Sound Proofing.

After a mere three weeks in his new flat Gerald Murphy had concluded that his upstairs neighbour -a Mister Watts- was, not to put too fine a point on it, a complete and utter wanker. Gerald had come to this conclusion after Watts had woken him up, almost every single night, just after 3 am. As bad as that was, what made it worse was that Watts never answered his door, he just ignored it, no matter how angrily Gerald banged on it. His own behaviour had lead his other neighbours to view him as a bit of a pain in the arse, he knew that, but what else was he to do. If Watts was a back shift worker that would be fine, Gerald didn't expect total silence, but the way he thumped and clumped about his house at that time in the morning seemed deliberately antagonistic.

The council noise-team would do nothing, since the arsehole wasn't blaring techno out of his flat 24-7 nor using it a recording studio. They couldn't deal with normal household noise, so they told him. He urged them to come out and hear for themselves whether or not they thought Watt's racket constituted normal household noise, but they declined. He didn't blame them, he knew there were only a handful of people who had to deal with a city filled with selfish noisy twats.

The thing that really made Gerald realise that Watts was an utter wanker was that eventually he called the police, after a night when Watts thumped about like a drugged hippo on a pogo stick. The police arrived quite quickly but as soon as he let them in Watts stopped making a single sound. The police heard nothing but were quite understanding and even went up and demanded Watts opened his door. They were greeted with total silence and so they, like everyone else, could do nothing.

This left Gerald at his wits end and despite trying earplugs, early nights and even sleeping pills, he was awakened by Watt's thumping racket from Tuesday to Saturday, at 3 am. Regular as clockwork. He decided to wait up one night, to confront Watts on the stairs, to try and reasonably explain how much noise he was making and ask him to tone it down a bit. It seemed like the best idea. Sadly that night Watts did not come up the stairs. Gerald waited over an hour, until quarter to four in the morning, but to no avail. Same thing the next night. He decided to give up on that and sure enough the following morning, Watts started up again.

If the council wouldn't help him and the police wouldn't help him Gerald realised that he had to sort this out himself. The price of the house had been twenty grand less than others in the area and while he now understood why, he had fifteen grand in the bank. He decided his best course of action was to find some goons to sort Watts out. To many this might have been a bit extreme but having a constantly disturbed sleep had left him on so on edge that he would have been quite happy to stove Watts head in with a shovel, if he thought he could have gotten away with it.

The main issue was that Gerald didn't actually know any goons. He worked in a bank, didn't frequent the local dives where he might become acquainted with shady individuals and his friends were all the type of hip middle-class folk who would have shit themselves if a ned stood next to them at a taxi rank. There was one avenue he could try, his cousin Martin. Martin was the family shame, a right vicious little bastard who was up to his eyeballs in crime. Gerald knew he'd have to find out how to contact him through his aunt, which meant getting Sadie's phone number from his mother who would over-react and behave like a character from a Greek tragedy when he explained why he needed the number. Still it was, he surmised the best shot he had.

His prediction was right on the money. Flailing hands, tears, accusations of Gerald being on “the crack”, he let his mother burn her neurotic drama-mongering out without laughing. It turned out that he didn't need to phone Sadie, that Martin was living rent-free for eighteen months at Her Majesty's pleasure, in Barlinnie. Martin, class act that he was, had been sent down after being caught pimping some fifth years at the local school who had been far too enthusiastic about easy access to Martin's cheap drug supply. Gerald made all the necessary phone calls and found that it was quite easy to go and see his cousin, which he did at the earliest opportunity.

After some suspicion and needless sneering from Martin, Gerald got down to business and explained the situation with Watts and how he needed him “sorted out.” Martin berated him for being a pussy, that he should just go up with a hammer and knock fuck out of the guy. Gerald declined that suggestion and explained he had cash and was willing to pay. At that, Martin took an interest, for a cut. Gerald was happy to agree and left the prison with a number of one Duncan Sim, who was better known as Mental Dunkie, though Martin did warn Gerald not to call him that if he liked his legs unbroken. Sim was, according to Martin, enough of a big-shot to do what needed to be done professionally, but a small enough fish that he'd be glad for the cash.

Gerald phoned Sim an hour after he left the prison. Mental Dunkie was, unsurprisingly, suspicious of this random stranger and in no uncertain terms stated he didn't give a flying fuck who Gerald's cousin was. He arranged to meet Gerald, in Renaldo's Chippy, not far from the Barras, that Saturday morning, insisting that it was at nine in the morning, he was a busy man and had to get pissed up in order to enjoy a football game later in the day. Gerald agreed.

