble it sounds.

Earplugs she smiles wryly. Look what its come to.

A week on, Simon knocks on Mrs Thompsons door in daylight, clutching a bag of rubber furniture pads and a thick new mat bought from the hardware shop. She opens immediately, as if expecting him.

Inside smells of antiseptic and something sourlike a hospital. In the room, her brother lies in bed, thin, face lifeless, eyes staring blankly upward. Beside the bed, a contraption of straps and metal poles bolted to the framehe understands now why the bed cant move.

This rug should help, he says, sliding it under the bed legs. And these for the stool, if thats what bangs.

It does when I fetch the bowl, she murmurs. I try not to, but my hands

She looks at her raw, cracked palms.

Simon quietly fits the pads, careful not to disturb anything. He feels his own back twinge. Mrs Thompson watches closely over his shoulder.

Thanks, she says, and this time, it lands differently.

Hes about to leave when the phone rings. She listens, face darkening. No, cant now yes. No, sorry.

She hangs up. Social services. They say a carers only possible for two hours a week, and theres a waiting list. I need help every day.

Simon has nothing to say to that; he knows the building rota is not a solution, just a sticking plaster.

That night, someone in the group complains: Whys it our problem? Its her familyshouldnt it be dealt with properly? Many replies follow. Some defend her, others rant, some just full stops.

Simon reads but doesnt join in. The exhaustion returning isnt about Mrs Thompsonits about how every attempt at kindness becomes a fairness debate.

A few days later, a new page appears in the entrance: not action, but an orderly rota: days, times, names. At the bottom, Mrs Thompsons number and a note: In an emergency at night, Ill message chat. If anyone can help during the day or meet an ambulance, please say. Its pinned neat and straight.

Seeing it unsettles Simon, as did the petition beforedifferent discomfort now. The block has admitted: behind any door could be a crisis, and now the crisis is timetabled.

One night, a bad crash above. He hears Mrs Thompson muttering, not in anger but sheer frustration at an uncooperative body. He knocks this time. She opens upno chain.

Help me, she says simply.

Simon steps in, slips off his shoes, sets them aside. In the bedroom, her brother is on the floor, struggling to breathe. Simon and Mrs Thompson lift together, working slowly, counting under their breath. His arms tremble with the effort. She doesnt cry or thank him, only checks her brother’s breathing and straightens the sheets.

Back on the landing, he hears someone on the stairs open their door, peek outsilently, cautiouslybefore closing it. No one else comes. Its as if the block holds its breath.

Next morning, he runs into Victor from next door, one of the original signatories. Victor looks away.

Mate, he says awkwardly, I did sign back thenhonestly, was so fed up. Didnt realise Wouldnt have if Id known

I get it, Simon cuts him off. But knowing or notwhat matters is what we do now.

Victor nods, though stubborn embarrassment lingers.

The compromise holds, if imperfectly. Some nights see a Call-out or Fall pinged in the chat. Fewer angry posts at 2am; more crop up in the morning with tempers cooled. Some go to help Mrs Thompson in the day, some never come back after one try. Nina keeps the rota, though there are occasional blank spaces.

Simon finds conversations in the block have grown careful. People greet each other, but warily, as though every word risks triggering a new row. The threats on the landing are gone, but so too is any easy camaraderie. Even when discussing a blown bulb, the tone is Lets not start again

One evening Simon finds Mrs Thompson by the lift, weighted with medicines and a thermos, face grey with weariness.

Hows he doing? Simon asks.

Still here, she replies. Quiet, today.

They travel up in silence. On the fourth, Simon lingers.

If ever just knock, he says.

She nods, then adds, surprising herself, At the meetingI wasnt trying to

She cant finish. He just says, I know.

Lift doors close; Simon stands on the landing, alone. He unlocks his own door, shrugs off his coat, lines up his shoes. The flat is quiethis son hunched over a game, his mother on the phone asking when hell visit.

He glances at his phone, then the stairwellthinking of those scraps of paper that change people: one list condemns, another opens a small door for help. And the chasm between them isnt as wide as the one between neighbours living back-to-back.

That evening, in the group someone posts: Thanks to everyone who helped today. Pleaselets keep private things off here; speak privately if there are issues. Its soon swamped by familiar grumbles about waste bins and the unreliable lift.

Simon turns off his phone, puts the kettle on. He knows the next loud crash might still wake him. And that now, when it does, his first thoughts wont only be for his own sleep. It doesnt make him a better man. It just makes him part of it.