Soon Brian found himself tapping away to the rhythm of the song. Its texture teasing him. He was in the presence of something special and longed to fully taste it. He followed the sound from living room to hallway where the tone was more prominent. Brian moved back and forth, searching for the optimum listening position. The open wardrobe blocked the wall, separating his and his neighbour’s apartment.
Only one thing for it—he opened the door and leant inside, straining to hear.
A stack of towels blocked the back of the wardrobe. He pushed them aside, longing for a place to rest his ear—some of the tower of towels toppled over and flopped to the floor. He reached out to catch them but wound up smacking his right elbow against the metal hanging bar which struck the floor.
Expenses spared, huh?
Brian retrieved the bar and tried fixing it back in place when he noticed the piece where it connected to the wall was loose. He pressed it in, but it wouldn’t budge. Prying his fingers underneath, Brian felt to see if there were nails holding the wall piece in position. As he dug deeper, the damn thing came off in his hands. It was nothing more than a painted piece of plasterboard. Bloody hell! He’d have to make a call to the estate agents first thing in the morning. There was no way the piece would stay up on its own, and he didn’t have any nails, or even a hammer to set it back.
Then he noticed the peephole.
Light shining from it.
It gazed directly into his neighbour’s apartment and was the exact size of his eyeball. As if someone had made it especially for him, and only him.
He peeked for a second, catching a silhouette, but was embarrassed, quickly turning away and stepping out of the open wardrobe. He was no creep. He put the towels back, concealing the hole and backing away.
In the living room, Brian examined the last of the unpacking, determined to finish even if it meant pulling an all-nighter. As he knifed open the tall cardboard box, the one with the fun stuff—CDs, DVDs, video games—all he could think about was that hole.
And the music continued to play.
Singing to him.
Imploring him.
Surely he could take a peek to see which room the hole peered into. If there was music, perhaps there was a party. He could grab a couple of beers and his best bottle of whiskey, knock on his neighbour’s door, and introduce himself to a whole community of people. And if there was no party, well, he could see how his neighbour had kitted out the place—it might even provide him with some inspiration for furnishing his own pad. Ways to inject a bit of character. He pulled out a fat stack of DVDs. Sleep Tight stared back at him. On the cover, a single eye peeped through a crack in the door as an unclothed woman slept.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Brian shouted to an empty apartment.
He didn’t remember much about the film other than the chap responsible for [Rec], Jaume Balagueró, had directed it, and it featured a creepy apartment caretaker who’d developed an obsession with one of his tenants. He’d liked watching her. He’d enjoyed peeping. The caretaker was far removed from Brian. Brian wasn’t the type of bloke to peep. To prove the point, he wrote a note on a yellow Post-it and affixed it to the fridge so he could address things in the morning: “Call estate agents about hole.” He poured a large measure of bourbon, put on some Roger Waters, and resumed unpacking. And he did not peep.