The Wicked Neighbour Next Door

Every courtyard has that one lady who shrieks from her window whenever someone smokes beneath it, complaining that her flat smells of ash. She chases teenagers off the communal bench at ten at night so they dont disturb her sleep, and she writes endless letters to the block manager about uncollected rubbish. If youve never met such a lady, it means you are her. In fact, its me the nasty neighbour.

I cannot stand dogowners. Their mutts leave droppings in my geranium and peony beds, turning the soil into a mess of bones and stink. I despise anyone who feeds stray dogs even more; those lazy feeders not only litter, they also bark through the night, making me wander the hallway for a week, or start howling in spring. Cats are no better the mere whiff of a litter box drifting from a neighbours flat makes my nose curl. When the cats roam the back garden, its utter horror. Once a bedraggled cat leapt onto my balcony and nearly gave me a heart attack while I was shouting at the neighbours children.

And yes, I loathe tiny gnomes too. Their frailty and unpredictability unsettle me. Auntie once asked me to look after her fiveyearold cousin. In half an hour that boy had chewed through my brain with a teaspoon. He started with a toy tractor, then his mother appeared after five minutes, and he turned hungry not for my porridge with meatballs, but for the porridge itself, spreading it across the table while I turned my back. While washing the table he discovered my cosmetics bag and, as you can guess, managed to swipe my favourite Chanel red lipstick. At least he was quiet for fifteen minutes. Then he found the meatballs, and soon the kitchen walls were splattered with tiny finger prints. Who knew a small child shouldnt eat fried food? By evening he was vomiting all over the flat his stomach had turned to acetone. I soothed him with activated charcoal, handed him back to his frantic mother, and felt a small triumph.

My feud with neighbours began around fifteen years old, when an elderly woman at the lifts stared at me with a gaze that seemed to say, Promiscuous woman, get out. I snapped back by stuffing her postbox with every free flyer I could find in unlocked cupboards leaflets for windows and doors, miraclecure newspapers, magnetic bracelets for hypertension. For a month her mailbox overflowed with junk whenever she looked for her electricity bill. I even pilfered the bill, altered it by adding a zero, and watched her argue with the local utility company. She was furious, but that was just the beginning.

Later I reclaimed a strip of garden beneath my window. After trial and error I learned geraniums survive best there; theyre never pilfered by lovestruck drunks trying to impress a mate, and even the hardliving tipplers avoid them because the scent repels their appetite for mischief.

One bright morning I discovered a car perched on my flowerbed. Its front wheels kissed the white curb, and a massive bumper loomed over the crimson blossoms as if it were a death sentence for the audacious thief who dared to trespass on my sacred ground.

Whose carriage? I asked snidely of Mrs. Lovell, the nosy neighbour Id always suspected of spying.

Mrs. Lovell, who sat on the communal bench every morning after buying fish for her five cats, claimed shed seen a gang of youths from the fifth floor driving the beast. Only rogues drive Jeeps, she muttered. And that little girl on flat 43? Shes weak now, her legs dont obey and asthma has him down. After a tedious catalogue of ailments we finally learned that the flat was being occupied by her grandson, who was currently renovating.

I rushed to the lift, intent on confronting the rogue, but the doors refused to open. The car sat unmoved, the front wheels still casting a threatening shadow over my beloved geraniums. I knocked on the cold, brownleathered door, perhaps the culprit couldnt hear my summons. When no one answered, I slipped a note under the door:

Dear unknown, please remove your filthy vehicle from my flowerbed at once, or I shall not be held responsible.

A day passed and the RangeRover still dominated my blossoms, gnawing at my nerves. I ran to Mrs. Lovell, breathless.

Did the rogue from flat 43 show up today? I demanded.

Not today, she shook her head. He came in another car, stayed a few hours, then left.

So he drives another car while his wreckage sits here ruining my flowers? I snapped.

She suggested I call the number hed left on a scrap of paper. He doesnt drive it himself; someone else does. Probably his boss.

I dialed. A deep masculine voice answered.

Hello?

Did you get my note? I asked.

Yes.

Then why havent you moved your bucket from my geraniums?

The magic word you forgot, dear, he said calmly.

Im asking politelyplease take it away, I tried again, my fury blunted by his pleasant tone.

