Love Thy Neighbour Ch. 01

This is a brand new story I am dabbling with and has overtaken my interest in two other stories I have on the go at the moment.

It is not a stroke story by any stretch of the imagination although there will be some sexy bits later.

It could fit into Erotic Couplings but I'm putting it in Romance as that is where my heart lies even though it doesn't get the volume of readership that other categories do.

All characters are fictitious even if there should be a coincidental use of names.

As always I welcome your feedback and thank you for those who take the trouble to comment or email me.

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I've kept myself alive for the past 10 years or so by using all of my 5 senses pretty much all of the time but for me hearing is the key one. You can't always see what's coming and touch, taste and smell only work in close-up situations and I try to avoid those like the plague. The sound of a creaking floorboard, the slide of shoes across carpet or the squeak of a door hinge being opened slowly are all indicators of someone approaching stealthily.

You have to ask yourself why they are approaching in such a manner.

Why not move more purposely to announce their presence?

If they don't want to announce their presence then it normally bodes ill for someone and so far it has been for them, not me because I'm still alive. Battered maybe, but alive. Some of them are less fortunate. Well, in fact, all of them because the risk is they'll try again if they survive and I see no point in making more work for myself.

Why, you might ask, if hearing is that important, why am I lying on a bed in a grotty block of flats right next to Herne Hill station in South London? The location means the level of ambient noise is killing that part of my sensory armoury but sometimes other factors come into play in choosing a bolt-hole.

Here I am listening to the sound of trains rumbling on a viaduct or the sound of compressed air opening and closing doors and the attendant hubbub of passengers getting on and off.

However, there is a local noise that's disturbing me today but it's one I can see the cause of. A constant drip, drip of water running from the ceiling in the corner of the single room that doubles, no, triples as kitchen, living room and bedroom. It would actually quadruple as a bathroom if the landlord hadn't been kind enough to throw up a bit of plywood in the opposite corner to create ... well ... to create the smelliest shower room and toilet this side of Kuala Lumpur ... and that one was in an open corner of the kitchen of a restaurant that I had the misfortune to eat in. Fortunately I have a strong immune system which kept my bout of gastroenteritis to only 3 days.

I count myself lucky it wasn't Cholera.

The drip has been bothering me for the last two days only because it comes and goes with the sound of flushing from the toilet in the flat upstairs and someone seems to be using it quite a lot. I can't believe they have anything left in their system to throw up after all this time.

I would like to think its just water.

The letting agent said it was when I moved in and I believed him. I'm not so sure now.

Why would he lie?

Answers on several postcards to the address below.

The problem is its getting worse and I really don't want to be flooded out just yet. I need two weeks here before I move on but the letting agent has been very vague about when it might be fixed.

I felt it was time for the DIY specialist to intervene.

I climbed the stairs ... you would definitely hear someone coming on these no matter how hard they may try and even with trains rumbling by. I'd not been up here before but the layout was a copy of my landing. My knock went unanswered. I knocked again ... and again. Still no reply so I tried another audible signal.

"Hello ... I'm from downstairs ... I've got water coming into my flat from yours."

I rattled the door handle.

"Hello ... are you in there?"

I rattled the door some more and finally I heard a movement inside. A weak voice finally answered ... female ... east European accent ... probably Czech.

I know these things ... especially the female bit; the part about Czech ... that was just a guess.

"Who are you ... what do you want?"

"There's a leak from your bathroom. There's water running from my ceiling."

Ok, an exaggeration but exaggerate to vindicate I say.

I saw a shadow pass over the spy-hole and stepped back so she could see me. Personally, I never look through those things as I'm always expecting there to be a gun pointing straight at it and I really don't want a bullet of any calibre messing up one of my bright blues ... another exaggeration, they are grey.

She obviously likes what she saw ... who wouldn't ... I'm gorgeous ... well maybe not with a week of beard and a permanent case of bed-hair.

