Chapter 1 #2
What reports? I type back.
No response.
THUD.
Right. Enough mystery. Time for practical solutions.
I head for the door. The leasing office sits three blocks south, squeezed between a Turkish barber and a shop that sells nothing but phone cases.
I've been there exactly twice, once to sign the lease, once to argue about the deposit when the previous tenant's pet somehow damaged walls I'd never seen.
The hallway feels different now. Heavier. Like the building's holding its breath.
Mrs. Patterson emerges from the lift again, this time clutching a small dog that resembles an agitated mop.
"Still going on, isn't it?" She adjusts her grip on the dog. "Precious here hasn't stopped trembling."
Precious looks like it trembles professionally, but I nod sympathetically.
"I'm heading to the leasing office. File a proper complaint."
"Good luck, dear. I tried calling them an hour ago. Line was busy."
Of course it was.
THUD.
The sound follows me down the stairwell, echoing off Victorian brick like the building's calling after me. Don't leave us alone with this.
Outside, London reasserts its normalcy. Double-decker buses lumber past belching exhaust. Schoolchildren argue about football. A cyclist in lycra weaves through traffic with the confidence of someone who's never met mortality.
I walk fast, heels clicking against pavement in a rhythm that doesn't quite match my heartbeat. Three blocks south, past the newsagent where I buy emergency chocolate, past the pub that's changed names four times since I moved here but still serves the same disappointing fish and chips.
Harrington Property Management occupies a ground-floor office that's trying too hard to look professional.
Glass frontage, minimalist signage, reception desk that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
A young woman with perfectly straightened hair types at a computer, her nails clicking against keys like tiny castanets.
"Excuse me." I approach the desk. "I need to file a noise complaint for 847 Oak Street."
She looks up with the expression of someone who's had this conversation twelve times already today.
"Name?"
"Maya Ruiz. Flat 4C."
Clicking sounds as she pulls up my file. "What kind of noise complaint?"
"There's a sound. A thumping. It's been going on for hours, coming from inside the building structure. Very loud, very regular."
"Mm-hmm." She's not actually listening. Her eyes stay focused on the computer screen. "Is it a neighbor? Music, television, domestic disturbance?"
"No, it's not a neighbor. It's coming from the walls themselves."
"Right." More clicking. "Any idea which neighbor might be causing the disturbance?"
We're not communicating. I take a breath, try again.
"It's not a neighbor. It's structural. The entire building's making this sound."
"I see." She opens a desk drawer, pulls out a photocopied form. "You'll want to fill out a tenant dispute resolution request."
The form's title reads: NEIGHBOR NOISE COMPLAINT - RESIDENTIAL DISPUTES.
"This isn't about neighbors. This is about the building itself making unexplained noises."
"All noise complaints go through the same process." She slides the form across the desk with the enthusiasm of someone explaining why water is wet. "Fill this out, return it within five business days, and we'll schedule a mediation session."
"Mediation with who? The building?"
"With the parties involved in the dispute."
I read the form. It asks for names, flat numbers, descriptions of specific incidents. There's a section for Preferred Resolution Outcomes and another for Previous Attempts at Communication.
"This doesn't apply to my situation."
"It's the standard form for all residential complaints."
"But what if the complaint isn't about residents?"
"Then you'd file a maintenance request."
Progress. Finally.
"Perfect. I'd like to file a maintenance request."
"For what type of maintenance?"
"The mysterious thumping sounds coming from inside the building."
She blinks twice, like I've asked her to explain quantum physics.
"What kind of sounds?"
"Thumping. Regular, rhythmic thumping. Every twelve seconds."
"Is it the heating system?"
"No."
"Plumbing?"
"No." I want to huff, sarcastically.
"Construction next door?"
"It's coming from inside my building."
"Right." She turns back to her computer. "I'll need you to be more specific about the maintenance issue."
How much more specific can you get than 'mysterious thumping sounds'?
"The building is making loud, regular, unexplained noises that are disturbing residents."
"What kind of noises?"
We've entered conversational purgatory. I lean against the reception desk, gathering patience from whatever reserves I have left.
"Imagine someone dropping a bowling ball. Now imagine they're doing it every twelve seconds, from inside your walls."
"Hmm." She clicks something on her screen. "That would be... structural?"
"Yes. Structural."
"I'll need to transfer you to our maintenance department."
