Little Pig, Little Pig

It began with the notice in the lift. ‘Security of the Building’ it read in block capitals, picked out in emergency red. It went on:

A drunk male has been found sleeping in the stairwell twice in the last couple of weeks (the last time lying in a pool of vomit!)

He is very aggressive (and potentially dangerous) & the police had to be called to remove him.

Please take a couple of seconds (that’s all it takes!) to check that the front door closes properly behind you and do not leave the security door between the bike room and the bin room unlocked as often the back door shutter is open. Please also close the door behind you leading to the stairs as not only are they security doors but they are fire doors! They are being left open continually by people walking between floors using the one working lift.

Also do not allow anyone that you do not know access to the building. That includes people randomly buzzing intercoms to gain access.

Thank you!

The notice annoyed Rachel on several counts: one, there was a conservative with a small c feeling about it, a holier than thou attitude that suggested, she thought, naivety in the writer - why wouldn’t you want to sleep in a warm, large stairwell, that no one else was using when it was so bloody cold outside; two, because her two-year-old kept asking her to read the damn thing every time they got in the lift - she supposed she could have pretended it said something else, but she wasn’t quick enough for that and anyway, how was a child supposed to learn to read if there was no pattern to the spoken and written word (she realised this presumed a lot on the part of her two-year-old, whom she naturally assumed was pretty much a prodigy); three, it used too many cheap and lazy ways to emphasize its own importance - the multiple exclamation marks and the italics, Rachel hated italics with a frightening passion: why couldn’t people learn to sculpt their words well enough to suggest inflection? There were probably some other reasons, like the fact it was laminated to endure, and the writer’s need to centralise the text to make it look pretty, but mostly it just made all of her middle class, but obviously liberal, Guardian-reading, broad-mindedness, rattle about so loudly in her head that she hummed with indignation. It was the way she had felt about that homeless man on The X Factor. His sudden joy at warm places with soft sofas had been considered ‘self-sabotage’ or ‘obviously didn’t care enough’ by the other contestants because he kept missing rehearsals to enjoy a comfy nap. People were so unimaginative, so stupid not to see how important simple roofs were if you lived outside all the time. What did she care if a man came and lived in their stairwell? Admittedly, she didn’t have to take the stairs very often. She lived on the third floor and having kids meant she mostly took the lift, but even so, could anyone really object? She was sure the aggressive behaviour was only in response to being asked to leave the lovely stairwell for one of the coldest January’s on record. True, she would be pissed off if the block became home to a load of druggies who left their needles everywhere, not because she minded people shooting up if that’s what they wanted to do, but because she didn’t want to have to worry about her kids picking up needles and she knew the statistics about burglary and drug-users. Though, for that matter, it wasn’t like there was much to nick in her flat that she really cared about or couldn’t replace. Really it was just a feeling the notice gave her. It was mean-spirited. She didn’t want people somehow associating her with it just because it was in her lift.

Despite all these feelings the notice provoked, she did not try to take it down. On a couple of occasions she had found her fingers itching towards the squashed wads of blue-tack, but the notice had an official feel to it and Rachel instinctively deferred to authority. She didn’t like the notice but if someone in charge had put it there she shouldn’t remove it. If she’d recognised this about herself, she would have been embarrassed further and probably torn the notice down just to prove to herself that she wasn’t one of the herd.

So the notice, perhaps because others also responded to its authority rather than its message, remained in the lift for weeks and then migrated to the downstairs notice board where it hung for even longer amid a few other laminated notices about shutting the front door, not letting in leafleters and not dumping large items in the bin area. Rachel acknowledged its continued presence with a wry smile every time she passed it. What had been thoroughly irritating had, over time, eroded into a symbol of her own erudite freethinking. She was pleased she wasn’t the person who’d written it or kept it fixed to the wall. It made her feel, in her own small way, better, more socially conscious, radical even.

Then, one night, their buzzer went off just as Rachel and her husband were going to bed. It was about 11.30 and of course, it woke the kids. Thankfully, they were easy to settle.

Rachel knew it wasn’t someone trying to come and see them. No one casually rang their buzzer at the best of times, but especially not so late at night. Most people they knew were already in bed, or in the middle of a night shift.

At first, Rachel tried to ignore it. Whoever it was would get bored and go away. This kind of thing had happened before and it was usually kids messing around. But the buzzing went on. It went on at regular intervals of a few minutes at a time. Just as she thought she could drift off, certain the children wouldn’t be disturbed again, that the buzzer’s silly game was over, or some dope had let them in, the buzzer would sound again. On the sixth or seventh buzz, Rachel leapt out of bed, tying her dressing gown tightly around her middle, and pulled the receiver towards her.

‘Look, whoever you are, can you please stop pressing the buzzer. I’m not going to let you in and you’ve woken my kids. Please go away.’

It was a futile rant. The buzzing went on. Rachel got back into bed and lay there listening. Amazingly, the children did nothing more than groan and roll over. Eventually, after what felt like hours, but was probably only five minutes, the buzzing did stop. Rachel sighed and reached for her Kindle. She would read without disturbing Matt who had pressed the pillow over his head and hidden himself in the duvet.

She had only managed a few pages when the knocking started. Someone was knocking loudly, brazenly, on their front door.

