Fridge

I have alluded previously to the ostensibly invisible Indian family who live in the apartment to the left of my delightful council residence in Barchester Towers, for invisible the Hamidullahs might as well be for all the times I have seen or heard them. Not so the apartment to my right. They are neither invisible nor inaudible. Living beside them is like living next door to the targets of an artillery barrage, complete with the yells and screams of the maimed. He, a ne'er-do-well ex-bikie apparently dismissed from the local chapter for foul language, sloppy dressing and poor behaviour, and she, a petite and rather attractive clerical worker, apparently do not see eye to eye on all matters. Or indeed on any matters.

As I believe one can become accustomed to living in a war zone, I have become accustomed to living beside this noisy couple. Indeed, a night without a raised voice from them leads to a raised eyebrow from yours truly and the expression of an apposite remark such as (for it is indeed the correct direction), 'All quiet on the Western front.'

On the afternoon of which I write, I had just returned from a distressingly combative lunch with my brother and unthinkingly pressed the thirteenth floor button of the lift. To my surprise, it lit and carried me all the way there with nothing more than its customary shuddering and pong, passing through the dreaded ninth-and-a-half floor without so much as flicker of its fluorescents.

I suspect the rattlesome clatter of its opening door alerted the occupant of the battle zone for, as I made my way to 13b, the door of 13a swung open as much as its chain would allow, a pair of frightened eyes appeared and a voice cried, 'Go away. I'll call the cops.'

I was about to reply with some suitably pithy remark when the light of realisation showed in the eyes and I heard a muffled 'Sorry' as the door was closed briefly while its chain was released.

'Sorry Eric, I thought you were him.'

The sight before me was disturbing. Julie, one of the aforementioned combatants, indeed looked as though she had been through a war. Normally smartly dressed and made up, she stood there in nothing more than an enormous baggy T-shirt advertising some pop group or other. Her hair was awry, her face was bruised and one lip swelled disturbingly. I recalled a particularly noisy confrontation through the alcoholic haze of the previous evening. Evidently I was now looking at its aftermath.

'Are you all right?' I asked. 'And don't tell me you walked into a desk at work.'

She smiled weakly and nodded. 'I've thrown him out. He didn't want to go.'

'Well, if there's anything I can do ...'

'Actually there is. I'm just cleaning-up. Can you give me a hand with the fridge?'

She showed me in and quickly chained the door behind me. It looked as though the lounge had taken a direct hit.

Upturned chairs, pot plants smashed on the carpet, books scattered far and wide, some of them torn apart, the curtains pulled down on one side, broken glass and bottles everywhere, the TV set on its back and clothes and shoes scattered among the mess. Someone had put a foot through the kitchen door and the door to the bedroom hung lopsidedly on one hinge. The devastation there looked even worse.

'Sorry about the mess,' she murmured, leading me through to the kitchen.

'Looks like he put up a bit of a fight,' I said.

The kitchen was just as bad. Pots and pans everywhere, broken plates, a vase of flowers smashed in a corner, the microwave miraculously upright but now strangely sway-backed, two cupboard doors among the broken glass and a crazy-paving of bottles, cans and condiments on the floor. In the midst of it all sat a recumbent fridge, face down in all the mess, partially blocking the entrance to the kitchen but still humming happily to itself.

'It's too heavy for me,' she said. 'Perhaps between us?'

I hoisted it off the floor enough for her to wedge the remains of a kitchen stool beneath it, then together eased we it up and back into its accustomed alcove.

'Thanks,' she breathed, hauling the neck of the T-shirt back off an exposed shoulder.

I stood there surveying the damage as she picked her way through it. There were more bruises on her arms and legs and she moved with a hint of stiffness that led me to suspect other injuries.

'Look at my flat,' she said quietly, still evidently dazed. 'Look at my things. He's wrecked everything. Everything.'

As she picked up some torn clothing scattered on the floor I realised that, apart from jandals to protect her feet from broken glass, she really was wearing only a T-shirt.

At the breakfast bar she pointlessly righted a toast rack among all the other debris, then, with a cry, reached for something wedged beside the stove and retrieved a teddy bear with one arm ripped off and stuffing spilling down its side.

'My bear, my bear,' she cried, then hugged it as she burst into tears, real weeping, let-it-all-out tears.

I stood behind her and touched her shoulder and in an instant she was sobbing in my arms, great wailing cries at first, then breathless gasps and a slow subsidence into silence. We stood there for a long while, me leaning back against the fridge, feeling the warmth and smallness of her, the teddy bear crushed between us. I held her by the sobbing shoulders, then, as she calmed, began stroking her back, slowly, feeling the bumps and ridges of her spine. She relaxed a little, seemed to sink deeper against me and I increased the range of my massage.

'Don't.' She caught my hand as it slipped under the T-shirt and cupped her bare behind. it sounded playful. I did it again.

'No, don't.'

At that moment, in the silence, the lift door clattered open and she leapt back with a sudden startled cry. 'No, no, no!' I caught one shoulder but she twisted away, stepping, as she trod, on a scattered can or bottle and pirouetted backwards in a slow motion arc. She threw out her hands but halfway down caught the back of her head against the breakfast bar. The sound. I could tell right away from the sound. Awful, like a ripe watermelon hitting concrete. And the way her head snapped forward as she hit. One arm caught the counter top unfeelingly as she slid down the face of it like a rag doll. She lay unmoving, head twisted at a funny angle, legs splayed, the T-shirt up around her waist, just lying . ..

No, no, no, no, no! it was Friday. Friday. I'd just got home from work and she asked me for help to move the fridge. I remember because I was in a bit of a rush. I wanted to get home, get washed and changed, have something to eat and shoot out again because I was meeting Marie and the others in the pub. Some friends in the pub. Because I was meeting some friends in the pub. Everything in the flat seemed okay except for the fridge, which was lying face down on the floor. It was bizarre. I asked her what had happened and she said that Donny had done it because she'd forgot to put his beer in and he came home and didn't have any that was cold. He just pulled the fridge over and stormed out. I helped her get it back on its feet and asked if she wanted help clearing up the mess inside it, the spilt milk and broken eggs and stuff, but she said no she would do that and that I'd been a great help already. That was okay because I was in a bit of a rush anyway and I think she was frightened he might come back and find me in their flat. I mean, he went for me when I helped her after he'd stamped on her foot and that was just in the driveway. God knows what he'd have done if he'd found me inside. He's a nutter. I think he got really jealous about her talking to other men, so I left her to it. That would have been the last time ... I got changed and stuff and went out to the pub. When I came home about half past eleven he was obviously back because there was a hell of a row going on again, crashing and banging and stuff. I don't know what time he got back. Yes, I do. I saw him heading back that way as I went in to town about an hour later. He might not have been going back to the flat, but he was heading back that way. I just left them to it and went to bed. I mean, they were always at it, it was normal, it was nothing unusual. It was an accident. I didn't. It was. She fell. But it was Friday. Friday. I helped her with the fridge on Friday.