Whispers Through the Thin Walls

Thin walls

She woke before the alarm, before the phone even tried to hum a reminder. At fortytwo her body seemed to have a builtin clock that forced her out of bed at six a.m., weekends included. She lay staring at the grey rectangle of the window, beyond which a winter sky stretched over rows of lowrise council flats, and she listened to the house.

The building kept its own familiar, slightly weary soundtrack. Somewhere a door slammed, footsteps shuffled up the stairwell, and from the flat above a childs toy ball thudded softly against the wooden floor. The pipes in the wall sighed and gurgled. It was as intimate as her own breathing. She knew who left for work at what hour, who turned on the radio, who muttered at the neighbours dog in the courtyard.

Her name was Nancy. She lived in a twobedroom flat on the fifth floor of the same block where shed spent her school years. First with her parents, then with her husband and son, and now almost on her own again. Her husband had walked out three years earlier for a colleague from the accounts department, her son was studying at a technical college in the neighbouring district and spent nights alternately at her place or with friends. The flat was livedin but modest: an old sofa, a builtin wardrobe, a kitchen suite bought on instalments, and a perpetual pile of halfwashed dishes in the sink.

Nancy worked as a senior nurse at the towns community health centre. The bus stop was two stops away, or a fifteenminute walk if the pavement wasnt glazed with ice. She liked the earlymorning strolls through the halfempty courtyards, watching people in padded jackets step out with grocery bags and thermoses. The little town moved at a measured pace. Everyone seemed to know everyone else or at least thought they did.

She was used to the rhythm. At the health centre she knew the regulars too: the chronic complainer who faked a sick note, the jittery bloke who feared any extra test, the patient who arrived with a grievance against the doctor, and the shy one who never asked a question. She could speak calmly, persuade, and when needed lay down the law. People trusted her. That trust made her feel useful, but by evening she was a drained sack, slumping at the kitchen table, turning the kettle on and staring out at the black courtyard where lampposts flickered.

Rules in the town were simple. Keep your nose out of other peoples business. Everyones got their own family, theyll sort it out themselves a saying shed heard since childhood. The lady upstairs endured a drunk husband until he died of a heart attack. In the flat next door a man shouted at his mother so loudly the whole courtyard heard, and everyone just shook their heads. The police were called rarely; it wasnt customary.

The first shouts from the wall reached Nancy in late autumn, after dark, at about five. She was at the kitchen with a mug of tea, scrolling through the news on her phone, when a raised voice drifted from the flat next door. At first she thought it was the television. Then a sharp, cracking female voice cut through:

Quiet, the babys sleeping!

A gruff male voice replied, muffled, words indecipherable. Then a heavy thud as something solid hit the wall. Nancys heart leapt. She set her cup down, froze. She recognised the family a young mother and a fiveyearold boy, a broadshouldered man always in a work jacket and a messenger bag. Theyd moved in six months ago, exchanged a couple of jokes about the everstuck lift, and that was the extent of the acquaintance.

The shouting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Nancy lingered, ears tuned. Silence. She tried to get back to the news, but the words blurred. Snippets from the health centre floated up: He yells, but he doesnt hit, Shes to blame for getting involved, Its a private matter. She switched off the kitchen light, went to her bedroom, cranked the television up the usual coping mechanism.

A week later she met the neighbour on the stair landing. The woman emerged from her flat with a rubbish bag, face pale, a yellowblue bruise under her left eye as if sleepdeprived. Her hair was tied in a careless ponytail; the boy clutched her coat and fidgeted with the zip.

Morning, Nancy said, pausing on the bruise.

Ello, the woman replied, turning her face slightly away.

Nancy felt her throat dry. She wanted to ask, Is that him? but the words stuck. Instead she gave the boy a tentative smile.

Whats your name?

Charlie, the boy muttered, hiding behind his mum.

Youre new around here? Nancy asked, already knowing the answer.

Yes, we moved in over the summer, the woman forced a brief smile. Im Poppy.

The name sounded oddly muffled, as if spoken through cotton. Nancy nodded, letting them pass. The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and laundry detergent. The lift doors creaked open, Poppy stepped in, the boy followed, and they were off.

That evening the shouts came again, louder. First a male curse, then Poppys sob, then a thin childs wail. Nancy was on the sofa with a book she wasnt really reading. Her chest tightened, palms sweated. She rose, pressed her ear to the wall, catching fragments.

I told you
I didnt take
Youre lying, you

A dull thump followed. The boy shrieked, then the crying stopped as if someone had smothered him with a pillow or dragged him elsewhere.

