Dial M For Monkey Part 5

I see them coming and going, see She sweeping in and storming out. And I hear them. The music, as I may have mentioned was f.u.c.king appalling.

But what was really appalling was the f.u.c.king.

He was so bad at it. She seemed to make the best of it but, to be honest, He was the worst I had ever heard. And it has to be pointed out at this point that I was single so I was in no real position to criticise. However, single or no everyone knows bad f.u.c.king when you hear it.

The shared garden that was my undoing.

He: out for the day, hadn't seen him for hours.

She: outside in a bikini looking like a curtain twitcher's wet dream.

Which was handy as that was exactly what this curtain twitcher was looking for.

Two hours of foreplay followed with She slowly marinating in the attention. I gazed from behind the veil of muslin struggling with the inner turmoil of whether or not it const.i.tuted an invasion of privacy if I only took photos of her on my phone.

By the time dusk came I was almost ready to do the same myself. She started to make moves towards going inside, putting her magazine to one side, stretching. When He arrived home and kissed She with a pa.s.sion I thought only I had for her I felt almost voyeuristic.

I was all set to turn to my imagination to finish what she had started in my boxers when it started. Slowly at first. The thumping rhythm of love. Right from the moment they got inside.

It was as if he'd been out all day taking lessons. The pace steadily rising thump-thump-thumping in a way that I was sure She was enjoying but had to admit I wasn't exactly finding it repulsive myself. As the thumping quickened upstairs so my own pace quickened downstairs until it was all too much and... well you can fill in the rest for yourself I'm sure.

The following day a parcel was delivered while they were out and He came to collect it.

'I couldn't help overhearing you yesterday evening,' I said with a smirk, hoping to elicit embarra.s.sment, to move myself up the playground hierarchy.

'Ah yes,' he replied without flinching. 'Sorry if I disturbed you I was putting together an Ikea cupboard.'

My relations.h.i.+p with She was over and I moved out soon after but have since had strange yearnings towards aisle 16 in B&Q.

The Dangers of eBay.

ENTER YOUR WISH HERE.

PLEASE BE CONCISE AND SPECIFIC.

They were simple enough instructions, most people seemed to be able to follow them.

SALE OF YOUR SOUL IS ETERNALLY BINDING.

WARNING: WISHES MAY NOT BE HONOURED.

That wasn't how it started of course, I had bought my first soul. On eBay. It satisfied me for a while, the novelty value of owning someone else's immortal soul made me laugh. I felt like a better person, it was as if I was walking around draped in a spiritual blanket.

Soon after my actions became somewhat erratic and, believing that I would be immune from eternal d.a.m.nation, got involved in something that not only tarnished the soul I had bought but also cast a pretty dark shadow over my own. I knew I needed more protection and so hit upon the idea of setting up my own website. It was a simple enough affair where people could come along, fill in their name, address, email address and check a box to say they wished to give me their immortal soul for perpetuity. So that they felt I offered a better deal than other sites of a similar nature I put in a clause by which they could retain their soul until their death, whereupon the soul would revert to me. What they got in return was whatever they wished for. In theory.

People came, of course. First tens, then hundreds, then thousands every day. Not all of them sold their soul but many did and I soon had more souls than I knew what to do with. I had become a soul broker.

I made sure I kept strict records, cataloguing and databasing every soul I bought and what their wish would be should I deign to grant it. Most were ridiculous; money, women, power. Occasionally they were worrying with deeply disturbing undertones. These were my favourites, I had a special section I would read often about what these crazies wanted. I felt close to them, fond of their unsettling tendencies, worried about them even.

There was one I had become particularly obsessed by, her name was Lynne and she had wished for her life to end. Quickly. I worried for her but mostly I worried that she may be tarnis.h.i.+ng the soul that was meant for me. After all, if I had nothing to live for I can think of a few pretty depraved things I would get into before I threw in the towel.

Soon after the paranoia had set in over this I began waking in the night, my sheets soaked with sweat, even in the daytime I heard voices warning me I had been duped. Perhaps her soul was already so tainted and stained that I was actually in a worse position by owning it, it was conceivable she had palmed it off onto an unsuspecting broker.

My worries finally peaked when, pa.s.sing a newsagent I noticed a bill proclaiming the attempted suicide of a woman. She had tried to jump off the suspension bridge and had broken most of the bones in her body. She was alive, but only just. In the newspaper she was identified as 'a woman from Finch Avenue'.

I didn't even need to check. I knew it was Lynne, I knew her address by heart.

