The security lamp in the hall cast a sickly green light under the door, so John had put a rolled-up towel across the gap to block it out.
But he quickly found he couldn't block out the sounds of human life around him. There was a large family living down the hall, and they never seemed to go to sleep. Initially curious, John had kept an eye on them for a few days and counted at least six children, though he wasn't sure if they all lived in the flat or belonged to the same parents. They were grubby and neglected, with snotty noses and grazed knees and clothing that was never clean and never seemed to fit them. They cried a lot more than John expected kids to; but then, it had been a long time since he'd had anything to do with children. These urchins seemed shy, but whenever he passed them in the hall or on the stairs he was acutely aware that they were staring at him with their big eyes, curious and unafraid.
There had been an elderly lady living across the way for a few weeks toward the end of the autumn. She'd been very kind to John in an annoying, pitying sort of way. Once she'd found out he was a war veteran, she'd taken a shine to him and invited him into her flat to introduce him to her budgie, Oscar. She'd told him her father had been a veteran himself, showing him dozens of faded sepia photographs of a serious, proper-looking World War Two fighter pilot. They'd had tea together a few times. It was sort of pathetic and sort of nice. He'd liked her. Her name was Alice.
One night, an ambulance had come and taken Alice away. A dozen relatives came a week later, cleaning out her things, taking Oscar with them. Her flat had been empty since.
John had heard some colourful expressions in the military, but the guy living in the flat directly above quickly introduced him to several more, shouting them at his girlfriend day and night. Sometimes she returned them to him with interest. Sometimes John could hear her crying. Other times there was no sound from her at all, and John wondered if the man was screaming at an empty room.
One night there'd been more shouting than usual, then a sharp crack followed by a thud.
He'd called the police that time.
After the police had gone away—nothing happened here, officers, we were just having an argument, that's not illegal, is it?—there'd been a knock at the door. Not him. Her. She'd put him on blast for half a minute without breath, telling him to mind his own… adjectival… business.
As for him, he'd waylaid John in the stairwell the following day and threatened to 'fuck him up' if he interfered again. How either of them knew he'd been the one to call the police was beyond John, but he didn't ask how they knew. He didn't say anything at all. Months ago, he'd never have tolerated some girlfriend-beating lowlife trying to threaten him. It was different now. He stopped calling the police.
There were times that he'd lie awake at night, flooded with the light from the outside streetlight that even the ragged curtains couldn't entirely block out. Listening to the sounds inside the building: shouting, laughing, swearing, crying. Footsteps. Doors opening and closing. The rustle of bedclothes and gentle creak of bed-springs as the couple next door had furtive sex. And there were other sounds, more constant, from the great darkness outside. The click of heels on the footpath. The rustling of wind in the trees. The distant purr of traffic.
Tomorrow, perhaps. Tomorrow he'd wake up and there'd be nothing wrong with him, because there was nothing wrong with him.
His cane, propped up against the desk chair, gleamed like a bone in the moonlight, accusing him.
It was half-past two he woke one morning, almost on schedule: bed at ten meant an almost guaranteed wake-up at three after some half-formed dream about gunfire and scissors. He lay in the darkness, listening. The usual performance upstairs had abated, and while the low growl of far-off traffic reminded him that life had not ceased to be, all was otherwise quiet and still.
He turned the bedside lamp on, squinting in the sudden glare and sitting up. He rested his heavy head on his hands for a few seconds, trying to ignore the cane still sitting where he'd left it against the desk chair.
There's nothing wrong with me.
He got to his feet, and sharp icicles of pain shot up his leg the moment he put weight on it. But the pain was imaginary. There was nothing wrong with his leg. He'd been told so. He'd been tested and tested, and everything had come back negative.
But he could feel it, deep in his bones, so bad at times he wanted the freedom to just lose it and scream, with nobody to hear, nobody to judge. He'd swallowed his pride and started using a cane, since he couldn't get far without a means of support. And according to his psychiatrist, using to a mobility aid for pain that didn't exist demonstrated, unambiguously, that he needed a psychiatrist.
He'd go to the kitchenette and get himself some tea, despite the hour. After all, he had nowhere in particular to be the next day, and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd spent the morning in and out of a doze on the made bed.
He looked down, clutching at the bedside table with one white-knuckled hand. Thumb first. Then index finger. A wobble; clinging again. Thumb. Index finger.
And then he was standing on his own. Of course he was, because there was nothing wrong with his leg. Nothing except the ungodly amount of pain that sliced through it whenever he tried to put weight on it.
One step, and every nerve in his leg screamed in protest. He shifted his centre of gravity to compensate, wobbling slightly as he took another hesitant step. There were at least ten left now before he'd reach the kitchen. Eight. Four. Two. And then the safety of the sink. He clung to it like a drowning man with a life-buoy. The icicles in his leg had ignited into licks of flame, but he'd won this round.
He was still acutely aware of the cane , mocking him. Yeah, nice work. But how are you going to carry the tea back again?
He only half-filled the cup, crossing the floor to fetch and return the milk from the refrigerator without much difficulty. But on his third step back to the bed, something bit at the back of his knee. With a gasp, he stopped trying to hold his ground. His tea listed wildly in the cup and plashed painfully over his fingers. A hot sweat. Don't drop it. For God's sake.
And then he was grabbing the bedside table with his free hand. Setting the cup down, with only a mouthful or two of tea left in it, he sank down onto the bed.
The spilled tea and burned fingers didn't matter. Weren't the point at all.
He glanced again at the cane. Then he reached out for the dripping, scalding cup and drank.