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Chapter One
The shouting starts at around seven in the evening.
A hot day, an oppressive dusk, and my neighbours the
length of the street fling their windows wide open in
the vain hope of admitting a breeze. The air smells
singed. At first the voices are no more than a whisper.
I have gone to the front of the house to put out the
rubbish and, this being prime soap time, I assume the
noise is scripted and broadcast. One of the voices is
male, one female, but this early in the argument restraint
still keeps them low if urgent and I cannot tell one
word from another even if I wanted to.
Within half an hour, shrieks of indignation and hoots
of ridicule are bouncing off our terraced, slate-clad
walls, then back onto the curlicued red-brick mansions
opposite. The voices seem to be amplified in the still
air, and accusation and counter-accusation flow in through
the open windows undistorted and devastating. By this
point I am kneeling on the floor wresting the twins
into their pyjamas but I am soon distracted by the yelling.
I sit back on my heels to listen, letting go of Hannah,
who crawls off cheerfully, believing herself for once
victorious in the nightly struggle to go to bed naked.
I am tempted to go to the window to get a better sense
of where the voices come from, but they have enough
problems without me sticking my nose in.
‘Of course you don’t understand, you selfish
bastard,’ a woman screams, ‘you won’t
let me…’ Here her voice continues, something
about spending money, but a man’s voice is overlaid,
calling the woman a bitch repeatedly until she falls
silent. Unchallenged now by her, he gains in volume.
‘You’re a lying, blood-sucking whore,’
he yells, his voice breaking with emotion, muttering
something that I cannot hear, then roaring, ‘What
the fuck’s been going on in my house?’
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