Welcome to the neighbourhood

My house is affectionately known as The Gnome Home. It’s a townhouse in a street of townhouses next to a golf course. Real white bread stuff: cobblestone street, manicured lawns, you know the type. I bought here about five and a half years ago because it was conveniently located and with a small lawn, easy to maintain. It was also quiet. But not for long. About six months after I moved in, a bachelor in his 50s moved in next door. Which was fine…then his son moved in; 17 or 18 I’m guessing and as I would soon discover, he was mentally disadvantaged - a lunatic, if you will (is it still OK to use the "L" word?).

I was first introduced to the boy one Friday evening when I heard a loud knock on my neighbour’s front door, accompanied by a hushed conversation and the young man in question yelling, “Well [expletive] you, I’m only here to see Ralph.” Who was this mysterious “Ralph”, I wondered. A mysterious twin brother, kept chained in the attic and fed fish heads? Unfortunately, nothing that bizarre. Ralph was a dirty white poodle – with a bath he’d probably be a clean white poodle.

A few weeks after the father had settled in, the son moved in and property values in my street sank like a Mafia informant in the East River. The relationship between the father and son was, well, strained to say the least. There was yelling. Yelling. Yelling, always with the yelling. Here are some of the more memorable statements I heard yelled from the house next door…
[young female voice] “Ow! Ow! Stop it, you’re hurting me!”
[older female voice, possible his mother] “For God’s sake Mark, get it together!” [breaking glass] “God, what did you do THAT for?”
[father's voice] “If you’re going to live here, you’re going to treat me with respect!”
[son's voice] “Go [expletive] yourself!” (many times)
[son's voice] “I hate you!” (many times)
And, my personal favourite: [father's voice] “If you try to hit me again, I’ll get a gun and shoot you!”
Ahh, happy families.

So, our hero Mark. What did he look like? Well, he was your garden variety mentally derranged 17 year old. Average height, dirty blond hair, medium build. And he DID-NOT-LIKE-ME. I have to give him some points for being perceptive. If he was outside and I was to step out, he would disappear inside. When the burglaries were going down, my house was left alone. He knew if I even remotely suspected him of some malfeasance, he would discover how much pain can be inflicted with a rubber hose, a bag of oranges and a bicycle pump. Often I would see him on the balcony next door sighing, then he would start laughing, then sigh again. He would play music loudly, then turn it off. I would see him wearing pyjamas at 1pm in the afternoon while taking Ralph for a walk. And if the pyjamas weren’t ridiculous enough, he’d complete the ensemble with a deer-stalker cap. I saw him once in said get up at a nearby park, sitting on a blanket and playing a guitar (either than or torturing cats - I wouldn't put that beyond him). Totally. Completely. Unhinged.

Apart from the burglaries, some other weird stuff happened. Like stuff catching on fire. Stuff like a nearby shrub-covered embankment. Stuff like number 51’s car (at 4am, New Year’s Day).

Eventually, Mark’s run of burglary and arson came to an end when he went one step too far. R-A-P-E. He stole a golf cart from the golf club one night, piloted it to the next suburb and obtained carnal knowledge of a 17 year old. I remember the day. I was up for my morning run and saw my criminal neighbour asleep on the balcony, his car parked on the lawn even more haphazardly than normal. I remember thinking, “something BAD has happened.

He is, presently, someone’s bitch and will be for the next 10 years.