I heard the door being unlocked ... and then another lock being manoeuvred ... and then another. Hell, she had more security than I did and I'm the one in hiding ... but more about that later. Finally, the door opened a crack and I saw three ... count them ... three security chains stretched across the space. Little did she know that any sensible person wanting to gain access would have gone straight through the flimsy panel door or had the thing off its hinges within seconds but the illusion of security is all important.

I could see part of a face, some lank blonde hair and the most bloodshot eye I have ever seen ... well apart from the morning after the time that Colour Sergeant Atkinson made me drink a whole bottle of Metaxa in less than a minute as a challenge to my manhood. He then completed my transition into adulthood by paying for a Cypriot tart in Larnaca for me.

I also remember his words the following morning as I was brought before the ship's Number 1 ('XO' to the colonials) on a charge.

"Second Lieutenant Moore was seen getting out of a taxi in an inebriated state at 00.30 and was seen to vomit on the jetty before trying to negotiate the brow where he was promptly sick again. He was seen by the Medical officer at 00.45 who performed the requisite tests and informed him that he was considered to be drunk and incapable and would be put on charges in the morning. His reply was 'I don't care, I lost my virginity'. He was placed in sick-bay overnight."

Yeah, I was drunk, but he set it up and then drops me in it. Bastard! Actually he was a great bloke. Now, sadly, no more.

Back to more immediate matters.

This woman was not in a good way. I put on my most charming Royal Marine Officer voice.

"Hi, I'm Greg from downstairs and there's water coming into my flat from your bathroom. Can I come in and have a look?"

She seemed in a daze, totally uncomprehending, and I thought she was shaking her head but in reality she was just shaking.

"Are you ok? Do you need some help?"

I don't think she heard me as she just collapsed like one of the twin towers going straight down and if it wasn't for the fact that I had my foot in the door I would have been shut out.

"Fuck!"

As previously mentioned the security chains were not very effective especially as they had been badly fitted and two could be released easily before a strong shoulder bust the other one open

I might have knocked her a bit when I did that but she was out and not counting.

The smell in the flat was worse than the aforementioned toilet in KL but she had some kind of incense thing going to damp it down which in my mind just made it a whole lot worse.

I pulled her away from the door and then picked her up easily as she must have weighed less than 7 stone but I could see that she was petite, probably no more than 5 foot. She was nothing more than skin and bone wrapped in a dirty silk kimono.

Was she an anorexic trying to kill herself?

I put her down on the bed in the recovery position and checked her body temperature and pulse. She was feverish but her pulse was strong but racing. I went to get a damp cloth and wiped her face with cold water.

I looked around the flat and saw on the table a lot of empty energy drink bottles and packets of strong pain killers. A lightbulb went on somewhere over the poppy fields of Afghanistan and I rolled up the left sleeve of her kimono.

Yes! First prize ... a junky trying to go cold turkey on her own as there amongst a strange tabular tattoo were needle tracks.

What to do?

I may do some pretty nasty things in my life but I do have a moral compass in use the rest of the time. It often causes errors of judgement when it comes to witnessing extended suffering of people and animals. On the other hand, Marine 'A' was not the only one who helped wounded jihadis into paradise. However, now was not the occasion for a bit of extra-judicial euthanasia. The woman needed help and the Officer and Gentleman within me could not stand idly by.

I had a dilemma.

I didn't want to call for an ambulance as Inspector Knacker of the Yard would surely follow and I didn't need his kind of attention even though the Old Bill has no beef with me as far as I know. My current legend would stand up to scrutiny but you never know whether some lowly PC was selling stories to the press or, worse still, to members of the opposite side in the Criminal Justice system. They definitely had a beef with me and it was only going to get worse in a two weeks time. Publicity of any kind I could do without.

I could just take her up the road to Kings College Hospital and leave her there but the scourge that is CCTV is rife in those places and I really wanted to limit my exposure. Hence my choice of this dump as a bolthole ... no CCTV on the street and a local grocery store that had dummy cameras. Excellent!

