Michael Moorcock: The Black Corridor

Mrs Ryan patted her hair in front of the huge convex mirror opposite the bed. Shyly they stood, looking out of the window.

Ryan pressed the button on the sill and the blinds slid down.

'Aren't the walls beautiful.' Mrs Ryan turned to look at the multicoloured lights playing over the flat surfaces.

'Not as beautiful as you.'

She looked round at him. 'Oh, you...'

Ryan reached out and touched her shoulder, touched her left breast, touched her waist.

Mrs Ryan glanced at the windows as if to reassure herself that the blinds were drawn and no one could see in.

'Oh, I'm so happy,' she whispered.

'So am I.' Ryan moved closer, drew her to him, holding her buttocks cupped in his heavy hands. He kissed her lightly on the nose, then strongly on the mouth. His hand left her buttock and moved down her thigh, pushing up the skirt, feeling her flesh.

A flush came to Mrs Ryan's face as he eased her towards the new bed. She opened her lips and stroked the back of his neck. She sighed.

His thumb traced the line of her pelvis. She trembled and moved against him.

Then the Chinese jazz record started in the next apartment. The Ryans froze. Mrs Ryan was bent backwards with Mr Ryan's face buried in her neck. The clangour of the record, every note and every phrase, was as audible as if the music poured from their own glowing walls.

They broke apart. Mrs Ryan straightened her skirt.

'Damn them!' Mr Ryan raised his fists impotently. 'Good God!

Don't tell me that's the kind of neighbours we've got.'

'Hadn't you better...?'

'What?'

'Couldn't you...?' She was confused.

'You mean...?'

'... go and speak to them?'

'Well, I..." He frowned. 'Maybe this time I'll just hammer on the wall.'

Slowly he took off his shoe. 'I'll show them.' He went to the wall and banged on it vigorously, stood back, shoe in hand, and waited.

The music stopped.

He grinned. 'That did it.'

Mrs Ryan took a deep breath and said, 'I'd better unpack.'

'I'll help you,' said Ryan.

He left the bedroom and approached the suitcase. He took the handle in both hands and staggered back to where she was waiting.

Together they unpacked the residue of their honeymoon—the suntan lotions, the damp bathing suits, the tissue-wrapped gifts for their parents. They talked and they laughed as they took things out of the case and put them away, but secretly they were sad as article after article came out. All the souvenirs of that sunny three weeks on an island where no one else lived, where there was freedom from observation, the noise and demands of other people.

The case was empty.

Mrs Ryan reached into the waterproof pouch at the back and produced the tapes they had had processed when they reached the mainland heliport. He fetched the player from the dressing table and they went into the living-room to play the tapes on the television.

In silence they looked at the pictures, drinking in the landscapes they showed. There were the mountains, there the great blue expanse of the sea, there the heaths.

There were almost no shots of Mr or Mrs Ryan. There were only the views of the silent crags, the sea and the moors of the island where they had been so happy.

A bird cried.

Somewhat shakily the picture swept upwards towards the cloudslashed sky. A kittyhawk dived into the distance. There was the sound of the breakers in the background.

Suddenly the picture cut out.

Mrs Ryan looked at Mr Ryan with tears in her eyes.

'We must go back there soon,' she said.

'Very soon,' he smiled.

And the Chinese jazz, as loud as ever, shrieked through the room.

The Ryans sat rigidly in front of the television screen.

Ryan clenched his teeth. 'Jesus God, I'll...' he stood up...

'I'll kill the bastards!' He gestured irresolutely. 'There are laws.

I'll call the police.'

Mrs Ryan held his hand. There's no need to speak to them, darling. Just put a note through their door. Warn them. They must have heard of the Noise Prevention Act. You could write to the caretaker as well.'

Ryan rubbed his lips once.

'Tell them they could be heavily fined,' said his wife. 'If they're reasonable, they'll...'

'All right.' Ryan pursed his lips. 'This time that's what I'll do.

Next time—and I mean it—I'll knock on the door and confront them.'

He went into the living room to write the notes. Mrs Ryan made tea.

The Chinese jazz went on and on. Ryan wrote the notes with short, jerky movements of his pen.

... and I warn you that if this noise continues I will be forced to contact the police and inform them of your conduct. I have also told the caretaker of my intention. At very least you will be evicted—but you must also be aware of the heavy penalties you could receive under Section VII of the Noise Prevention Act of 1978.

He read back over the letter. It was a bit pompous. He hesitated.

Perhaps if he...? No. It would do. He finished the letters, put them into envelopes and sealed them as Mrs Ryan directed the tea trolley into the living-room. 'That will do, thank you,' she told it.

Suddenly the music stopped in mid-bar. Ryan looked at his wife and laughed. 'Maybe that's the answer? Maybe it's robots making that row?'

Mrs Ryan smiled. She picked up the tea-pot.

'Look, I'll do that,' said Ryan, 'if you'll just put these into the internal mail slot outside the front door.'

'All right.' Mrs Ryan replaced the pot. 'But what shall I do if I meet them?' She nodded towards the neighbouring flat.

'Ignore them completely, of course. They surely won't try to involve you in conversation. You might as well ignore anybody else you meet outside. If we start making contact with all the people in this block we'll never have any bloody privacy.'

"That's what Mother said,' said Mrs Ryan.

'Right.'

She took the two letters and went out of the living room and into the lobby. Ryan heard the front door click open.

He straightened his head as he heard another voice. It was a woman's voice, high-pitched and cheerful. He heard Mrs Ryan mumble something, heard her footsteps as she entered hastily and shut the front door firmly.

'What on earth was that?' he asked as she returned to the living room. 'It's like living in a zoo. Maybe it was a mistake...'

'It was the woman who lives on the other side of us. She was coming back with her shopping. She welcomed me to the block. I said thank you very much and slid back in here.'

'Oh, Christ, I hope they're not going to pester us,' said Ryan.

'I don't think so. She seemed quite embarrassed to be chatting with a stranger.'

In cosy, uninterrupted silence the Ryans drank their tea and ate their sandwiches and cake.

When they had finished Mrs Ryan ordered the trolley back to the kitchen and she and Ryan sat together on the couch watching the tapes on the television. They were beginning to feel at ease in their little home.

Mrs Ryan smiled at the screen and pointed. There was a scene of cliffs, a cave. 'Remember that old fisherman we found in there that day? I was never so startled in my life. You said——'

A steady knocking began.

Ryan swung round, seeking the source of the noise.

'Over here,' said a voice.

Ryan got up. Outside the window was the head and torso of a man in overalls. His grinning red face was capped by a mop of clashing ginger hair. His teeth were ragged and yellow.

Mrs Ryan put her hand to her mouth as Ryan dashed to the window.

'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, pushing your fucking face in our window without warning?' Ryan trembled with rage. 'What's the matter with you? Haven't you ever heard of privacy? Can't we get a moment's peace and quiet? It's a bloody conspiracy!'

The man's grin faded as Ryan ranted on. His muffled voice came through the pane. 'Look here,' he said. 'There's no need to be like that. I never knew you was back, did I? I was asked by the old lady to keep the windows clean while you was away. Which I have done without, if I may say so, any payment whatsoever. So before you complain about my bloody habits, I suggest you settle up...'