Sylvie gazes out over the bay as she contemplates the tragedy of the day's events. Her favourite part of the coast has an opaque appearance at sunset, like a vortex of Beaujolais. Frothed up waves, made pink from rose-tinged skies thunder up the beach, resonating booms against the rocky shore. The noise is tremendous, deafening at times, but she can think here, away from the racket her life has become since her new neighbours arrived. Despite the furious breakers and screaming gulls, she finds it peaceful, her priceless freedom, her escape. Compared to the incessant noise she has endured for the past six months, this is surely a haven.

The Sullivans had been trouble from the off. Barry and Norma played pounding music until late into the night and did nothing but fight. They should have been divorced a long time a go, so Sylvie thought, hearing the torrents of abuse erupting from their mouths the very first day they moved in. Two solitary houses, side-by-side amid idyllic countryside, should have been a heavenly existence but not since the arrival of the Sullivans. Now it was heaven no more.

They argued over the most inconsequential things too, one of them being the positioning of the cream leatherette sofa. It turned into a major war and Sylvie winced when Norma screamed at Barry to ‘Put the fucker back against the wall now before I fucking stab you!’ It had continued since then and their daily rants, done at such a sonorous pitch were commonplace. But all that was nothing compared to constant barking of Sheba, their vicious German Shepherd.

Sylvie had been looking forward to her retirement. After working in a noisy factory for thirty years, she longed for peace. Now it had been stolen by these neighbours from hell. Even pottering in her beloved garden was a pleasure she was being denied. Each time she ventured out, Sheba would leap at the fence snarling and barking with such ferocity that she seriously feared for her life. The wooden panels had worked so loose with the constant battering from the possessed canine, that all it would take was one more over-zealous thrust, and Sheba would have demolished it completely, then Sylvie would be dog meat. She trembled at this thought.

Sylvie loved animals. ’There are no bad dogs, only bad owners’ was her philosophy. She initially believed the same about Sheba, but had changed her mind and decided the dog was intrinsically evil, especially since her beloved cat had gone missing that very morning. She instinctively knew when Marmalade didn’t appear for her usual dish of milk and flaked fish that something terrible had happened, and it was with shivering anticipation she’d peered over her fence to investigate. Her face turned pale and she felt dizzy at the sight that greeted her. Sheba was over the far side of the Sullivan’s garden and appeared to be gnawing on a bone. Then Sylvie’s eyes caught sight of the ruby trail. It led to what looked like a bloody rag on the lawn. She let out horrified shriek when she spotted the ginger fur attached to it and what looked like the remains of a tail. Sheba, alerted by the commotion, had charged at the fence, finally breaking through the wooden panel and chased her as she fled to the safety of her kitchen. Breathless and distraught, she watched Sheba from her window pacing up and down her garden, growling and foaming at the mouth. She felt helpless, and a sudden surge of sickness swept through her as she ran to the sink to vomit.

Walking along the bay, Sylvie reflects on her futile attempts to get help from the authorities.

The police had told her to contact the council and the council had said they’d send someone round to interview her. That was six weeks ago and they were still yet to materialise. The one and only time she had timidly knocked on the Sullivan’s door, trying to quell the pounding of her heart as she waited for an answer, she had been met with abuse and told to ‘Fuck off, you moaning old bag’. She had retreated home and wept with frustration as music that was turned louder than ever filtered through the walls, then Barry and Norma erupted into yet another slanging match.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd had support from other neighbours, but there were no other houses for miles. Sylvie was alone and she felt nobody cared for her. Nobody at all, except for Marmalade and now she didn't even have her.

Sylvie stands on the rocks and breathes in the salt spray that spritzes upwards from the jagged granite. It’s tempting to just give up and let the fierce waves become her crumbling tombstone. It’s hypnotic, just one step and the foam will snatch her into its everlasting peace. She’s on the verge of letting go, willing herself to jump. She closes her eyes, the cold air bites at her lungs as she gulps it in. One step. One step. She leans forward, then something snaps and her nerve suddenly deserts her.

