It was approaching midnight and I was winding down watching telly and thinking about going to sleep when I became aware of someone outside shouting and banging on a door.
I tried to ignore it, but the aggression in the voice increased as did the ferocity of the banging and kicking of a front door. I looked out the window but couldnÂ’t work out where it was coming from and was mainly relieved to discover that it wasnÂ’t my front door that was being abused.
I turned down the TV to try and work out which direction the commotion was coming from and then turned off the TV as I realised the events in my own street were more interesting than the scheduled programming. Yes, thatÂ’s right, even more interesting than the intellectual conversations they have on Big Brother at this time of night.
I went up to my bedroom to get a better view and now it was obvious that the row was happening directly opposite. A man was banging on the front door and drunkenly yelling the same thing over and over again, “Give me the sound system, Helen. I just want the sound system. Give me the sound system. Just give me the sound system, Hel, and I’ll go. Give me the sound system.”
It was going on long enough that it was tempting to open the window and shout, “Just give him the fucking sound system, Helen and then maybe the rest of us can get some sleep.”
But the whole scenario was a bit highly charged for comedy and if life has taught me one thing it is not to get involved in stuff like this with people you donÂ’t know. Your very anonymity makes you an excellent target for the pissed, unpleasant man to vent his anger upon.
Although I felt like a curtain twitching neighbour (not possible, as I don’t yet have any curtains) it was a strangely fascinating spectacle, though also tremendously sad. I think it would be safe to assume that Helen and the drunken man were once in love, they had clearly lived together in this house and now all the affection and respect had gone. She wouldn’t even let him into their home (a sensible move on her part I would argue) and all that they had once had was reduced to six words, “Give me the sound system, Helen.” That’s all there was left. If he could leave with the sound system he would feel that he had got something out of the relationship.
He was truly despairing, but the muted female voice was firm, but understandably wary. It was a stand off. He had made the argument public by shouting it up the street and his masculine pride meant that he couldnÂ’t leave without his conciliatory sound system.
“Give me the sound system,” he threatened, “or I’ll kick this fucking door in,” He meant it too, felt he was being forced into this action by a power beyond his control. With drunken self-pity and perhaps a memory of what they once had had he quietly pleaded, “Don’t make me do this, Helen.”
There was a danger of escalation and I thought that maybe I should ring the local police station, but someone had beaten me to it, because a police car pulled up slowly outside the house. Two policemen got out and calmly walked to the house to assess the situation. Their demeanour clearly showing that they have to deal with this kind of thing a dozen times a night.
The man sat on a wall, his power and threats now gone. Helen opened the door, wearily asking if they could make this all stop. One policeman knelt by the impotent aggressor and talked to him quietly.
Another police car pulled up and another couple of coppers ambled out. Then another car arrived. I think six policeman was probably too many for this particular situation, but good to see they treated it all seriously.
Another man came out of the house, wearing nothing but shorts. The full tragedy of the drunken manÂ’s despair became apparent. It was dark, so IÂ’m not sure what happened. I thought I spotted a small handheld CD player being handed over. He had got what he wanted. Or at least what he said he wanted. But the sound system was just symbolic. I wasnÂ’t convinced that now heÂ’d got it that all his woes and his reasons for being here would disappear.
It started to rain and this seemed to be a sign for the police that their work here was done. Certainly the tension in the air had gone. The aggrieved man walked off up the street. I thought that maybe the police were being a bit hopeful if they just expected him to leave.
Five minutes later the banging and shouting started again. “Give me the ring, Helen. I just want the ring.” It didn’t matter what she gave him. He wasn’t after a sound system or jewellery, but something less tangible, that it was clear to him and the world around him that he was never going to get. “Just tell her to give me the ring before she calls the police again,” he whined. But no-one was going to give him anything now and no-one was afraid.
He was sober enough to know that if the police returned then they would be taking him with him and trying to regain some respect he walked off, up the middle of the road, his path illuminated by the street lamps, suddenly wearing a jacket and a fedora and holding a cane in his hand. Not at all the image I had expected from the shouts and the shadows.
It was the perfect exit, but I suspect he will ruin it by coming back again.
Which is a shame, because in these circumstances we need to leave the rings and the sound systems and the man wearing only shorts and the house and the woman we once loved and who once loved us behind and start again.
