Signatures on the Landing: When the Neighbour’s Noise Became a Crisis, and the Block Had to Choose B…

Signatures in the Stairwell

Simon paused at the row of letterboxes, noticing a new notice pinned haphazardly to the board that normally held adverts for lost cats and requests for meter readings. The page was attached crookedly, as though someone had been in a rush. At the top, in large type: Petition for Action. Something Must Be Done. Beneath was the name of someone from the flat on the fifth floor, followed by a short list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, breach of peace, danger to safety. Neat and scrawled signatures already trailed beneath.

He read it twice, though the meaning was clear at first glance. His fingers instinctively reached for his pen in his jacket, but Simon stopped. Not because he disagreed; he simply disliked being pushed into things. He had lived in the building for twelve years and had learned to keep out of the neighbours squabbles, much like avoiding a draft. Life already kept him plenty busy: his job at the garage, shifts, his mother in another part of town recovering from a stroke, and his teenage son, silent for days then suddenly argumentative over trifles.

The stairwell was quiet, only the lift clanged somewhere above. Simon climbed to his fourth-floor flat, fished out his keys, but before unlocking his door, glanced up the stairs. Valentina Parker lived on the fifth floor. Just over fifty, strong looking, wiry, always sporting a short haircut and a heavy look in her eyes. She seldom greeted first, and her replies always sounded as though you were bothering her. Simon mostly saw her with shopping bags from Lidl or carrying a bucket when she cleaned the landing near her door. Sometimes, at night, there were indeed strange noises from her flat: heavy thuds, quick shrieks, or a dragging sound across the floor.

He only dipped into the residents chat when necessary. Most of the time, neighbours argued over parking or rubbish chutes. But for the past few weeks, the chat had been gripped by a single issue.

Not againbanging at two in the morning! My child woke up terrified!

My shift starts at six, Im a zombie at work now. How long does this go on?

Its not banging, I heard her moving furniture up there.

Time to call the council. Theres a law, you know.

Simon always scrolled through without responding. He wasnt an angel. At three in the morning, when more noise erupted, he jolted awake too and lay there, feeling the frustration clutch at his chest. He always hoped someone else would sort it out, so in the morning, he could simply read a message: “Problem solved.”

That evening, he typed a brief message into the chat: Whos collecting signatures? Wheres the sheet?

The reply came from Mrs. Nina Bishop, the buildings resident rep, who lived in flat three. On the noticeboard by the ground floor. Meeting at mine tomorrow at seven. Needs sorting before things get worse.

Simon set down his phone. He felt that old, unpleasant feeling, the same from school meetings: when the real decisions had already been made and you were just invited to tick a box.

The next day, he crossed paths with Valentina Parker on the stairs. She was climbing slowly, weighed down by heavy bags, breathing hard but determined not to ask for help. Simon picked up one of her bags without asking.

No, leave it, she snapped.

Let me, he replied and walked beside her.

She remained silent until she reached her door, then snatched her bag handles from his grasp.

Thanks, she said briskly, not so much gratitude as ticking off a formality.

Simon turned to leave but heard a strange sound from within her flata heavy, shuddering breath, almost a moan. Valentina froze, her key trembling in the lock.

Everything alright? Simon asked, not even sure why.

Its fine, she answered sharply, shutting the door quickly.

He walked back down, but the sound lingered in his mind. Not music, not banging, but something deeply humanstruggling.

A few days later, a note appeared taped to Valentinas door. Simon saw it as he was taking out the bins. ENOUGH NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DONT HAVE TO PUT UP WITH IT, scrawled in thick, angry marker.

He stood staring. The tape gleamed, raw like a fresh wound. He remembered when he was a child, neighbours scribbling on their door after his fathers drunken outbursts. Back then, he hated the neighbours more than his father, the way they pretended nothing was wrong until the whispers began.

Simon climbed back up to the fifth floor and listened. Silence. He didnt ring. He carefully peeled down the note, folded it, and slipped it in his pocket. Downstairs, he tossed it into the outside bin rather than the stairwell one, so no one would see.

Meanwhile, the chat was growing more hostile.

Shes doing it deliberately. Doesnt care about anyone.

They should throw her outlet her live in a house by herself.

I spoke to the councilthey said we need a collective complaint.

Simon noticed how quickly complaints about noise and disturbance turned into complaints about people like that. It stopped being about one nights racket and turned the person into a problem.