“Too much thinking time. Too much of a bloody coward!” Her words are snatched and lost on the wind as she steps back down onto the sand, now like emerald dust under shadows of approaching twilight. She crouches and grabs fistfuls of the jade grains, clenching tight until it cuts into her palms. A storm is raging on the horizon and she feels powerless against it - just like the Sullivans.

Shivering, she walks back along the desolate path that leads her home, choking back tears and the tight feeling in her throat as she remembers there will be no Marmalade to welcome her.

The music is still playing when she closes her front door. It seems to seep in through every pore of the walls. Sheba leaps at the kitchen window, barking ferociously, as Sylvie makes tea, then Barry and Norma join the cacophony. She abandons the tea and pours herself a large brandy. Sinking to her knees, she sobs wretched tears of helplessness while lifting the glass to her lips. Its comforting fire shoots along her arteries, and after a third glass her brain is suitably numb. Courage replaces timidity and she finds herself at the Sullivan’s door. After knocking several times to no avail, she tries the door and finds it unlocked.

“Hello? Could you get Sheba out of my garden please?”

Her voice is lost amongst the thumping music and the shouting of Barry and Norma as they hurl abuse at each other from the lounge.

Norma’s shrill voice cuts through the blare of the rest of the din. “Come near me again and I’ll fucking stab you! You fat bastard you!”

Sylvie feels light headed and brave. A cold anger eats at her insides as she walks through the hallway. The grim scenes of Marmalade play over in her head like a horror movie. It’s as if something has taken her over; she feels robotic when she enters the lounge. They are both standing there, Barry holds a broken beer glass at Norma’s face and Norma has a large kitchen knife pointed at Barry’s barrelled stomach. Neither hear nor notice Sylvie above the blare of music.

“Let me help you.” Sylvie’s voice is strange, rasping and full of hatred. She grabs the knife from Norma and plunges it effortlessly into first Barry’s and then Norma’s chest. They stand motionless for a few seconds, mouths opening as if to gulp in air, eyes wide in shock, before they topple like pins in a bowling alley.

“Strike!” Sylvie cries, “Straight through your nasty, shrivelled hearts.” Resuming her attack, she enjoys the satisfying feeling of pent up anger and frustration being released with every slash. She watches while the sickly, cream carpet begins to turn a much more tasteful claret before switching off the music. walking to the door, she turns briefly to watch the growing red circle beneath Barry and Norma’s twitching bodies and to admire the crimson bubble, blown from Barry’s nostril that finally pops with his last exhaled breath.

After three weeks, Sylvie decided it was time to let Sheba back inside. She threw a bone out to keep the dog occupied while she went to open the back door of the Sullivan’s. It had been a long three weeks of whining and barking, and mood swings - ranging from meek and pitiful to wild and rabid, but Sylvie thought it was worth it. She liked watching Sheba get hungrier and hungrier and felt the dog deserved it after what had happened to poor Marmalade. Sheba was weak now, ravenous too. A few days later, Sylvie rang the police to tell them she was worried because she hadn’t seen her neighbours for a while and they weren’t answering their door.

The headline in the local paper read: ‘Dangerous dog destroyed - Horror as vicious dog savages and eats its owners’.


Sylvie sits sipping her tea, enjoying the peace and quiet. She loves the birdsong and the sound of the lapping ocean in the distance. It has been wonderful for the past month, exactly how she imagined her retirement would be. Ginger, her new kitten, brushes against her legs and she smiles as she bends to pick up the cute ball of fluff.

Suddenly, a blaring radio cuts through the serenity. Looking out of her window, she sees the latest neighbours arrive in a white van and begin to unload.

“Fuck’s sake, Gordon! Careful with me Cappe de Monte will ya!”

“Dad! Unload my stereo next, will you?.”

“Rex! Fucking hell, Gloria, tie that friggin’ dog up before he runs off and bites someone again.”

Sylvie gazes at the Sullivan’s knife now hanging on her kitchen wall and marvels at the way the sun glints silver off the long, sharp blade.