Nancy flinched. The thought of calling the police flashed, but her hand hovered over the phone and withdrew. What if they asked whod called? What if the man found out? He was big, angry, could be waiting on the landing. She was alone; her son wasnt staying over. And maybe it was just a marital spat that would resolve itself, leaving her as the nosy neighbour.

She paced the flat like a caged animal. The shouts rose and fell. Eventually the door slammed, heavy footsteps descended the stairs, the man left. A muffled sob and rustle followed. Nancy never dialled.

The next day at work she caught herself listening more intently to other peoples conversations. In reception two women discussed how a man in a nearby suburb had beaten his wife into intensive care. In the procedure room a junior nurse whispered that the neighbour was to blame for putting up with it. Nancy kept her mouth shut while giving injections and filling forms.

That evening she phoned her sister, who lived in a semidetached in the far side of town, raising two kids and working as a shop assistant.

Neighbours, Nancy began, voice trembling. Theyre shouting, fighting, and theres a little child.

So what? her sister sighed. What are you going to do?

I thought maybe call the police.

Dont stick your nose in, love, her sister said, weary. You live alone. People here are like that a call can turn into a lawsuit. Do you really want that?

Nancy fell silent. A wave of helpless anger rose. Her sister continued:

If she wants to leave, she will. Its not your job to save another family.

After the call Nancy sat in the dark kitchen, hearing voices from the landing someone going up, someone coming down. The house seemed to breathe through its thin walls, and she imagined she could hear thoughts: Dont interfere, Keep quiet, Live your own life.

Neighbourly scandals became a weekly affair. Not daily, but every few days a ruckus would echo through the corridors. Some were hushed, others so loud the entire block could hear. Nancy watched how others reacted: some turned the TV up, some quickened their steps, but no one said a word.

One evening, returning from her shift, she ran into Poppy by the entrance. Poppy was rummaging through her bag for keys, a red scarf visible, a reddish line beneath the collar.

Cold? Nancy asked, stopping.

Just fine, Poppy smiled, though her lips trembled. Charlie got a cold again from the nursery.

Is your husband around? Nancy blurted before she could stop herself.

Poppy froze, then looked away.

Hes on shift, she replied shortly. Hes on night patrols.

Nancy knew that wasnt true. The night before she had heard his voice behind the wall, heavy shoes thudding. She kept quiet.

If anything, she began, then stopped. What if anything? Call? Run over? She didnt know.

Thanks, Poppy said quietly, as if understanding. She fumbled for the keys and slipped out.

In the dead of night a sharp screech jolted Nancy awake. She leapt out of bed, heart hammering. The shouting resumed, louder than before: a mans angry roar, How many times do I have to work while you sit like a queen! Wheres the money?

I didnt take it, Poppys voice cracked. Maybe you spent it yourself

A bang, then another. The boys cry turned into a fullblown scream.

Nancy could no longer stay seated. She snatched the phone, dialed 999. Her fingers shook.

999, whats your emergency?

Its my flat neighbours are fighting. The husbands hitting his wife, theres a child, on the fifth floor, flat thirtyfour, she blurted.

The operator took the address, asked for her name, sounded tired but not mocking, assured a patrol was on its way. Nancy hung up, feeling the walls grow even thinner, each breath echoing for the neighbours.

Twenty minutes later the wail of a siren cut through the courtyard. Heavy boots clanged on the stairs. Nancy peered through the peephole as two officers in dark uniforms knocked on the flat opposite. The shouting had died down, leaving only whimpers.

Open up, police, one said.

The door creaked. A man appeared in the doorway, only half his face visible flushed cheeks, clenched jaw.

Whats happened? an officer asked.

Nothing, the man muttered. Just a row. Its over.

The neighbours complained about noise, the second officer said. Is anyone else home?

A faint voice from inside answered, Im here.

Are you being hit? the officer asked.

No, Poppy replied quickly. Were just arguing.

Nancy felt a pang in her chest. She understood the answer, but it hurt more. The officers wrote something in a notebook, gave a verbal warning and left. Their footsteps faded down the stairwell. The man slammed the door.

A moment later the doorbell rang, sharp in the silence. Nancy flinched as the sound repeated, more insistent. She walked to the door, looked through the peephole. A neighbour stood there, jacket unbuttoned, face flushed, eyes narrowed.

Open up, we need to talk, he growled, as if he knew she was watching.

Nancy didnt move. Her heart pounded in her throat. He leaned closer to the peephole, lips twisted.

