He's at it again. The next-door neighbour playing his violin at ungodly hours of the morning and night. He's not even good at it, or at least he certainly doesn't sound it. It's scratchy and squeaky and it goes right through me. But I'm not having any more of it.

Pushing myself up from my chair, I wander into my bedroom where our flats are separated by the wall. Raising my voice above the dreadful wailing coming from the other side, I call out to the player.

"Would you stop playing that God-forsaken violin? It's 2:30am! Play something properly or shut up and give my ears a rest!"

The musician, if you could call him that, plays another two notes then stops, as though only just registering that I had spoken to him. Silence follows and I let out a quiet sigh. At last. Now that he has finally quietened I can make myself a hot cuppa and go to bed. I barely make it out of the room before the discordant scratching of a bow upon strings reverberated through my flat again. I clench my teeth. No wonder the rent was so cheap.

With an almighty breath to control my temper, I storm back into my room and bang my fist against the wall.

"Stop playing your bloody violin!" I yell again.

Once more there is no sound from the opposite flat but my fists stay curled at my side and my teeth stay clenched because I'm no fool; he's almost certainly listening out for my footsteps and the moment I go to leave, I know he will continue. I stay resolutely where I am.

Then, taking me by surprise, the player draws out a long, soft note and goes into one of the most beautiful solo renditions of Bach's Chaconne I've ever heard and I find myself swaying slightly, because it's one of the most amazing classical pieces to be heard live, particularly by someone who is so obviously talented and practiced. Immediately, I take back all previous thoughts about the terrible musician on the other side of my wall, because there is nothing terrible about his playing right now and despite the shortened length, I'm captivated to the last note, imagining whoever the man is, playing, running his bow over the strings and pressing his fingers down with the perfect strength, holding the polished instrument to his chin and finding it so comfortable and natural that his fingers just itch to continue. I realise that he is shortening it, probably on purpose, afraid to waste my time - he's playing for me, showing off, but it's gorgeous and he holds me all the way, my faceless musician.

It finishes and I am breathless, finding no words to congratulate his playing but I worry that he'll be insulted by my lack of response so I finally find one word to describe it because I am so blown away it is as though all the words in the English language were toppling out of my mind and floating away like a helium balloon.

"Fantastic," I whisper.

There's a shuffling noise and I realise that's him, my neighbour, setting down the violin. It's quiet again for a moment and then finally he responds.

"You think so?"

His voice, my goodness. This is the first time I've heard it and it's not at all what I had expected, though to be fair, I hadn't exactly put much thought into it. It is deep and sonorous, with a slight rumbling quality and totally unique. Really, it seems a little weird to be thinking about his voice so much, but then again this is my first contact with him properly other than hearing him play the violin so I don't think too much into it.

"Of course." I reply.

How could he not know? Maybe he's fishing for compliments. All I know is that he could have played for much longer and I wish he had.

"That's an interesting opinion."

My God, he sounds so bored with the conversation. I wish I could see him, to judge what he's actually feeling but the wall separating us is a bit of an issue for that. I hope he isn't bored.

"Interesting? What do you mean?"

"I never receive compliments about my music."

"Maybe that's because you spend so much time making that terrible scratching on your violin."

"…"

"Are you still there?" I ask hesitantly. Has he left me alone talking to a wall like a fool?

"I am here."

"Why didn't you reply?"

"I didn't think there was any need to."

"Why do you make a terrible racket at this time anyway? Do you ever sleep?"

"Sleeping slows me down. I play because I'm bored."

"Well that's stupid. Everybody needs sleep."

"I don't. Now if you're quite finished, may I return to my work?"

"What are you working on?"

"That is none of your business."

"Oh… Sorry. Will you stop playing the violin at this hour, then?"

"Fine."

"Thanks. Goodnight then."

"Perhaps."

I don't reply in case he's going to say anything else but there's more silence and I figure that's it. As I get ready for bed, my mind turns over the man on the other side of the wall, who works, and gets bored and plays the violin, and has a deep voice and doesn't get compliments and as I settle down in bed I wonder whether or not the man on the other side of the wall is getting ready for bed too, or whether he is working on whatever it is he does because sleeping slows him down. Just as I drift off, I realise I don't even know his name yet.