I didn't need attention from anyone. This left only one solution in my tiny brain as I had discounted the option of leaving her in this flat. So, like the stupid fool that I am, I took her unconscious form down the stairs to my flat and laid her out on my bed before returning upstairs to try and find anything of use including her ID. There wasn't much apart from a few clothes and a small handbag with a Czech passport which may or may not have been false and hardly any money. Surprisingly, I didn't find any trace of the kit normally associated with injecting heroin.

Returning I noticed she had not moved and checked her pulse and breathing and rolled an eyelid back to check her pupil which was hugely dilated so I checked the other one. Same result. I did notice that her eyes would normally be a stunning pale blue.

The Royal Marines do quite a bit of battlefield first aid training but I must have missed the 'how to look after a junky going cold turkey course' so was somewhat at a loss. I guessed that the pain killers and fluids that she had been taking would need to be replaced with something more substantial and she definitely needed fattening up. Fortunately I had stocked up well for an extended stay indoors and would have something to feed her when she came round.

I decided to clean her up a bit and took off her kimono which was filthy and reeked of puke. I noticed that her underwear was equally filthy and were probably fit only for the rubbish bin until I looked at the labels ... Agent Provocateur ... maybe I should keep them for her. I checked the rest of the clothes she had ... all dirty ... all classy labels. It didn't look like she was the average street junky.

I'm sure she would be pissed off that I had undressed her when she woke up but I was doing it in as detached manner as possible.

I would try and tell her that when I could. I'm sure it would mollify her!

As I washed her body with a damp sponge I could see that my original impression was correct. She was small and skinny and had tiniest tits of any woman on the planet older than 12 although her nipples were like raspberries with no areola. I'm not into body piercings but the silver bars through each nipple looked very appealing.

Once I cleaned up her face I could see that she would be really attractive with high cheekbones, big eyes, a straight nose and full lips. In fact I thought she would be stunningly beautiful once the red rings around her tired and bruised eyes had gone. The bruises seemed odd and as I looked more closely I could see more bruises on her face and body, someone had given her a beating. My sense of outrage kicked in at this point as, whilst I may have hit a woman in the past from a self preservation point of view, I didn't go on and beat the crap out of her.

She had a number of tats on her body including the one hiding the track marks and the obligatory Chinese symbol just to the left of her navel. She had obviously once been completely shaved but blonde stubble was growing back over a luscious looking mons with a neat labial cleft. When I rolled her over to do her back I saw what I believe to be called a 'tramp stamp' above her arse. Her bum was out of proportion to the rest of her body being firm and plump and somehow the tramp stamp accentuated it.

I could imagine watching it moving rhythmically as I pounded into her doggy style.

Whoa!

Where did that come from?

After I cleaned her up I dressed her in the cleanest pair of knickers I could find and one of my T shirts and pulled the covers over her. I washed out her dirty clothes in the kitchen sink and hung them to dry in the shower cubicle. Now that she was cleaned up I couldn't help feeling that she looked vaguely familiar.

I sat in the only partially comfortable chair to watch over her as I checked her passport. If it was genuine then she was Luka Kolar, aged 22, born in Bratislava which is now in Slovakia. Interestingly she had so many entry and exit stamps for the USA in general and Los Angeles in particular that the passport was almost full despite being only 3 years old. There were also a lot of visits to Moscow in recent months.

I pondered what was going on.

Who had beaten her up?

She obviously had money at some point as the few clothes she had were expensive but she was currently living in a shitty flat. I knew that getting the flat was easily done if enough cash changed hands or someone had paid for it on her behalf.

She was a junky but going cold turkey. Was that because she had no money to buy the next fix or she really wanted to kick the habit? Certainly she had got rid of the equipment needed to shoot up but if she did have money then surely she would have gone to a posh rehab centre without going through such a painful process.

The only conclusion that I could come to was that she was hiding from someone and was taking the opportunity to kick her drug habit.

I admired her for that. It would take a lot of mental strength to go cold turkey especially if she was stressed about being found.

"Kdo jsi kurva ty?"

The voice startled me and I looked across at the bed to see her scared and fearful eyes staring at me.