Within the hour I was at the hospital, at her bedside. She was conscious, coherent but slightly groggy and didn't recognise me. I couldn't risk her behaviour any longer, I had to make sure that she didn't do anything else to what was very nearly my property. After all, you wouldn't buy a second hand car if you knew it didn't start so why should I buy a soul that wasn't properly looked after. It was time to grant her wish.

I stood for a second looking at her looking at me and then told her I was the one who owned her soul.

'No, please!' she shouted. 'I've changed my mind.'

'Shhhh Lynne, it's alright.' I said, smiling. 'I'm here to grant your wish.'

The Things We Said Today.

There were many things waltzing through Becky's mind as she wandered alone through the woods beside her house but the main one was Sheila's statement from ten minutes ago: 'So we were at it and then it hit me, this gorgeous b.u.t.tery o.r.g.a.s.m.'

Becky had stared at Sheila in much the same way as she currently gazed at the way the trees gently undulated in front of her. It's not so much of a walk as it is a swim through a thick gelatinous ma.s.s, Becky grasping her way through each step, the pressure almost, but not quite, too much.

It wasn't that she was jealous. Becky had experienced some of the best s.e.x that she imagined anyone would be able to experience. Most of it with Mark but some of it with Vince. Good s.e.x with toe-blasting o.r.g.a.s.ms that she felt no need to share with Sheila. Sheila obviously did not share this and rarely took more than one gla.s.s of wine before she was waxing lyrical about Bob's predilection for this, her fondness for that or their shared pa.s.sion for the other.

Until now she had managed through the judicious consumption of copious amounts of red wine to blank out anything too bad but this the b.u.t.tery o.r.g.a.s.m this was revealed over brunch.

It was far too early to start drinking.

Wasn't it?

'And oral s.e.x how can you ever really be sure he's enjoying it?'

The words reverberated around her as if Sheila was following.

She stumbled forward on a fallen branch and stepped in a patch of mud, her white trainer sinking in so that she had to pull it out with an awful sucking feeling that reminded her too much of the conversation she had just walked away from.

'I'm never sure so I always keep my foot on his yoo-hoo. Just to make sure it's still you know... standing tall.'

Sheila still sat, she a.s.sumed, in Becky's house, at Becky's table with that odd confused look she sometimes got. Becky could picture it; Sheila would be staring at the door, nibbling lightly on a shortbread biscuit, waiting for Becky's return to complete the story.

Becky turned around, facing the path home. She knew she had no choice and that she would have to tell her mother once and for all that she could not cope with stories of her parents s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g.

Noise Abatement.

It was inevitable this would happen. It is, after all why I'm at the window isn't it? Of course it is.

I wonder if they will ask the postman? Well, I suppose they will eventually. It's interesting, like watching an Agatha Christie play unfold.

The gate creaks as it always does, I've asked the neighbours time and time again to oil it but they never listened, just agreed that it's loud and something should definitely be done. It never was.

The noise jolts the postman but not nearly as much as what he sees as he looks up: Mr No. 49 lying face down in his conservatory.

Not that that in itself is out of the ordinary. Quite the opposite. I've seen Mr No. 49 drunk and asleep in that very place on an all too regular basis. Probably banished there by Mrs No. 49. The one thing that is out of the ordinary is that the conservatory is broken.

Into a million pieces.

And with one particular feature. The largest piece of the conservatory is slicing Mr No. 49's head neatly in two. The postman looks up from his letters, is jolted to full consciousness and finally vomits violently into the conifers. I can't help but smile.

I haven't been sleeping. It's starting to affect my work. When I'm in the office I can't keep my eyes open, coffee keeps me awake but I can't concentrate. It's been a month now, in the house and I keep telling myself that they'll be quiet.

Tonight I'm sitting in the corner of the kitchen because it's the furthest point away from them. I've got a blanket over me, the radiator is at the far side of the room and it's less than efficient. I've been sat on this wooden chair for two hours and I've been treated to Karaoke renditions of 'Suspicious Minds', 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' and 'Hey Jude' amongst others.

Mr No. 49 doesn't have a good singing voice. Neither does Mrs No. 49 but they still belt it out. I sometimes feel that I'm caught in a trap, I can't walk out because they keep me up nightly. It seems they have boundless enthusiasm for making noise. After a week of no sleep I now hate Elvis almost as much as I hate my neighbours. My ears are on the verge of the audio equivalent of repet.i.tive strain injury from 'Suspicious Minds'. I think it's got to the stage where I know the lyrics better than they do. In an attempt to salvage my sanity I did go around and ask them if they would mind keeping the noise down. They replied that they did mind and would I mind f.u.c.king off if it was all the same to me.

