The Neighbour

Roger had always had a morbid fascination with obituaries. He found reading the trials and tribulations of lives lived and ceased enthralling. Adventures that could be enjoyed vicariously through the inky pages while slouching in an armchair with a cup of tea. It was during one typical morning and a flit through the day’s deaths that Roger discovered his neighbour had passed away. There, beneath the grainy photo, was the name Harold Smeld, a name Roger had never known until now. He tested the name on his tongue and a pang of regret swirled around his navel for a fleeting moment. ‘SMELD, Harold, aged 72, passed away on Tuesday 27th May. Widower, Father, may he rest in peace.’ An odd sensation of unease crawled down Roger’s neck, he lowered the paper and moved to the kitchen, thumbing the kettle into action. He rested his elbows on the counter and plopped his chin into his hands, gazing out at the house next door. It bore all the signs of a house that wasn’t a home. The walls were marred with paint-less patches, the colour having long been carried away on the edge of a breeze and the windowsills drooped, forlorn, away from the windows towards the overgrown garden. Perhaps a new person would move in and restore life to the old property, Roger mused, pouring milk into his mug and watching it billow in the brown liquid. He returned to his chair and slumped back down. Maybe a family with noisy young children would move in, the thought provoked a grimace and a shudder. He took a sip from his mug, eyes narrowed. They would probably have a yappy little dog too. He pushed the thought away with a definitive shake of the head, that house was too much work for a young family. It was probably haunted too, Harold seemed the type to haunt.

He peered down once more at the photo of his neighbour, could they not find one of him smiling? The man had always been an enigma to Roger, 35 feet apart for 5 years and yet he couldn’t even hazard a guess at the colour of the man’s eyes or the sound of his voice. He had attempted to shout greetings over the fence, during the first year, but only ever received panicked grumbles in response and so they had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Roger’s only sightings of Harold were brief and rare, either in the windows of his home, or scurrying along the garden path to his barn. He had never seen Harold leave his house. He was sure he must have done, but it could only be during the night on nocturnal jaunts. For a period after this realisation, Roger had really considered that his neighbour could be an unhinged man with a taste for the blood of men named Roger. He would lay in bed and listen to Harold creak around his old barn, convincing himself he wouldn’t kill the Roger next door. Too traceable. Or maybe he just didn’t know he lived next door to a Roger. Alarming.

As Roger’s life had changed, he grew to appreciate the distance his neighbour kept. Returning home to the silence was a pleasant reprieve from the overbearing obsession his family had developed. Even during the moments of insufferable loneliness and despair, he reminded himself there was a man just next door and they were both alone, together. A shared loneliness felt less alone. It was that melancholy thought that carried him out of the pits he so often fell into. As he stared at the stranger on the page, he wondered if he had ever found comfort in having Roger next door. He doubted it, but he hoped so.

Only once had Roger seen his neighbour use his front door, it had been a rainy Spring and Harold was crying. There was a young woman there, she was upset and she was angry, she had stormed from the house and driven away. Roger had seen her visit before, but he never saw her visit again. Nobody visited Harold. Guilt lurched in Roger’s stomach. But he had tried to talk to him, his mind snapped to defend against the feeling in his abdomen. Maybe twice, that’s all you tried. He looked down at the paper in his hands and read the brief obituary once more, no adventure, no love. It wasn’t the first obituary that had clung to Roger and it surely wouldn’t be the last, but it felt the most personal. For the first time, it wasn’t what it said, that got to him, it was what it didn’t say.

****

The mystery of Harold from next door, was an unfathomable, unanswerable tug on the consciousness that now plagued Roger. There had to have been more to Harold’s life, but how could he ever begin to find out? He mused as such during his idle hours for weeks until, as if by divine intervention, the answer landed on his door mat.

Roger Houlk

6 Prinsley Drive

Twincoat

Colmeshire

CL45 1NH

Dear Mr Houlk,

I am writing to inform you that my father has named you as a beneficiary in his will. I am afraid, however, he was not clear with what exactly he would like you to receive. He asked that you be granted entrance to his barn and stated that you would know what to take.

I realise this must be hard for you as I gather the two of you were close, you were the only person named in the will, other than myself. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for being there for my Father when I am ashamed to say, I couldn’t be. It gives me great joy to know he was not always alone as I had feared.

I will be arriving at the house on Saturday 26th June and would like to invite you to join me and collect your belongings from the barn.

Yours Sincerely,

Samantha Smeld

Roger read and re-read the letter until numbness replaced the guilt. Harold had known his name? Harold had left him something? An unwelcome image of murder paraphernalia hanging in the barn stirred the guilt once more. A childish thought Roger.

