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Miriam got up from the sofa and refilled her glass from the gin bottle on the sideboard; two small dogs were at her heels.
A fan of detective stories, Miriam wasn’t happy with tonight’s programme – a new series, delving into old unsolved cases - but it was Saturday and she liked to watch television before bedtime. The forensics officer was tedious as he trawled through old files, seeking clues about a murder that had taken place fifty years ago, when an elderly woman had been murdered by her neighbour. Inspector Lindley would have solved the case first time around, she thought, replacing the lid on the bottle. She found ice and a piece of lemon which she squeezed into her drink before topping it up with fresh tonic. Two drinks at night-time, that’s all she allowed herself - one could become dependent on the soporific effects of alcohol.
The signature tune drew her back to the television and, smoothing the cushions, she settled herself to pick up the threads of the story. Noise penetrated the double-glazing and. Miriam was on her feet immediately, drawing the blinds aside to peer into the darkness. There were cars outside No. 43, disgorging passengers on the pavement. Greetings were exchanged and the sound of music could be heard as the front door slammed shut. Miriam didn’t have to consult her telephone directory; she had a list of numbers beside the phone.
“Mr Joyce? Mrs Hendricks here. Yes, Number 25. I really must complain of the noise.” Her voice became plaintive. “It’s impossible to sleep. I’m not a young woman you know. What? Oh I realise that, but I will be ringing the guards if the noise goes on a minute after midnight.” She replaced the receiver before settling down again, oozing indignation. Without a thought as to how the sound might penetrate the dividing wall of the semi-detached house, she turned the volume up so that she could forget the noise outside.
“Bedtime doggies, out you go.” Opening the back door Miriam threw scraps into the garden and the dogs chased after them, yapping and tumbling. A football lay on the grass. “Those boys!” she sniffed, and bringing the ball inside, she slit it carefully along the seam before throwing it back over the hedge. Closing the door, she firmly turned the key. The noise from the television drowned out the sound of the dogs barking. Not that Miriam cared. It was good to have an audio-warning of watch dogs. Small dogs were particularly good; their yapping warned burglars to stay away, and was companionable during the night.
Tidying the kitchen she put some rubbish into a plastic bag that she left on the hall table. Early rising was another habit she cultivated. She believed in doing her chores while the day was young, like dropping that bag into the bin outside No. 28. Sometimes she had to squeeze it in, but it made sense not to pay for bin tags. Then she would sweep outside her garden gate, pushing any litter past the boundaries of her garden wall. It kept things tidy.
Car doors slammed as she collected her handbag from the kitchen. Glancing at her watch she saw that it was five minutes to midnight. She looked through the glass in the front door. Lights were going out at No 43. The last owners had given her so much trouble, it was a relief when they sold the house and moved away. She used be exhausted waiting up until midnight before ringing the guards; they paid no attention if you phoned any earlier.
As Miriam went up the stairs she flicked the switch for the security light. It was so bright that it lit up the whole garden if even a cat ran through the beam. The light was badly focussed and shone into the bedroom of a house over the road where a tired young couple lived with their twelve week old triplets. The babies cried a lot at night; Miriam hoped she wouldn’t have to have a word with them about it. The light filled her room with a comforting glow and the yapping of her little dogs was like a lullaby as she lay there feeling very secure.
As she drifted off to sleep in her comfortable, well-ordered house in The Haven Crescent, Miriam mused on the programme she had watched earlier. Much too far-fetched! Who would believe that anyone could take such a dislike to a neighbour that they would actually murder her?
Joan O'Flynn
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