I didn't know the language but I expect it meant something like 'who the fuck are you?' I was suddenly tongue tied and inarticulate.

"I'm Greg ... err ... you live in the flat above mine ...err ... I came to talk to you ... there's a water problem ..."

I trailed away and pointed stupidly at the ceiling where the drips were still coming. I continued rambling.

"I knocked on your door ... you collapsed."

She closed her eyes and groaned, remembering.

"Do you speak English?"

She nodded and I kicked myself. She had spoken to me in English when I was knocking on her door.

"Would you like something to drink? You must be very dehydrated. I've heard you being sick a lot."

She opened her eyes and stared at me accusingly. I blushed. Did she think I was spying on her?

"I'm sorry, sound carries in this building and I could hear a lot. Are you alright, can I get the doctor for you?"

I asked the last knowing full well that she was going to say no. She didn't want any more attention than I did.

She slowly shook her head.

"No doctor, but I would like some water."

I got up and moved towards her and she visibly cowered back into the bed. I stopped.

"It's ok; I'm not going to harm you. I just need to get the glass from the table. I have had plenty of opportunity to do you harm if I wanted to so please don't be afraid."

Her eyes flickered to the bedside cabinet and she gave a small nod. I moved more slowly and her eyes followed me like a tethered goat watching a stalking tiger. She slid across to the other side of the bed as I approached, her gaze never wavering. I picked up the glass and made a production out of showing it to her.

Her eyes continued to follow me as I went into the kitchen area and ran the water. She was still watchful as I returned to the bed and put the glass back. I moved away and sat down and only then did she move across to pick up the glass. This girl had some serious trust issues going on.

Her hands were shaking and she was spilling more than she drank as she tried to gulp the water down.

"Whoa, you will make yourself sick again. Take it slowly. Sip it. Can I hold it for you?"

She stopped and her gaze was a 'why the fuck do you care' but put the glass back on the bedside table. I moved towards the bed and this time she didn't slide away.

"I'm going to hold your head with one arm and the glass in the other hand. Is that Ok?"

She looked at me and the glass and slowly nodded her head. I sat on the edge of the bed and put one arm behind her shoulders and pulled her head up and placed the glass to her lips. She drank more slowly this time.

"Shall I get you some more and do you want some pain killers?"

She looked at me with a sharp, questioning gaze.

"It's ok ... I know what you're trying to do ... you must be hurting. I'll help you if I can."

She looked suspiciously at me and her right hand absently scratched the inside of her left forearm where the track marks were.

"Why do you help me? You don't know me."

She looked around and her frightened gaze settled back on me.

"Who are you and why did you bring me here? Are you from Zoltan ... how did you find me?"

Her voice was getting more shrill and the tone was increasingly hysterical and her face dissolved into tears as she rolled into a foetal position and I could see her whole body wracked with sobs. The pathos of the scene was not lost on me and I was tempted to give her a big hug just to let her know that there were decent people out there. However, given her trust issues with me, I stayed where I was.

"I don't know who Zoltan is in the same way I don't know who you are. Was Zoltan the one who beat you up?"

I had a brainwave.

"Is he your pimp?"

At this she tried to sit up and looked at me outraged and her voice was angry.

"I'm not a whore ... I don't fuck for money ..."

She trailed away and an embarrassed smile came over her face. She then looked down and came aware of how she was dressed. She looked accusingly at me again.

"Where are my clothes? Did you undress me and put these on me? Why did you do this?"

"Your clothes were a mess; I cleaned you up and put something clean back on you. You were unconscious so I couldn't ask your permission. Perhaps I should just have left you on your own upstairs."

At this point I was starting to lose my temper. I'd helped this woman and all I was getting was grief. I guess I'm not the first man in history for doing wrong by doing right for a woman.

"I'm not holding you here ... just go if you don't need my help ... sort yourself out."

I think she realised that she had probably gone too far. She had the decency to look apologetic.

"I'm ... sorry ... I ... I am not thinking right ... the drugs ... thank you ... yes, I'd like some thing for the pain please."