On Saturday, he came home late after work. The lift smelled of air freshener and stale cigarettes. On the fourth floor, he stepped out and heard, above him, a muffled thud, then anothernot like repairs, but as if something had fallen. Then a womans voicestrained but clear: Hold on… just a second

Simon climbed to the fifth floor. Light shone under Valentinas door and through the peephole. He knocked.

Who is it? The voice was tense.

Simon, from downstairs. Is everything

The door cracked open, secured on the chain. Valentina stood in her dressing gown, a red mark on her cheek, like shed just wiped her face with a wet hand.

Nothing. Please, just go, she said curtly.

A rasping groan drifted from deeper inside.

Do youdo you need help? Simon blurted out.

She looked at him as though hed offered a handout.

No. Ive got it under control.

Theres… someone else in there…

My brother. Bedbound. She said it quickly, chopping off further questions. Please, go.

She closed the door.

Simon stood in the hall, torn between wanting to leave, since hed been asked, and wanting to stay, because he knew too much now to pretend ignorance.

He went back down, but couldnt sleep. The word bedbound circled in his head. He pictured someone falling, being lifted, ambulances in the night, commodes, water, dragging a bed. And neighbours below, listening and getting angrier.

Simon attended Mrs. Bishop’s meeting not out of curiosity, but because he felt hed be ashamed if he didnt. By seven, her flat was crowdedsome in slippers, some in jackets as though stopping by for a minute. Quiet voices. Tension.

Mrs. Bishop sat them down in her small kitchen. The petition and printouts about noise regulations and council hotlines were laid out.

We just cant keep going like this, she began. Weve got working people, children. My blood pressures all over the place. Its not about the person, its about rules.

Simon noted how smoothly she said not about the person and how it seemed to ease some.

I was awake again at two, said a tired-looking, youngish woman from the sixth floor, my babyd only just gone off. Then the noiselike a wardrobe falling. Had to rock her till morning.

And my dads recovering from surgery, chimed in a man in a tracksuit. He gets nervous at the sounds, thinks the place is on fire.

We should call the police each time. Document everything.

Simon listened, knowing they werent inventing things. They really were exhaustedthe strength of their case obvious.

Has anyone actually spoken to her? Simon asked.

I have, said Mrs. Bishop. She was rude, told me: If you dont like it, move. Then slammed the door.

Shes always got a chip on her shoulder, the woman from six added.

Simon wanted to mention the brother but felt unsure if he had the right. Still, silence was itself a choice.

Maybe somethings wrong he ventured.

Weve all got problems, Mrs. Bishop snapped back. But were not noisy.

At that moment, the bell rang. Mrs. Bishop opened the door. Valentina entered, dressed crisply, hair neat, carrying a folder and her phone. Her face was tense but not frightened.

I suppose youre talking about me, she said.

The kitchen felt as cramped as a London Underground carriage at rush hour.

Were discussing the situation, Mrs. Bishop said pointedly. Youre disturbing others.

Im the problem, am I? Valentina nodded, more to herself than them. Alright. Listen then.

She set her folder on the table, produced papers, a doctors letter, some discharge notes, and her mobile.

My brother. First stage disability. Stroke. He cant walk or sit. At night, he has attacks. He chokes, he falls from the bed if Im not quick enough. I turn him every two hours, or hell get bedsores. Thats not me rearranging furniture. Thats me lifting a grown manhes heavier than I am.

Her voice was steady, but weary steel ran through it. Simon noticed the dark bruises on her handsproof enough.

Ive called ambulances three times this month. Here She showed the phones log. Heres the doctors letter. I shouldnt have to show you my business, but now youre gathering signatures as if Im running a nightclub.

Someone coughed. The young mum looked down.

We didnt know, she said softly.

You didnt ask, Valentina retorted. You wrote on my door, tore into me in the chat. ‘Take measureswhat, drag my brother into the street so you can sleep better?

Nobody said that, Mrs. Bishop flared. There are laws. After eleven, no noise.

Fine, said Valentina bitterly. You want laws? Every time I move him, Ill ring both ambulance and police. You want to witness it every time? Sign statements that you heard it?

So, whatdo we have to put up with it? the tracksuit man snapped, voice breaking, at his wits end. My fathers ill, you know. I cant listen to someone crashing around all night.

And what about me? Valentina shot back. You think I like this?

