"Professional Curtain Twitcher"

In some ways, he's the perfect neighbour. He is quiet. There's no banging about or loud music, or adventurous, noisy sex. No unpleasant cooking smells waft from his property.

Sometimes, he hosts little parties over there. The men wear suits, or expensive shirts and jackets. The women wear little dresses, and clip feathery concoctions to their heads as if they're going to a wedding.

In other ways, he's not a good neighbour. Antisocial, you might say. Doesn't say hello. Keeps his curtain drawn until late in the day. The house remains cloaked in darkness until nightfall. My mother wouldn't have stood for it. She'd have said, it looks like someone has died!

I wonder if that old weirdo even has a mother.

I hardly ever see him, and that's the truth. I suppose for some people that's a plus, but I don't like it. I like to know what manner of a man I'm living next door to. It's common courtesy. I'm reduced to lurking by my sitting room curtain and watching for signs of him, and clues as to what manner of a man he might be. I resent him for this.

The outside of his property is kept neat by one of his male companions. He had the same one for ages, a fussy little man in a brown suit and round glasses.

Good morning Bram, he'd say every Wednesday when he put the bins out. Morning, Eugene, I'd say with a convivial smile. We'd nod at each other over the fence. It was all very civilised.

That one has gone now. There was some shouting, which is unusual. Eugene struck me as a man of habit, not one to do anything out of the ordinary at all, so it was doubly strange. Then he emerged with a big case and left. He's been back to collect a box with a few things in it. I could see a wilting green plant sticking out the top. His face looked drawn and tight, as if his mouth were clamped shut, and anger restrained behind gritted teeth.

Eugene always seemed normal, but this new one, the one that must have replaced him, he's a bit odd. Hard to put your finger on it. He can't seem to get little things right, like looking, or blinking. He either does it too much, or not enough. He repeated my name back to me, as if he were simple. He introduced himself as Viktor. *With a K," he said. He was very particular about that. Very peculiar.

He's not as odd as the old man though. I grow more suspicious of him with every passing day.

Yesterday evening, Viktor brought guests back to the property. This was not so unusual; I'd seen Eugene do it many times.

And yet... I didn't always see them leave again.


They'd arrive in a cloud of perfumed luxury, elegant and well-dressed. Yet I never saw them leave. They'd walk up the front path as normal as you like, enter the house, and by morning, it was as if they had vanished into thin air.

I was determined this time. I wouldn't go to bed, or fall asleep at my post. I'd be vigilant.

This time, curiosity finally got the better of me. Under the cover of darkness, I ventured closer to Number 13.

Peering through a window, I caught sight of Viktor, offering drinks to the guests and graciously taking their coats.

A peculiar chill ran down my spine. Some instinct prodded me, made me want to bang on the window and tell them to run! Surely, if I did that, I'd have looked insane.

The moment passed, and the guests moved out of sight, deeper into the bowels of the house.

What should I do, now? There seemed to be nothing to do, except wait. And watch. The hours crawled by. When it got too cold to stay so stubbornly outside, glaring at number 13, I returned to my post indoors by my curtain. I even placed a stool beside it, and filled a thermos. I did it in a hurry, not wanting to miss a departure.

I waited until dawn and the guests didn't reappear. Guilt wrung me out like a wet washcloth. Could I have stopped it? Whatever it was? What could I have done?

I feel so unnerved, I think about returning to the Netherlands. I haven't been there since I was a boy, but at least they know how to be polite there. At least they know how to say, hello. My father would like that. If I went back. Bram, he'd say to me, Bram, it's not right for a Helsing to live in England of all places.

I touch the cross hanging at my neck, just as I always do whenever I think of my father. It is at that moment, Viktor emerges in the dawn light with a large shovel.