I keep thinking they might be testing me, seeing how far they can push me before I crack. I feel close.

The tap is dripping in the sink and there's a faint creak upstairs as they stop. I know it'll just be to change the CD but I try to take the opportunity and close my eyes. Colours throb and sleep takes me almost instantly for a few minutes before I bolt out of my chair to the over familiar Uh huh huh Uh huh huh of Elvis once more. of Elvis once more.

I can't take it anymore so I wrap my blanket around me and run to the front door, bursting out of the house and down the path before doubling back and heading towards their door through their gate. I hammer on the front door until it snaps open and Mrs No. 49 stands in front of me with a dark look in her eyes.

'Please,' I say. 'Can you keep the noise down? It's half three in the morning.'

She leans outside of the house, inspecting the world.

'You're right.' She snaps. 'And if you ever come banging on my door at this time again I'll call the police.'

She slams the door in my face.

Later I'm sitting in my armchair dozing lightly in the temporary silence when, with a growl I'm thrown back into consciousness.

He's drilling. DIY?

I can't take it.

I call the police and shove some cotton wool in my ears.

It doesn't work.

At work my boss warns me that if I fall asleep once more I'll face serious disciplinary action or most likely the sack. As I close the door of my house behind me I contemplate leaving and finding a hotel but I know I can't afford it. And besides, as I drag myself up the stairs I notice that there's no noise from next door. Perhaps they're out. Perhaps calling the police worked.

I smile and get into bed fully clothed, pulling the covers tight up around my head and slipping effortlessly into a deep sleep.

I dream of riches, pillows and cotton wool, floating in a land far away, selective deafness and an ability to walk without moving my legs. I seem to float upwards for an infinite amount of time before a tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap starts to pull me back towards the duvet-earth. Like warm marshmallow I start to sink into it and starts to pull me back towards the duvet-earth. Like warm marshmallow I start to sink into it and tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap I start to panic, can't breathe and then just as quickly as the tapping started it stops. I start to panic, can't breathe and then just as quickly as the tapping started it stops.

I wake up feeling refreshed and go about my morning ritual with a sense of relief. It would have been nice to have neighbours I could have invited over for coffee or asked to feed the cat if I had one but it wasn't to be. I feel a sense of sadness it took the police to shut them up but as I pull on my coat and walk out of the kitchen I don't regret it.

Until I step into the utility room to go out the back door. In front of me is one of the strangest, most intimidating sights I've ever seen. The door is still there but someone has hammered hundreds of nine inch nails from the outside so it looks like a bed of nails. Whoever it was has been especially careful around the handle to ensure I've no hope of opening it. I panic slightly and stare blankly at the door before walking to the front door where exactly the same thing has happened.

At first I don't know what to do, so I go and sit on the stairs, the pattern on the carpet swirling sickening underneath me. It's him, I know it is. That is exactly why he was so quiet. To lull me into a false sense of security and then hit me with this. I walk to the back door again, this time trying to turn the handle with a pair of tongs from the kitchen drawer. It doesn't work so I run through to the lounge to phone the police. He'll pay for what he's done, I'll make sure of that. I lift the receiver, the plastic cold in my palm and place the phone next to my ear.

Nothing.

No dial tone. Nothing.

I tap the receiver hopefully but there's no contact with the outside world. I'm trapped in here.

It's all too much so I just go and get into bed.

When I eventually get out of bed and climb through an upstairs window to phone the police from a telephone box they said they have already had complaints. From No. 49.

I tell them the truth but they don't care.

It's morning again and I don't go out. There's no point because my boss was less than understanding about yesterday's little fracas and told me I could have as much leave as I wanted. Unpaid and don't come back. There's been a feeling rising inside of me and I can't resist it anymore so I go out of the new front door and knock on No. 49.

At first there's no reply but after a moment I see the curtain upstairs twitch. I knock again politely, I must resolve this, I can't be beaten.

The door opens and they both stand in their dressing gowns, waiting expectantly.

'About the other night,' I begin.

They both nod.

'I just wondered if we could sort this out. Like adults.'

They stare blankly at me.

'Listen, you beat me fair and square. You proved that you're better than me so can we please call a truce?'

'I don't know what you mean,' a smirk blinks into existence on his face.

'Yes you do,' I'm beginning to lose my temper. These people can't be reasoned with. 'Listen, I know you hammered those nails through my door.'

'What nails?' she asks, grinning openly.

'The nails... in the night,' I can feel the anger turning to tears but I choke them back. 'I... Can't you let me sleep?'

They just grin back at me.

'I lost my job because of it.'