Chapter 4
It began with music, loud music, 11pm and loud and raucous sounds were emanating from the unit directly opposite my balcony. It wasn’t the glee club; it was the new people, the ones who had moved in that morning, the dreaded English backpackers.
The music continued to 1 am, then the drunken guitar playing started. They had set up on the common grassed area and were playing Johnny Cash songs until three. There was no sleep that night, and I spent the next day singing “Ring of Fire,” and trying to figure out whether I was going mad or whether Madden really was a vampire.
Then came the rubbish. I was walking down the stairs a couple of days later when I saw George, the cute young maintenance man and cleaner. He was struggling with piles of rubbish which had been dumped in the lobby.
“Hi George what’s up?” I asked brightly.
“Rubbish, rubbish everywhere, “He grunted “Comes from there.” He pointed towards a door.
“There?” I asked.
“Yes, Englishmen”
“Ahhh” I sighed, “backpackers.”
George grunted as he removed the rubbish and sweat glistened on his smooth dark skin,
“Still think they own the place those bloody English.”
The English backpackers quickly became the most hated people in the building. Mark and Anna lived next door to them and were furious, the English antics had disturbed their kids; everybody was fuming.
Then one night, somebody was incoherently screaming under my window. I looked at my old reliable digital clock, the red digits, 2.18 stared back, glowing in the dark. Screaming, it registered in my mind, sitting up I had one immediate thought, “Vampire.”
I looked through the window and in the courtyard below there was a strange scene.
Two slender young men were screaming, then laughing, lights were appearing around the courtyard but the screaming and laughing continued. There was no sign of Madden, just two drunken fools.
It made me angry. The anger rose through my body, my legs tensed, my stomach knotted, my chest tightened and the anger reached my head bursting to escape.
“Shut up! Shut up!” I yelled through the window.
The two drunken hooligans gazed at my head peeking out the window.
“Oh, Shut up, shut up.” They called back in a high falsetto.
“Some of us have to work in the morning.” I responded.
“Some of us have to work in the morning” they repeated mockingly.
“I’m calling the cops.”
That stopped them, one bent down and picked up something from the ground, he straightened and threw it directly at me, the window shattered.
“Shaddup you slag.” His English accent echoed through the night, and they both laughed as they staggered into the building.
I sat on my bed, the shattered pieces of my window around me and I was scared. Too scared to call the cops, and furious, too furious to think or sleep.
I got the window fixed the next day, and that evening, decided to treat myself to dinner and a movie. On the way out I paused at the lift, it was stuck, as it often was. Voices were coming from inside its doors and I could hear muffled shouts, perhaps English accents, I wasn’t sure who or what was there, but I was running late for the movie and didn’t stop to find out.
The building was eerily quiet when I returned later that night. My feet echoed through the lobby. It was just past midnight and the only thing moving was a lone, half dead cockroach that met its maker on the sole of my shoe.
I waited for the lift. It creaked and groaned and the doors opened to reveal a sight so horrifying that it haunted my nightmares for years afterwards.
The bodies were splayed full stretch in agony, the fingers bloodied where they had tried to open the doors, the eyes were wide open and staring vacantly, and their union jack t shirts were ripped and torn. It was the English backpackers.
I panicked, stifled a scream. “This was my fault, I should have rung the lift people when I left the building. I’d go to gaol, they were dead, I was dead, everything was over” and I ran around in circles for a while, not sure what to do or what to say. Then it struck me, I turned to the only person I knew would be awake at this hour.
Madden opened his door, his dark hair was tousled as if he had been sleeping, he yawned over my head. “Daisi? What time is it? What’s wrong?”
Speechless I just motioned feebly towards the lift, he frowned in confusion. I took a deep breath, “C’mon”
He followed me to the lift, the doors opened and I pointed, my throat was clogged, my stomach churning, my head explosive.
Madden fixated on the bloody fingers, he looked from them to me and then said commandingly,
“I’ll take care of this Daisi.”
“We should call the police.” I stuttered.
“Nobody in the Presidio wants the police here.” He answered, “Go home, get some rest, I’ll sort it out.”
I was too confused and frightened to do anything but obey.
Over the next few days when I passed Madden’s door a warm smell of cooking wafted past my nose. I saw him occasionally, and he looked healthier, his cheeks were fuller, his face had lost its pale hue and showed a rosy glow.
I didn’t ask questions, and nobody missed the English backpackers.
About the Author
Daisi Malone lives in the Presidio building in Newtown, Sydney Australia with her two birds, Meep and Moop.
This is her first published story. Daisi has a blog at www.daisimalone.net and is on facebook, www.facebook.com/daisimalone The second story about Daisi’s life at the Presidio in Newtown- The Murmuring Lift is now available and has been published under the name Daisi Malone.
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