Dial M For Monkey Part 6

They both explode in fits of laughter. We both know they did it and I will not let it end this way.

'Listen,' he manages to say through the guffaws. 'It's nothing to do with us. We sleep during the day. Not our problem if you can't sleep.'

'Oh f.u.c.k off,' I say, their laughing echoing through the street as I turn tail and run back to my house, locking the door behind me.

I'm averaging three hours sleep a day. I think they take it in s.h.i.+fts to keep me awake. Why can't they see what they're doing to me? She goes out sometimes but he doesn't. Ever. Sometimes people come to him and make more noise. I go walking now. To try to get some respite from it.

Tonight I'm on the hard shoulder of the motorway. I can feel the rush of wind each time a car blasts past. Its dark and their red taillights sparkle like stars as they zoom into the distance.

WHOOSH.

I'm walking down the white line that separates the fast lane from the middle lane.

WHOOSH.

It's windier here but as long as they stay in lane I'm safe.

WHOOSH.

Unless someone is overtaking in which case they'll hit me and WHOOSH.

I'll get some sleep but I WHOOSH.

Really want to beat them WHOOSHWHOOSH.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in No. 49 WHOOSHWHOOSH.

And then I realise what I have to do.

I tried to buy a gun yesterday. They wouldn't let me so I bought a deactivated pistol from an old bloke in a junk shop. It's heavy and looks the part. I don't think I want to kill them, just teach them a lesson.

I've just seen her go out so I know that this is my moment. There's a dull pounding of ba.s.s through the wall, music thumping from somewhere in their house. It's the perfect cover so I slip out of my back door and carefully make my way round to his.

It's louder here as I try the handle and to my surprise it turns; the door is unlocked. There's music seeping down from upstairs, just beginning to fade out as I gently squeeze the door shut behind me.

Suddenly, I'm having doubts. I shouldn't be doing this. Should I? I'm about to turn around and leave when I hear it, the insistent pitter-patter of the high-hat. He's playing it again.

I know it by heart, I can't walk out, I can feel myself falling over the edge.

Tip tipitip tipitipitipitip.

My hand tightens around the pistol.

Tip tipitip tipitipitipitip.

I know this is the right thing to do and my blood seethes through my veins as he starts to sing...

We're caught by a tramp...

Little does he know that this will be the final rendition of a song that has plagued me for weeks.

Thank-ya... thank-ya very much...

It's time. I take my first tentative step out of the utility room and into the kitchen. It's a mess in here, I can hardly believe that people could live like this.

It's nice to see...

The melamine on the units is peeling, the bin is overflowing with take-away cartons and empty lager cans. I choke back a gagging reflex as the smell hits me and bolt into the hallway.

So many of you out tonight.

His voice is becoming clearer as I make my way down the threadbare carpet in the hall.

I gotta thank you for coming to the show.

And why should I believe him? All I've ever had is lies, threats and broken promises. Well, no more. I cross the landing toward the source of the din and stand for a split second outside the door.

Uh-huh huh.

We just cannot go on like this now can we baby?

And I begin. I can't face another line and for once I agree with Mr No. 49. We can't go on together.

'You're absolutely right,' I say as I swing open the door and level the pistol at him. He stops singing but the music is so loud I can feel the ba.s.s pounding with my heart in my chest as it continues unperturbed.

He gazes for a moment, first at the gun, then gradually towards me and as he does so the frown that had splintered into life on his forehead begins to dissipate.

He begins to grin and starts advancing on me.

'So,' he says with a sneer. 'Decided to teach me a lesson then?'

I c.o.c.k the hammer on the pistol and, to my amazement, he stops. His expression remains the same but a hollowness has entered behind his eyes and I know he's not quite sure whether or not I'm serious.

'I've asked you so many times,' I begin, my voice trembling. 'Just to consider my feelings.'

He stares at me in disbelief and my hand begins to shake, my palms cold with sweat making the gun feel like it could fall at any point. I know I must act fast.

'But every time all you do is play this f.u.c.king song. Louder.'

This time I begin advancing, my legs shaking I drag them across the room, waving the gun in front of me.

'You see,' I was shouting now, tiny droplets of spit shooting from my mouth as I spat the words at him. 'It's very simple.'

I laugh and as I do the tears that have been running down my face trickle salty into my mouth.

'You must stop.'

I press the barrel of the pistol to his temple, a surge of adrenaline making me confident and euphoric.

'Any comments, apologies?'

He just gawks at me, a glazed look coming over his idiotic face. It's at that moment the music drops for the bridge and Mr No. 49 lunges towards me knocking the gun clean out of my hands, behind me onto the landing. I dive after it but he's just as quick off the mark and we crumple to the floor in a flailing scrum.