Another two nights of clattering, thumping and banging about left Gerald's nerves as tight as high E string on a guitar. He arrived a Renaldo's at half past eight, exhausted and livid, a situation not helped by the half pint of black coffee he bought. Sitting at a cream and chrome plastic table that had gone from new to retro to antique in the decades that Renaldo's had been open, he found himself on edge, jittery and increasingly impatient in the minutes that passed after nine am. At about twenty past two dodgy looking characters swanned in. Gerald felt relieved as one of them, the one who had thick curly black hair, looked over and cocked his head up in greeting. Gerald gave him a small wave back and the two walked over to the table, where introductions ensued. Dunkie listened to Gerald's plight and he agreed it was a shitty situation and after scant consideration also agreed to sort the fucker out, for the right price. When Gerald offered ten grand, Dunkie's mate chipped in asking if Gerald wanted the guy's family to have a closed casket. It took Gerald a few moments to parse this before he protested that he didn't want Watts murdered, not unless it was absolu… you know what? Fuck it. Just make him disappear.

That brought a smile to both Dunkie and his friend's faces. The deal was struck a down-payment would be made, the rest when the job was done. Gerald shook their hands, handed over a brown envelope with five grand in it and got up to leave. He told them he hoped they enjoyed the game and Dunkie remarked they definitely would now. By the time he got back to his flat and had had a bus ride to mull over what had happened he was a nervous wreck. It was half past ten in the morning and he needed a drink, so he went into the local off-licence and bought a bottle of vodka. By mid-day he was unconscious, sprawled across his bed.

When Gerald woke up, with a thumping head and a mouth so dry his tongue felt as if it had been glued to the roof of his mouth, he immediately recalled the morning's meeting and felt awful once more. He began to imagine what he was going to tell the police if they got wind of his little murder plan. He dreaded his mother's reaction if it all came to light, worried about the news headlines and feared incarceration. He wondered if it was too late to call it off. He ruminated on this for several hours as he cleaned the dishes, watched afternoon T.V. and the football results. It preyed on his mind as he went out for a meal with his friends, it spoiled his appetite, his stomach churned and he couldn't concentrate on the banter around the table. His friends knew something was wrong and made concerned comments on it but Gerald just put it down to his grievances with his upstairs neighbour.

He went home early not wanting to bring his friends down any further than he had. The house felt uncomfortable to be in but he had nowhere else to go. Again his mind was fixated on the question of whether he should cancel the job or not. He couldn't enjoy television so he went back to bed to worry about it. Gerald spent hours pondering his choices, tossing and turning, struggling with the duvet. During this turbulent night he finally fell into a fitful sleep plagued with vague nightmares.

He was startled awake by the thumping and banging from upstairs and realised what had to be done, needed to be done, and done quickly. Determined and steadfast in his decision Gerald was looking forward to an end of Watts.

The night arrived and Gerald answered it to find two great hulking bruisers looming over him across his doorstep. Dunkie's goons, he invited them in. They sat on his sofa and he offered them drinks trying to be as casual and aloof about the fact he was in the room with two hit-men. They seemed very nice, made the odd joke, talked about movies they'd seen recently. It felt more like a social event than a killing. They left after an hour, explaining they were watching the place outside, all Gerald had to do was give the word. At five past three that morning, he did so.

At first he was nervous, the kicking in of the door upstairs startled him as did the echoing, shouting voices. They stopped being so loud, giving way to tones of puzzlement. Gerald followed their footsteps as they entered the bedroom above him. It was then he heard the strangest noise, it sounded like a gasp or a loud hiccup. It was followed by a spattering sound, a heavy thump, a groan and then screaming. Whatever they were doing to him was brutal. Gerald smiled, he wanted the bastard to suffer. A laugh rang out, a twisted sardonic guffaw that was so saturated in contempt that it made his spine ripple. He heard the sound of a grown man crying and begging, praying. He recognised the voice, it belonged to one of the murderers. Had something gone wrong? Gerald had to know.

He ran upstairs as the blue flashing lights of police cars strobed through the windows of the close. Someone had called them, obviously, that screaming must have been heard from across the street. He didn't care, instead he just dashed up the stairs and took in the view of Watt's flat, now exposed to the world. The hallway was empty but filthy, a carpet of insects scuttled across the floor and up the sides of the walls. There was a stink exuding from inside but he walked in as the police began banging on the exterior security door, someone would let them in soon.

On bare feet he trod across the living chittering floor, crushing dozens of insects with every step. Gerald walked towards the bedroom and opened the door, to finally get a glimpse of Watts.

The thing turned to glare at him, an ancient thing of horns and furs and scrawny skeletal legs and thin arms with bloodied cleavers. On the floor, large clumps of butchered human were scattered. Watts growled with disappointment as he heard the sound of the police running up the stairs.

Watts raised his unearthly hand, aiming the tip of his meat-cutter at Gerald's face. “You're claimed ya fucker.” It growled.

As it walked out the room in a direction Gerald never knew existed, it vanished leaving Gerald in the middle of the killing floor, alone, just as the police stormed in.