unprecedented noontime death (1)

I have a habit of nosing in on my neighbours and their affairs. Perhaps it was because I lived in such close proximity to them. Our block of flats was of the old kind. Apparently, the architect had grown up in Brooklyn, New York, back when that place had been home to the odd peoples whom moved in from other states or countries to look for a new beginning. Anyway, the flats had sorry, chipped plaster walls. The white was more yellow than white. Sounds carried through best. Sometimes, if I cupped my ear along the wall, the vibrations would be absolutely fantastic. 

Another curiosity I would indulge in was going through my neighbours' post boxes. It was an interesting way to piece together information on what sort of people I lived with. But of course, post these days are all cryptic packages. They come with their surnames and "private" and "confidential". Some companies embellish the envelopes so I know when the gas bill is enclosed or maybe a bank has decided to give their client a an upgrade in service. I'm on Gold, if you had to know. Does that mean anything to you?

No.5 was a male, possibly rather poorly off. No.9 consisting of two adults with different names, flatmates then. Or friends. No.10 were a family or a couple. I could never tell if they had children or not since society never deigns to send post to children on official business. No.17 had a freedom pass. I coveted that. No.21 lived at the very top and from what I could tell, she was almost always late for work. She never took the lift before 10am. I think she ran down those stairs every morning and had on one occasion lost a shoe, right in front of my door. 

Outside, our block of flats was called "Dulwich Heights". The whole south-side was graffiti free, which was a blessing to the groaning bricks. I dumped sniffed as I walked past our cluster of bins and recycling boxes. Someone had moved them again so that blue, yellow and brown now basked in the sunlight. I swerved past and grimaced. Trash day was Tuesday. Still a little while to go. 

No.5 never recycled. I had made several mental notes to leave a stinkbomb under his floormat or somesuch. But being of a reasonable, mature age, I passed that thought by. I decided to settle for a fishing wire and small amounts of cheese that I left inbetween his door hinges. 

But that day, I was on my way back up the stairs. I didn't take the lift due to my intermittent claustrophobia but hiked up the stairs. That was when I heard the sirens wail. They were a salvo to the heavy footsteps clattering up the stairs. I crouched behind my door and listened intently.