Youll never make me, he replied. Im comfortable where I am. I havent even touched the curb.

Fine, youll regret this, I warned.

He scoffed. I hung up, then tried to scorch the car with my stare. The metal stayed cold, unmoved. I had my own arsenal of antipest remedies, and tomorrow the owner would rue his actions.

The next morning I watched from my balcony as the cars black paint turned speckled, tiny birds pecking at the millet Id tossed on the bonnet the night before. The driver, a lanky bald man the typical lout inspected his nowspotted vehicle. I felt no fear; I had tamed worse.

By evening the spotless car was back on my flowerbed, front wheels crushing the curb, leaving black tyre marks the size of the scars on my heart. It was an outright declaration of war.

I stormed back inside, nearly tripping over the neighbours cat clutching a fish. Take the fish to flat 43! I growled at the cat, and the absurdity of the dream hit me.

That night the whole staircase lay awake; cats from the whole district streamed into the building, converging on flat 43 for a concert, spurred by a splash of valerian tincture Id poured on the brownleather door panels earlier. They prowled, slammed doors, and cursed the bald neighbours head, while a chorus of birds settled on his car roof like a feathered shroud.

The next day the rogue returned, this time ringing the doorbell politely. He opened the door, his hands smeared with my aloeinfused dishwashing liquid, and said, Your carpet is stained with dog droppings. Ive already stepped on them, so watch your step. He seized my mug of coffee, took my phone, and asked, Ready to see whos haunting us?

We discovered the blocks new CCTV footage, showing Mrs. Lovell sprinkling gifts at our door at five in the morning a mystery we could not solve. Ill speak to her, said Sergei, my neighbour, promising to visit later that evening.

I baked chocolate biscuits, a guilty pleasure, and waited. Sergei arrived, inspected the crooked kitchen cabinet door and offered to fix it. And Mrs. Lovell? I asked.

Just that she thought the music in flat 44 was too loud, so she swapped the rugs, he replied with a shrug.

I felt no real hatred for her, yet revenge still simmered. I rewrote the lock with a matchhead and called a locksmith, who pried the lock apart with a matchstick. Hungry, angry, I plotted my next move, Googling where to buy Salidol.

The morning after, cats were silent, I slept well, brewed my Italian espresso, and almost dropped the cup when a massive force slammed at the door. I flung it open, confronting a man who looked like a polished version of a notorious politician, dressed in poisongreen Tshirt and electricblue jeans. He slipped into my kitchen without removing his muddy slippers. He poured the aloe soap over his hands, washing them at the sink.

Couldnt you have done it at home? he asked.

Come closer, he said, smearing his palms with petroleum jelly and then, with a mischievous grin, he took my mug, inhaled the coffee scent, and declared, Delicious. Ill forgive you this once.

I wanted to strike him, but his warm eyes and smile disarmed me. Youre quite charming, he murmured. I imagined a witch living here.

Youre welcome to leave, I snapped, though his compliments made my stomach flutter. I tried to reignite my fury, but his gaze was like a hairdryer on a damp bulb it blew out my anger. And those matchsticks in the lock? Not funny.

He laughed, I get it, but the matches werent my idea.

I didnt put them there! I protested. Youre acting like a teenager.

He handed me a receipt from the locksmith. Heres the bill, he said.

Im not the one who tampered with the lock, he shrugged. If not me, then who?

My wet hair fell over my shoulders as I stared at him, but a third menace surfaced in our tangled tale.

Truce? he offered, extending a hand.

Only until we figure out whos the real fool here, I replied, tapping my foot.

The next morning the rogue knocked politely, opened the door, and said, Theres a dog droppings on your rug Ive already stepped on it, so be careful. He sipped my coffee, pulled out his phone, and asked, Ready to see whos haunting us?

Sergei had called the blocks new CCTV service, and we watched the footage together. Mrs. Lovell was indeed hurling presents at our door at the ungodly hour, a mystery that remained unsolved.

We tried to repair the cracked cabinet door, replaced the squeaky bathroom door, and patched up the countless quirks of a lonely ladys flat. The nightmare of the neighbourhood persisted, but I, armed with Salidol and a heart full of grudges, was ready for the next surreal skirmish.