Over the next three weeks, as festive August surrendered to stately September, Cat ignored Agnes’s suggestion about the mysterious ‘meeting’ and deflected any questions about the ongoing problem with the guy upstairs. As predicted, her supervisor Nick Bellamy was less than impressed with the deal she’d cut with Connor Bailey in Callander and even sought interdepartmental advice about overturning it. When the legal team suggested that might create more problems than it was worth – the stolen amounts being so minor – Cat was removed from field investigations for two weeks and ordered to put together an intra-office lecture on a new study, written up in Psychology Today, measuring the traits inherent in a fraudster’s mind.
Trying to reduce this into the form of a soundbite-friendly speech drove Cat to the brink of exasperation:
Insensitivity (ß = .16), Self-Interest (ß = .27) and Moral Disengagement (ß = .12) increased in measures consistent with the HEXACO model (see Chin, Monagle and Rodway, 2008) but well beneath the threshold of expected Psychopathy (ß = .38) as predicted by Contoyannis, Arrigo and Ahern (2012), keeping in mind the free parameters, manifest variables, and the possibilities of misspecifications in the log-likelihood ratio (LLR).
In better times Cat might have made sure she understood it, at least in essence; now, she resorted to quoting large chunks of it verbatim, feigning full comprehension of its principles, and trusting that no one would seek a coherent explanation. And mercifully no one did.
In truth, she lacked the energy to concentrate. She had taken to drinking at least five cups of coffee a day. She had sacrificed nearly all of her exercise regimen. Her muscles had loosened. There were loose hairs on her pillow each morning. Dark circles under her eyes. And a subcutaneous pimple on her chin. Though she disliked the idea that she was vain, Cat had always been proud of her clear skin, her lustrous hair, her general fitness. Now she felt like a frump.
She had tried fitting gel plugs into her ears every night. She had experimented with earmuffs and headphones. All-night music on her clock radio. ‘White noise’ to harmonise with Moyle’s racket. Prescription sleeping tablets from the NHS. She had even tried spending the night in every room in her flat barring the bathroom. She’d slept on the living room sofa. On the floor beside her desk. Even, on one especially torrid night, on the kitchen table. But there were no easy answers.
Clap clap clap, went Moyle’s boots on the sixty-six steps.
Kee-waaah! went the pneumatic hinge.
Ka-LUNK! went his front door.
Creak creak creak, went the floorboards.
Kawissssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, went his toilet.
Whump! went something dropped on the floor.
Nnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr! went a chair he’d dragged into position.
Twang, went his electric guitar.
‘Aaaaarrgggggghhhhh,’ growled the man himself
And all this at 11.30 p.m., at 12.12 a.m., at 1.22 a.m., at 2.06 a.m., at 3.35 a.m., at 4.01 a.m., at 5.26 a.m.
There was simply no getting used to it. Cat decided that, paradoxically, it was not the sounds themselves that were so disruptive. It was Moyle’s blatant disregard for her welfare. The seething rage that accompanied every one of his louder noises precluded the possibility of just shrugging it off and sliding back into sleep. She couldn’t treat him like a noisy songbird or a barking dog or something else that could not be controlled. Nor could she convince herself, as much as she tried, that it was just part of the local culture – something she needed to acclimatise to, and quickly, if she wanted to fit in. Even her willingness to entertain the idea that she was punishing herself with some form of neurosis – because in her heart she didn’t believe she deserved full happiness – failed to help. And the sporadic nature of the noises meant that there was no point trying to sleep until Moyle himself was at rest – and typically that was not until four or five o’clock in the morning.
Again and again homicidal fantasies ranged through her delirium. She saw herself painting his door handle with a deadly toxin. Climbing from her window to the top of the building, in the middle of the night, and somehow weakening the roof so that it collapsed on him while he slept. ‘Accidentally’ dislodging her window box, from forty feet above, just as he arrived at the stair door. She even saw herself buying a Magnum – this wasn’t America but she figured she could get one if she really tried – and blowing him away as he came up the steps.
Each of these imaginings offered nothing but a fleeting catharsis, and again and again she awoke recoiling with shame. But the problem never faded.
Frantically warding off fond memories of Miami – the palm trees, the art deco architecture, the melting pot intensity – she started studying the Edinburgh real estate websites again. Alas, there seemed no apartments remotely in the same league, and certainly not the same price, as the one she already owned. And any change of premises would mean a substantial hit to her finances – stamp duty, agency commissions, moving costs, and so on. Besides, she simply couldn’t tolerate the idea of palming the problem off to someone else. Some innocent buyer like herself, full of hopes and dreams, eagerly moving into the flat only to discover the horror of the guy upstairs. It would be like selling a house you knew was riddled with termites or destined to be demolished in a freeway extension. No amount of rationalisation – trying to convince herself that Europeans are more tolerant of neighbourly intrusions – could satisfy Cat’s conscience on the matter. Nor could she imagine leasing the place out, quite apart from the fact any self-respecting tenant would quickly pull out, or complain constantly of the conditions, or cancel the lease entirely (she was unfamiliar with the relevant Scottish regulations).
