Until this afternoon, a woman lived next door. She has mental health problems. My kitchen faces her front door. I work in my kitchen so I saw her come and go. When I wasn't working I would often hear the jangling of her keys, and the sound of her twisted iron security gate opening and closing.
She is Irish, brusque, and a bit frightening. She told me that the plants in my kitchen window box were dying. She didn't want anyone thinking they were her plants. I started removing the dead leaves and I asked her for advice on watering. She helped me bring my landlord's potted wild ivy back to life and told me that it would bring prosperity.
Then, over the last couple of weeks, she got steadily worse. She didn't sleep much, and I know because I don't sleep much either. She screamed anger and accusations all night. One morning at 4:30am she emerged to cry "Bring out your dead!". I didn't know whether to laugh or be horrified. She smoked continuously. Her voice sounded like the twisted metal of her security gate. I think that was the idea.
Two nights ago I heard her in her flat, shouting to no-one. I went out onto our shared 3rd floor balcony to check the plants. She came out of her door. It was a warm evening. We talked. She offered me a Gin and Tonic, then some Earl Grey tea, and we sat on the balcony until after midnight. She told me about her money, and how everyone wants it; her house, its false ceiling and how she is bugged; her enemies, and how they are everywhere; her life, and how she attended her own funeral. She also told me about her son, the next prime minister, who hadn't visited for a year. I saw photos of her family and of her son. I washed her dishes for her and went home to work.
This morning I woke up at 6:00am to hear her hammering on our other neighbours' doors and windows—with a hammer. She smashed a window in her own front door. Later, still brandishing the hammer, she threatened another neighbour, calling him an Irish c**t. I leaned out of my window and asked her how she was. I offered her a cup of tea and she invited me around to her flat. I took two cups of Earl Grey and four New Zealand Toffee Pops around on a saucer. She sat me in a corner and told me about her namesake saint, the saint of childless couples. She put sticking plaster on the cuts she had given herself smashing her door. I asked her why she was up so early today. I asked too many questions. She threw me out of the door, and my saucer out the window. I realised later that a lot of her son's property had been thrown out of the window already.
I called the police. They couldn't help, and referred me to the Mental Health Care Unit. They only had an answering machine. I had called them from the park out of fear that my neighbour would overhear, or perhaps read my mind. Perhaps I also needed to be somewhere where it didn't feel quite so real. I looked up SANE and spoke to a very supportive woman called Fenella who helped me find local council phone numbers. I called Islington Council and they already knew who I was talking about. They called me back to say a team was on its way.
As I write this the police, and a team from Islington Council Mental Health Unit are taking her. She is screaming again, "You bastards. Where are my cigarettes, matches? Get out of my flat. You're hurting my arms." I hope that her son will know what to do when they call.
People have gathered in the backyard where her son's things lie scattered about. A man from the council is cleaning them up. We are talking about what a lovely lady she was.
Update: Today she came home. The first thing she did was shout to the whole block, "Hello Whitehall Mansions, I'm back, and you're leavin'!"
Update: It seems that our neighbour returned only briefly. I'm not sure why, and under what circumstances. Nicola and I have moved out now and our landlord has moved back in.