The gun is knocked through the banister and begins bouncing down the stairs. Mr No. 49 is off me like a shot, galloping down the stairs after it, but I'm not going to let him win. Not now, not after all he's put me through. I vault over the banister and tackle him just as he's about to grab the gun.

This time I'm quickest off the mark and spring onto the pistol, momentum carrying me back towards the kitchen. But Mr No. 49 is not to be beaten so easily and careers after me, knocking me and the gun into the pile of rubbish.

We both scrabble in the trash for the gun.

We both come out at the same time but to my dismay it's Mr No. 49 that has the gun, I've somehow grabbed a carrot.

I don't hesitate and swing the carrot straight for his head making contact with a satisfying slapping noise. The carrot has obviously been in the bin for so long that it's no longer the traditional texture and instead has the consistency of a rubber truncheon.

He comes back quickly so I sprint back upstairs towards the thumping ba.s.s of Suspicious Minds Suspicious Minds. He's in hot pursuit and as he bowls into the room he knocks us both off our feet.

I react quickly, rolling to straddle him and slapping him with the carrot. He thinks he has the upper hand as he c.o.c.ks the pistol and points it at my chest.

But I know what will happen and just keeping beating away with my orange, foot long weapon of ma.s.s destruction. He pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

I hit him again and he's bleeding, the carrot doing more damage than I thought possible.

He pulls the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Again. Again.

I don't quite know what to do next. I stop hitting him. He seems as deflated as me and I get up, backing away, my back is pressed against the window.

Then, as if electrocuted into action he lunges up at me, hurling his whole weight through the air. But he misjudges, and hits the window, shattering it before dropping out of sight. I spin around and look down just in time to catch the look on his face as he falls through his conservatory, demolis.h.i.+ng it into the darkness beneath.

The c.o.c.k Ain't Gonna Like That.

It was only when the removals van arrived we realised we had sold our house to a truckload of chickens. Note not a shedload. There were far more than that. There was no indication of where they had come from, there was no lower chain involved in the sale of our house and the driver of their van was not forthcoming with the info.

It wasn't so much the conversation that was odd, their diction was perfect, the enunciation without an equal, it was more that there were over two hundred of them and they all spoke simultaneously.

'Are you leaving the curtains?' they chorused.

I wasn't so I skirted around the subject which wasn't easy when looking straight down the beak of that many of them.

'And the kitchen appliances,' they squalked as one. 'The solicitor said that you would be leaving the white goods.'

Some of the chickens on the left hand side of the van had started to become restless, flapping their useless wings causing one or two of them to rise into the air slightly. They didn't miss a beat though, carefully keeping exactly in time with their sisters.

I nodded confirmation as my chest tightened, the feathers in the air drifting carelessly into my lungs clogging my scillia and causing a high pitched whining sound every time I inhaled.

'Can we come in?'

They weren't the sorts of chickens who needed an answer and hit me like a poultry tidal wave. I staggered backwards, desperately fighting the urge to slap them back, instead keeping my hands occupied by scratching every last inch of my feather-tormented body.

'Yes,' I wheezed and dragged myself inside after them.

Inside a caught a glimpse of the last few of them heading down the hall towards the dining room and the kitchen. Against the advise of my ever-tightening lungs I followed them.

'Bok-BWARK! This fridge,' they boomed. 'How many eggs does it hold?'

I knew deep down inside that I should tell them the truth but I was relying on the fact that none of the little blighters had opposable thumbs.

'I dunno,' I panted. 'I never really counted. A lot, I know that.'

Their little heads bobbed up and down in happy agreement.

Then there was a scratching at the door. It was the c.o.c.k.

About The Author.

Adam Maxwell was born in 1976 and has written for a plethora of publications including Dave Eggers' McSweeney's McSweeney's. According to his wife he has an 'unhealthy obsession' with Bob Dylan and the Beatles, and manages to be 'increasingly worrying' in a number of other areas. He has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing from Northumbria University, and lives in the wilds of Northumberland. This is his first book.

You can see much, much more of his work at www.adammaxwell.com www.adammaxwell.com including stories, tools for writers and an award-winning short story podcast. including stories, tools for writers and an award-winning short story podcast.

Dial M For Monkey was originally published by Tonto Books and is still available to buy in paperback. Should you wish to do so why not check out Tonto's website www.tontobooks.co.uk or head over to your friendly neighbourhood branch of Amazon.

The author would like to take the opportunity to thank John Hardy for the cover design and artwork as well as Robin Brown who came up with the idea in the first place.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

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No?