You think I dont know who called? he hissed. There are only two flats here. Dont worry, well have a chat.

He lingered a moment, spat on the floor, and stalked back inside. The door slammed. Nancy retreated, sat down on the landing chair, hands trembling.

The next morning she went to work as usual, but the hallway of the health centre felt different; she sensed longer glances. In reception someone whispered, Heard the police were here at Nancys block. Rumours spread fast in a small town.

At lunch the head nurse, a stern woman in her fifties with perfectly coiffed hair, called her over.

Nancy, step into my office for a minute, she said.

Inside she closed the door and sat opposite Nancy.

I got a call from HR, she began, not meeting Nancys eyes. Theres a complaint that you well cause dramas at home.

What dramas? Nancys throat tightened.

I get it, you called the police because the neighbour was violent, but this reflects on us. Our reputation is already shaky. We cant have staff bringing personal squabbles into work.

Its not my business, Nancy whispered. Theres a child involved.

The head nurse shrugged. Youre an adult, make your own choices. Just remember were cutting staff, any complaint is a reason.

Nancy left the office feeling like a sack of wet sand. She sat in the procedure room, stared at her hands, still pruned from countless injections. The words any complaint is a reason replayed in her head.

That evening the voices behind the wall were no longer shrieks but a low, restrained argument. The mans tone was quiet, yet edged with threat.

If anyone comes again Ill know its you, he snarled. Youll be packing your bags, kid wont see you.

I didnt call, Poppy whispered.

Nancy sat at the kitchen table, feeling the world tilt. It seemed she had become part of the drama, even though she was only a wall away.

The next day, on her way out, she paused at the notice board in the lobby. Between adverts for doubleglazed windows and a sale of a garage, a flyer from Childrens Services caught her eye: If you suspect child abuse, call999. She stared at it, then photographed the number with her phone.

She waited two days before dialing. She tried to convince herself it would settle down, that the man would be scared off by police, that the neighbour would calm down. But another night of bloodcurdling screams shattered that hope.

Childrens Services, how can I help you? a tired female voice answered.

I I want to report, Nancy gulped. In my building, through the wall a man keeps shouting at a child. I havent seen any blows, but there are fights, police have already been called.

The officer asked for the address, the childs age she only knew his name, Charlie, and that he was about five. She was told the family would be monitored and thanked her.

After the call, Nancy felt not relief but a hollow emptiness, as if shed opened one heavy door only to find another waiting.

A week later two women in dark coats entered the hallway, folders in hand. They knocked on the neighbours flat. Nancy watched through the peephole. The door opened, and Poppy, pale, stood there with a forced smile.

Were from Childrens Services, one said. We received a report. May we come in?

The man emerged, wiping his hands on a towel.

What report? he asked, scowling. Everythings fine here.

Were required to check the childs living conditions, the officer replied calmly. Just a routine check.

They entered. The door closed behind them. Nancy stood in the landing, frozen, as if glued to the spot. She wanted to retreat, but her legs wouldnt move. After half an hour the women left, their faces as impassive as ever.

Take care, one said. Well be in touch.

The hallway fell quiet again. Then the doorbell rang, sharp as a gunshot. Nancy jumped. Through the peephole she saw the same neighbour, this time his expression calmer, eyes cold.

Open up, we need to talk, he said, staring straight at her.

Nancy inhaled deeply and turned the lock. Her heart thumped, but she decided she couldnt hide forever.

What do you want? she asked, cracking the door a crack.

You think youre a hero? he sneered. Police, childrens services you think I dont get it?

I called because I hear you shouting at the child and hitting your wife, Nancy said, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice.

He narrowed his eyes. I dont hit anyone. We argue like everyone else. You should sort your own life first. You couldnt keep your husband, now you try to police other families?

His words cut deeper than any physical blow. Nancy clenched the door handle, nails digging into the wood.

If you raise a hand again, Ill call the police, she warned. And Ill keep calling until you stop.

He leaned in, breath smelling of cheap whisky. Only if you want your son to end up in a cell, love. Hes at the college, comes home late. This towns tiny everyone knows everything.

A chill ran down Nancys spine. He smirked and went back inside, slamming the door.

After that conversation the world seemed to shift. On her walk to work she felt someones eyes on her back. In the shop the cashier gave her a sideways glance, and in the hallway neighbours nodded stiffly, some turning away. RumoursIn the end, the thin walls that once only echoed fear now carried Nancys quiet determination to stand up for the vulnerable.