In desperation she wrote to the department of Building Standards and Public Safety, seeking proof that the separating floor had been soundproofed to existing standards. But in response she received only a muted letter stating that the department’s power was limited ‘where there is no risk to public safety’. They had, however, written to the registered owner of the property ‘outlining their obligations as per Building (Scotland) Regulations 2004’. Cat was further dismayed by the coda: ‘Should we fail to receive a reply, you may find that the most satisfactory conclusion involves legal action.’
Cat baulked at the prospect of summoning lawyers. She could live with toxic atmospheres – had done so during the crime syndicate investigation – but was reluctant to play the role, in her very first year in Scotland, of the litigious American.
She devised an alternative strategy whereby all the building’s tenants would sign a letter to the owner of the flat – Moyle’s aunt – matter-of-factly noting her nephew’s unsociable habits and imploring her to have a stern word with the lad. The spectre of an ASBO would be insinuated. But though Maxine and Michael agreed to be co-signatories – somewhat sceptically, as they seemed to think the aunt would take little notice – the gay guys in Number Three were in Majorca for a couple of months, the woman in Number Two didn’t want to get involved, and the Romanian couple renting Number One were standoffish, claiming they hadn’t heard any disruptive noises.
‘Oh, come on,’ Cat said to them. ‘Your place is right beside the stair door here. You must have heard him come home at all hours?’
But the couple, clearly averse to hostilities for whatever reason, looked away and would not reply.
Starved of the numbers necessary to constitute a rear guard, Cat elected not to send the letter after all.
She sought out a quotation from a soundproofing firm.
The avuncular tradesman who showed up to measure her ceilings asked her – in a wonderful brogue, full of ‘naes’ and ‘oots’ and delightfully rolling ‘r’s – exactly what sort of noise was coming through: ‘Airborne or impact?’
‘Both,’ said Cat.
He scratched his stubble for a while and told her the only real answer was suspended ceilings for the whole flat, ‘Tho’ that’ll take a guid four or sux unches off yer cillin, and yer cillins are low enough noo.’
Cat thought she understood. ‘You’re saying that you’d need to hang a new soundproofed ceiling under the existing ceiling, and fill the cavity with soundproof insulation or whatever?’ She’d done her homework.
‘Aye,’ said the tradesman, impressed.
‘And how much would that cost, exactly?’
‘For the hull place?’
‘For the whole place.’
He stroked his chin again, and narrowed his eyes, and looked almost apologetic when he said, ‘Ah couldnae do it for less than ten thoosand, lass, and that’s jest for the cillins.’
Cat grimaced. ‘Why do you say “just for the ceilings”?’
‘There’s the wulls as well.’
‘The wulls?’
‘Aye, the wulls. Sound leaks doon the wulls as often as it comes through the cillins.’
‘I see,’ Cat said, nodding. ‘So you think I’d need to soundproof the walls as well?’
‘It’s the only way to be sho-ar.’
Cat nodded. ‘And that would add another ten thousand to the bill, I assume?’
‘Ah could do the wulls for five.’
Fifteen thousand, thought Cat. It would carve a sizeable chunk out of her diminishing savings. Then again, the purchase price of the place had been a steal. Maybe she could combine the two amounts and try to convince herself she had paid the proper price after all.
But she hated the idea of lowering her ceilings – as the tradesman himself had noted, they were already conspicuously low – and she couldn’t really be sure that the added strain on the joists wouldn’t make the floor above even more prone to creaks (one of the potential drawbacks of suspended ceilings, if what the Internet forums said was true). Moreover, she dreaded the possibility of discovering – after defacing her own property and parting with a gruesome amount of money – that Moyle was preparing to move out anyway. That’d be just her luck.
‘I just need to be sure of one thing,’ she said. ‘If I go ahead with all this stuff – suspended ceilings and what have you – you can guarantee that the noise will be reduced, right? Enough for me to get a decent sleep?’
Now at just that moment – before the tradesman could even answer – Moyle erupted from hibernation in the bedroom upstairs. It was as if he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation, awaiting the right cue, and was intent on proving that any measures against him would be futile.
Creak creak creak, went the floorboards.
PLONK, went something dropped on the floor.
Nnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr! went a dragged chair.
Kah-lunk, went a door.
Looking to the tradesman, Cat discovered that he had gone as white as his overalls. He was shaking. Because he was mortified.
‘Lassie,’ the man said hoarsely, swallowing and licking his lips, ‘you’ve got yerself a prrrrrrrrrrroblem.’