‘What the fuck?’ she said, pretty much to no one at all. Matt had his headphones in and was still under the duvet and the pillow. She prodded him. He murmured slightly, one arm lazily knocking an earphone from one ear. He didn’t move to replace it. He’d probably taken something to help him sleep. He often did. He wasn’t someone who could be cheerful without sleep. Rachel had long ago accepted this and the night-duty that went with it. She could hardly complain when she was usually fine if she got a few hours straight at some point in the night. She often reminded herself that Margaret Thatcher reputedly only needed four hours a night. It was the only thing she was happy to have in common with the woman. She had tried to wake Matt from one of these drugged sleeps before and judged that it was probably best to leave him.

She sat upright and switched off her Kindle. The whole flat was now bathed in that peculiar London darkness that is more like a purple haze. She held her breath.

The knocking continued.

‘Hey,’ said a male voice. ‘Hey, lady, I know you’re in there.’

She remained completely still.

‘You’ve woken my kids,’ the voice mimicked. ‘Please go away.’

Rachel waited. Surely he would go away?...

‘I got in, obviously,’ he went on.

There was a moment’s pause. Had he gone? Rachel pulled her dressing gown back on and crept, as quietly as possible, towards the front door. Her feet were bare, her toes numbingly cold against the tiles in the hall as she tiptoed up to the spy-hole. Hoping, against all likelihood, that the hinge of the spy-hole wouldn’t creak, she eased the cover up and stared through the hole. Smack up against the glass was an enormous, blood-shot eye, searingly blue, staring right back at her. Her breath caught in her throat and she pulled back from the door, feeling as if someone had shoved her hard in the chest. Her hands leapt to her face, fingers pressing into her flesh like a small child watching scary TV. What was this man doing at her door? What did he want? Should she try and wake up Matt? Could she wake up Matt? Every inch of her feet was now numb and the coldness was spreading upwards.

‘I know you’re there,’ the voice said, this time in a rasping whisper. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’ He made a grunting, snuffling noise. ‘Little pig, little pig,’ he said.

Rachel took a silent but deep breath and moved towards the door for another look. After all, he couldn’t get in and she wanted to know who it was out there. She could watch until he went away. He would, eventually, go away. He would have to. Anyway, in the morning, there would be Matt, there would be light, it would all be different.

She lifted the cover above the spy-hole once more. The eye was still there, but this time Rachel was prepared for it, and she didn’t wince. She waited. The eye moved a little, a face coming into view, a worn, stubble-edged face with watery, shifting eyes and a straggle of greying greasy hair. The man made the snuffling sound again and this time Rachel was more intrigued than frightened. His nose wrinkled with the sound, shoulders edging up a little, forcing his dark overcoat to nudge upwards, shifting lank bits of his hair. He was fascinating, grotesque. And then the smell hit her. A torrent of booze and sweat and piss and vomit, like an old man’s toilet filled with nesting mice. She raised her hand to her nose and breathed through the edges of her dressing gown.

The man raised one hand and knocked again.

‘Let me in, lady,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I can wait all night.’

She wouldn’t be goaded. She kept watching and breathing quietly through the fleecy gown. In the pit of her stomach she had the dreadful feeling that this might be the man from the notice. She should just go back to bed. This was nothing to do with her. She should never have answered the buzzer. She should just go to bed and lie down and he would be gone in the morning. Yes, she would stop watching him. She knew what he looked like now. The whole situation was ridiculous. She would be quite within her rights to call the police.

She was about to take a step away, when she heard the letterbox opening. Instinctively her pelvis shot backwards and away. Pushing their way through the letterbox were the fingers of his hand. Groping their way towards her. Even in this light she could see the fingers were red, the skin broken and dry, the nails thick and dirty. Rachel could imagine the scratch of their touch.

‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff...’ he said, looking through the spy-hole again.

She should call the police. This was harassment. She should tell him she was going to call the police. She should tell him to go away, but for the first time in god knows how long in Rachel’s life, she couldn’t speak; she could barely breathe let alone move. Her body had just shut up shop, deciding on its own that Rachel wasn’t fit to manage it any longer. Terror had moved in and opted for fright rather than flight or fight. She could never have guessed. Even in the middle of her horror, she felt disgust at her own helplessness. She should just pull herself together. He was on the other side of the door for goodness’ sake. She was fine where she was.

His fingers wiggled and he panted at the door, steaming up the spy-hole with his stench. ‘Pokey, pokey,’ he cooed.

Rachel closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, holding the air inside her lungs before counting out her exhale for eight beats. She did it again, in for two, out for eight.

‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I’ll call the police.’ Yes! Her heart was punching high fives at her chest. She’d done it.

The man smiled. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Do your worst.’ And he began to pull his fingers back through the letterbox.

Rachel waited. She knew it would hurt to get his fingers out. The metal flap of the letterbox was really tight. Her kids had trapped their fingers in there numerous times. She felt vindicated, as if suddenly someone and not just something was on her side, fighting back.

He did have to yank back his hand, but he seemed annoyingly unhurt. He smiled again, more of a leer really, and opened his coat.

Somehow Rachel knew, well, it was inevitable, of course, but instead of looking away or just going away, finding her phone and actually calling the police, she remained where she was and watched him as he undid his belt, unzipped his fly and pulled out his penis.

‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll stuff,’ he was mumbling now, focused on aiming his flaccid penis, his voice grainy, muffled by heavy breathing.

‘I’m calling the police now,’ Rachel said.

She’d thought he was just trying to intimidate her, waggling his penis at her, but then he leant back slightly, his chin tipping towards the ceiling, and started to urinate. He was pissing on her door. The sound was like a garden hose and it just kept on coming. Wee was hissing into the carpet, pattering against the gloss finish and pooling underneath the door. She stood, mouth open, eyebrows bent in an incredulous frown, as the urine seeped towards her, warming her cold toes.