While the guilt lingered in the days leading to Saturday, curiosity championed all other feelings. What on Earth, could Harold have wanted him to have? He had often wondered about the old barn, as miserable looking as the house and yet an air of mystery and excitement had always surrounded it. Harold had spent most of his time in the barn, often late into the night. But what did he do in there? Roger was finally going to find out and perhaps this could offer Harold the obituary he truly deserved.

****

Roger smoothed back his hair and tugged his beard into some semblance of tidy. For the first time, he crossed the line into his neighbour’s property. He rapped an apprehensive hand against the flaking wood and held his breath. Samantha Smeld offered him a wan smile as the door creaked open. He smiled sheepishly in return and gave her a quiet hello. He recognised her. She had been sad and angry. She had left. He peered past her into the dark hallway beyond, hoping to see a sliver of Harold, something he could talk fondly about to his daughter while he maintained the illusion he had saved him from misery. Samantha gazed at him for a moment, looking like she wanted to say something. Instead, she smiled at the floor and pressed a small key into Roger’s hand.

“Would you mind if I didn’t join you?” She said to his feet. “Memories...”

Roger choked an over enthusiastic response and watched as the door quietly clicked shut. His feet dragged him around to the back of the house while his stomach stayed somewhere near the porch. The barn looked even more dishevelled up close. He released a shaky breath and inserted the key into the lock. Dust motes danced around his shadow in the crack of sunlight, otherwise, the barn was cast in darkness. He felt around the wooden wall until his fingers ran over a switch.

Roger was back at the house before he realised he had left. He sank to a crouch and felt the warmth spill down his cheeks. Emotions battered around his chest like a hurricane, guilt, gratitude, heartbreak. He needed to leave, he needed to get away from the barn. He felt a delicate arm loop around his shoulders, a floral perfume filled his nose. His face rested against a shoulder, his tears spilled through a blouse. Her tears warmed his chest. Two strangers, unified in grief. Time seemed to stand still, he didn’t want to let go of her and she clung to him. Only the eventual searing in his crouching knees pulled him from their abyss. He reluctantly let her go but she stayed close. He looked down at her kind, puffy eyes through his own. She held out a hand to him.

“We’ll face it together.” He took her hand and she lead him into the barn. Every inch of wall was filled with beauty, it even spilled out on to the floor. Intricate oil paintings of people, of love, of happiness. Roger avoided looking to the left side again, he was already starting to feel embarrassed for crying in front of Samantha. He focused on a painting hanging from a pillar to his right. A young Harold beamed out from the canvas, his arm affectionately wrapped around a beautiful woman who cradled a baby Samantha. On the floor beneath, propped against the pillar, Samantha as a child, learning to ride a bike. The detail in the paintings was talent beyond Roger’s belief. He could not comprehend how a hand could produce such wonder. He ran his finger over the grooves, lovingly applied to the canvas. He had captured the joy of the moment, it was palpable just from looking at the faces in his paintings. He took a wary step to the left, the next pillar boasted the same woman as the first, her humour and kindness reverberated from the flat surface, her resemblance to Samantha, uncanny.

“The Father I knew died with her.” Samantha’s voice, still raw with emotion. “I couldn’t cope any more.” Roger pulled her into an embrace as tears filled her eyes again. After a while in comfortable silence, Samantha’s heaving chest calmed.

“Is she your wife?” She pulled away and looked at one of the paintings on the left.

“Was.” Roger croaked, his eyes fixed on his beloved. “Leukaemia.”

“She’s beautiful..." Samantha said in awe "I'm so sorry.” Roger nodded and looked away, his eyes stinging. Samantha moved between the paintings, “Is this your garden?” Roger followed her line of sight, grateful for the distraction. Before him, flowers of every colour bursting from the ground, luscious green grass, trees dancing in the breeze, frozen in time. He nodded but the air felt stifling.

“I need to step outside, I need some air.” He retreated from the barn and looked across at his own home, the walls marred with paint-less patches, windowsills drooping, forlorn, to an overgrown garden. He couldn’t remove her paintings from the barn, not until he fixed this. She wouldn’t want to see it like this.

****

Samantha pulled up to a hearty wave from her neighbour. Her garden was unrecognisable. He had mowed, plucked, trimmed and planted, her house was finally starting to look like a home again. His young dog barked it’s own greeting and she scratched him between the ears.

“Tea?”

“Of course!” Roger grinned and followed her indoors. They passed the painting of her family in the hallway and she ran a loving hand along the frame. Roger produced his notebook and started asking his usual questions about her Father’s life, insisting the book would be ready soon.