She picks up a phone, dials an extension. Waits. Waits longer.
"They're not picking up."
Of course they're not.
"Can I leave a message?"
"They don't take messages. You'll need to call during business hours."
"It is business hours."
"For the maintenance department, business hours are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons."
Today is Tuesday. It's currently afternoon.
"So they should be available now."
"Unless they're on site calls."
I close my eyes. Count to five. When I open them, she's holding out the neighbor dispute form again.
"This really is the best option. Fill it out, describe the sounds, and we'll see what we can do."
The form feels slightly damp in my hands. Previous tenants' frustration has probably soaked into the paper fibers.
"And if I fill this out, someone will actually investigate the building?"
"Someone will schedule a mediation session."
"With the building?"
"With whoever's causing the noise."
We're stuck in an administrative loop. She can't conceive of a complaint that doesn't involve human conflict, and I can't explain building-based mysteries to someone who's never encountered a problem that can't be solved with proper forms.
I take the paper. "Fine. I'll fill this out."
"Return it within five business days."
"Got it."
"And include any documentation. Photos, recordings, witness statements."
"Witness statements for building noises?"
"If other residents have been disturbed."
Mrs. Patterson and her trembling dog. There's one witness.
I fold the form and head for the door. Behind me, the receptionist returns to her clicking, having successfully processed another difficult tenant through the proper channels.
The walk home feels longer. Maybe because I'm carrying the brunt of bureaucratic futility, or maybe because the afternoon light's shifted, casting different shadows between the buildings. London does that—changes its personality based on cloud cover and time of day.
THUD.
I hear it from half a block away. The sound carries through brick and mortar, through Victorian architecture that's survived two world wars and countless urban renewal projects. It shouldn't be audible from the street, but there it is. Steady as a metronome.
Jeffrey waves from behind the Brew & Bytes window as I pass. I wave back, wondering if he can hear it too, or if I'm the only one tuned to this particular frequency of architectural distress.
THUD.
Louder now. Insistent.
I climb the front steps to my building, keys ready. The entrance hall smells different, not floor polish and fake meadows, but something earthier. Older. Like the building's exhaling decades of accumulated history.
The lift takes forever. Between the ground floor and the first, I count three THUDs. Between the first and second, four more. The sound's getting stronger.
Or I'm getting closer to its source.
Fourth floor. My hallway stretches ahead, familiar but somehow altered. The carpet pattern looks different under the afternoon light streaming through the window at the far end. More complex. Like it's trying to tell me something.
THUD.
The sound hits as I unlock my door, so strong it vibrates through the key into my hand. Whatever's happening, it's reaching peak intensity.
Inside my flat, everything's exactly as I left it. Laptop closed on the coffee table. Abandoned cortado growing a skin of disappointment. Journal still splayed open on the floor.
But the air feels charged. Electric. Like the moment before a thunderstorm when every surface hums with potential energy.
THUD.
I drop my bag and pull out the dispute form. The paper feels ridiculous now—a bureaucratic band-aid for something that defies standard categories. But it's what I have.
Section 1: Description of Complaint.
I uncap a pen and start writing: Regular thumping sounds emanating from building structure. Frequency: every 12 seconds. Duration: ongoing since approximately 10:30 AM. Volume: increasingly loud, causing vibrations throughout flat.
THUD.
The pen skips across the paper. Even my handwriting's being affected.
Section 2: Parties Involved.
I view the blank lines. What am I supposed to write? Unknown entity causing mysterious building percussion?
THUD.
The coffee table shifts slightly. My laptop slides an inch closer to the edge.
I write: Source unknown. Not attributed to any specific resident.
Section 3: Previous Attempts at Resolution.
Contacted leasing office. Spoke with reception staff. No resolution offered.
THUD.
This is pointless. Even if I complete the form, even if someone actually reads it, what's going to happen? They'll schedule a mediation session with a building?
But it's documentation. Evidence that I'm not imagining things. When Detective Inspector Lowery calls again—and she will call again—I'll have proof that I reported the disturbances through proper channels.
THUD.
A new text message arrives.
Maya, this is DI Lowery again. We need to meet today. There have been developments.
Text back: What kind of developments?
THUD.
The response comes quickly: We can discuss that in person. Are you at home now?
A chill runs down my spine. How does she know where I live?
THUD.
I type: How did you get my address?
No response.
THUD.
The sound's changed rhythm.