Raspberry
Written by Ben Tallon
Diane fought with the aerial. The bend her nephew had put in it proved fatal, so she thumbed the radio off at the mains and shook her head. It was raining and the forecast said it would be wet until tomorrow morning. She watched next door's cat dart across the garden. It was bleak out there but it didn't matter. She was out later. It had been three years. No real reason. She just kept saying no to social invitations opting instead for low-budget documentaries about alien abductions. It had become quite the vice. She didn’t know how she felt about a chip up the nose.
The bath taps squealed and the cascading water stopped. She stared at the soapy bubbles, trying to predict which ones would pop and vanish next. She always missed them. Slowly, she grew aware of Steve Greasley shouting again. The thin walls gave her a running commentary of his life. This time it was about someone not putting a lid back on something properly, how he was sick of it. Wanker.
She chose not to wash her hair, so forty minutes later, dry, dressed, and more awake, she made an impromptu decision to walk down to the shop and buy a bottle of prosecco. Fuck it, if we're being posh... she thought, and tossed a punnet of finest raspberries into her basket with gleeful abandon.
Carrier bag in hand, her anticipation for the night out catching fire, Diane strode back and as she arrived back at the house she was shocked to see two police officers banging on next door. Hysterical howling from in there could be heard out in the street. Could this be the day Veronica Greasley buckled under the strain of her arsehole husband?
One of the officers planted his feet and drove his shoulder into the aged door. It offered little resistance and Diane flew down her hallway, into the kitchen, where she grabbed a short glass and pressed it to the wall. This had been almost ten years in the making. Diane hoped it had really gone off in there. A decade of passive aggression over trivial neighbourly matters, snide remarks on the drive, and a complete disregard for her night shift sleeping patterns might finally be ready to pay off with beautiful comeuppance. With her other hand, she tore at the raspberries, greedily palmed in a fistful while she soaked in the sounds of domestic bedlam. Things smashed. Veronica screamed and snarled. Steve's threats became cartoonishly violent, and far-fetched until they slowed and melted into childlike, muffled pleas for mercy. She messaged the group to tell the girls she might be slightly late. Who needed a radio?