An awkward pause settled. Simon felt the urge to say something to cut the tension, but there was nothing simple.

Mrs. Bishop sighed, subdued: Valentina, people are at their limit. If youd only warned us

Warned what? My brother might die in the night? Ive never been good at asking. And who would I ask anyway?

Simon realised: they lived close, but werent close. Just doors in a hallway.

Lets keep things calm, he finally said, his voice hoarse. Well tear ourselves apart if we dont try to work this out.

People looked at him. Simon disliked being the focus, but there was no hiding now.

I didnt sign, and I wont, he said. Because this petition doesnt solve anythingjust creates an enemy. But we cant pretend theres no noise, either. People are genuinely ill.

Mrs. Bishop pressed her lips tight. What do you suggest?

Simon recalled standing in the corridor at night, listening to the moans.

First, he said, lets agree on communication. Valentina, if theres a bad night coming, maybe send a quick chatAmbulance or Attack. No need to explain, just so people know its not a DIY job.

I dont have to, she retorted, then paused, considering. Alrightif Im able.

Secondly, Simon told the group, if you hear a heavy bump upstairs, instead of straight to the council, try phoning or knocking first. Ask if helps needed. If theres no answerthen take it further.

And if she snaps at us again? the mum from six asked.

Then youll know you tried to act decently, Simon said. For your own conscience.

Mrs. Bishop sniffed but didnt argue.

And, Simon turned to Valentina, maybe try mats or rubber pads for furniture. See if moving the bed helps. I can lend a hand if you want.

Valentina hesitated, then said more quietly, The bed cant movegot a homemade hoist fixed to the frame. Mats, yes, maybe. And if anyone could sit with him now and again, so I can nip to the chemist, that would help

Her words faded. Someone squirmed.

I can do Wednesday, the mum with the baby offered suddenly, cheeks red. My mums nearbyshell mind the little one. Ill pop up for an hour.

Same. Not at night, but during the day, muttered the tracksuit man.

Simon felt the tension ease slightlythough not vanish. It just changed shape.

Mrs. Bishop eyed the petition. What about this?

Simon thought of all those familiar signatures, including Victor from next door, always so cheerful in the lift.

We should take it down from the noticeboard, Simon said. If someone really wants to report it, let them file a personal complaint, with proper dates. No more anonymous take action calls.

So youre against order? Mrs. Bishop snapped.

Im for order, Simon replied. But not when its used as a cudgel.

Valentina raised her gaze. Remove it, please. I dont want to see myself listed every time I go out.

Mrs. Bishop quietly folded up the petition and put it away. Simon couldnt tell if she did it in respect or because she sensed the mood had shifted.

Afterwards, residents left in silence. On the stairs, someone tried a joke, but it fell flat. Simon walked out onto the landing just as Valentina appeared. They descended together.

You shouldnt have got involved, she said.

Maybe, Simon replied. But I didnt want to see it turn into court cases and scandal.

Will anyway, once he gets worse, she replied, tired.

Simon wanted to ask her brothers name but held back. Instead, he said, If things turn bad at night, and you need helpknock. Im nearby.

She nodded, not meeting his eye.

Next day, the petition had vanished from the board. Instead, the chat had a new message from Mrs. Bishop: Agreed: Valentina will give warning in emergencies. Please no arguing at night. If you can help during the day, message me.

Simon smiled at the word rota. It sounded far too proper for their block, but within an hour people repliedsome for Monday, some for Friday. Some said nothing.

That very night, there was noise again. Simon woke at 2:17 am to the shock of a bang. Moments later, Valentinas message pinged in the chat: Attack. Ambulance on way. No emojis, no requests.

He lay listening to doors slamming upstairs, feet on the stairs. He pictured Valentina holding her brother, stopping him from choking. The irritation didnt vanish, but something else joined ita heavy, resigned sympathy.

In the lift that morning, Simon met Mrs. Bishop, looking exhausted.

So, she said, another noisy night.

Ambulance, Simon replied.

I saw. I had no idea with her. But still… Simon, Im not sleeping, my heart

He nodded. He couldnt magic away her health problems.

Earplugs? he suggested, knowing how feeble it sounded.

Earplugs she gave a worn-out grin. What has life come to?

A week later, Simon called at Valentinas during the day, as promised. He carried rubber furniture pads and a thick doormat bought off the high street. She opened the door at once, as if expecting him.

The flat smelled of medicines and a faint sourness, like a care home. In the bedroom, a thin man lay on a bed set against the wall, eyes open but distant. A bodged-together hoist was attached to the bed frameno doubt explaining why the bed could not be moved.

Simon showed her the mat. Slide this underneath, should muffle the noise. Pads for the stool as well, if that makes a racket.

I bang the stool when I set the basin down, she explained, glancing at her cracked hands.

He fixed the mat beneath the bed, careful not to disturb the homemade lifting gear. He moved slowly; his back ached with the effort. Valentina supervised, ensuring nothing slipped.

Thank you, she said when finished. This time, it sounded genuinely grateful.

He nodded, about to leave, when her phone rang. Valentina answered, her face darkening.

No, not right now, she told the caller coldly. Ive got… yes. No.

She hung up and looked at Simon.

Social services. Two hours a week max for a carer, and thats only if youre on a waiting list. I need someone every day.

Simon had no answer. Their stairwell rota wasnt a solution, just a patch.

That evening, someone in the chat complained: Why is this our responsibility? Its her family. Let her go through the system. There were many repliessome angry, some understanding, some just full stops.

Simon read and didnt respond. He felt an age-old wearinessnot at Valentina, but at how any gesture of humanity quickly became an argument over principle.

A new notice appeared in the lobby: not take action, but a tidy table: days of the week, times, names. At the bottomValentinas number, and a note: If emergency at night, Ill message the chat. If anyone can help lift or meet the ambulance, please shout. The sheet was pinned straight.

Simon still found it hard to look at this rotaas hard as the old petition. But this was a different discomfort: as if the block admitted that desperate need could also become a scheduled event.

One night, Simon heard a crash above and couldnt stay put. He ascended and heard Valentina muttering furiously, not at people but at a body refusing to cooperate. He knocked. This time, she opened straight away, no chain.

Help, she said tersely.

Simon stepped in, leaving his shoes tidily by the door. Her brother lay on the floor, gasping. Simon helped lift him back to bed; his arms trembled with strain. No thanks, no fussjust task, then he slipped out.

He heard, as he left, someone peeking from a door below, silent and watchful. Nobody offered, nobody shouted. The block, it seemed, was holding its breath.

The next morning, Simon met Victor from next door, one of the original signatories. Victor averted his eyes.

Look, mate, Victor began, I added my name… was just fed up. Didnt know. Wouldnt have if

I get it, Simon said. Doesnt matter whether you knew or not. Its what you do now.

Victor nodded, something stubborn still in his facelike someone reluctant to admit even to himself hed been wrong.

The compromise, somehow, held together. Not perfectly, but it worked. At night, the chat pinged with: Ambulance or Down. Angry outbursts faded, most complaints surfacing in daylight after feelings had cooled. Some residents sincerely helped Valentina; some came only once, some never. Mrs. Bishop maintained the rota, but some spaces remained vacant.

Simon noticed a new caution in conversations on the stairs. People greeted one another, but guardedly, as though any chit-chat could spark old tensions. No more posted threats, but also no easy friendliness. Even the smallest issueslike replacing a blown bulbcarried an exhausted lets not do this again undercurrent.

One evening, Simon met Valentina by the lift, clutching medicines and a little flask, face wan.

How is he? Simon asked.

Still alive, she replied. Its a quiet day.

They went up together. On his floor, Simon paused.

If you need anything, knock, he said.

She nodded, then hesitated:

At the meeting I didnt mean to

She faltered, waved it off.

I know, Simon said.

The lift closed. Simon entered his flat, shed his coat, and arranged his shoes. The flat was silenthis son sprawled on his bed with headphones, his mother ringing to ask when hed visit.

He glanced at his phone, then at the door beyond which the stairs started. He thought of the pages that can change people: one covered in complaints, another listing those willing to give an hour. The distance between them, he reflected, was shorter than between neighbours living just a wall apart.

That night, someone thanked those whod helped and reminded: Pleasepersonal matters in private. Questions, message me. The note soon sank below the usual posts about bins and lifts.

Simon put his phone aside and started the kettle. He knew he might be woken by another crash in the night. And that now, stirred from sleep, his thoughts would reach beyond his own rest. It wouldnt make him better than before. But it made him part of things.

And perhaps that was all any of them could hope forto recognise one anothers burdens, and to bear a share, however small, of whats behind those closed doors.