and Down the Mountainside

Mr. Sheray, the man closest to the entrance, is a testy little bugger. Can't sit still for one second. I remember once I had to hold the ladder with two hands, really force myself on it whilst he was up, painting his windowsills. "You'll get yourself killed one day," I laughed at the time, bowing my head in amusement. He's shifty. He moves a lot He's always been like that. So it's unfair to call him out on that, I say. It's not right to chalk that up to nerves, I protect him. It wasn't his fault.

"I 'eard him, I did," he's saying, his hands and legs shaking uncontrollably, his eyes twitching. He's sweating bullets. They're coming from behind his short bangs, along his sideburns, just pouring down his face, soaking his shirt. "I 'eard him swaggerin' up them stairs from the lobby the way he does." He pauses, and blinks some more sweatdrops out of his eyes. "Did," he corrects himself, "I seen 'im move on up them stairs like he always did, from gettin' his mail, to walkin' that dog of his. I 'eard him movin' on up them stairs tonight, pantin' like a fish, groanin' like a dog. Sounded like he was in pain."

"And yet you did not open your door," the inspector says gravely.

"I was mindin' my own business," Mr. Sheray says. And that's that.

Mrs. Poslner, the woman in 130, is questioned next, because really, she was next to be bothered by him. But she's also strangely calm, still knitting away at that scarf she's making for her granddaughter. She knows the inspector is questioning her, without even lifting her head.

"Oh yes," she says, rocking in her chair, her nimble fingers picking up, "He came to my door tonight, yes, he did. Splayed out his bloody hands all over, pressed my doorbell twice. Called for help, asked me to call for an ambulance. I heard him, I heard him loud and clear."

"And yet-"

"Minding my own business," she replies, still rocking, "'sides, what's an old lady like me supposed to do if he were a vandal? Can't have me opening the door at all hours of the night."

"He wasn't asking for you to open the door, he was asking for help," the inspector replies quickly, and I can sense he's growing aggravated. Still, Mrs. Polsner keeps on knitting, shaking her head, and so he sighs. He turns to me this time, nods his head. "And you?"

"I saw him," I say, "I got out of my room, walked out into the hallway."

"Why?"

"He was yelling in pain. Sounded like he was having a heart attack. He was collapsed on the floor, writhing against the marble, blood fizzing out of his mouth, his eyes just..going all wonky. I brought him into my lap, held his head."

The inspector writes it all down. "Did you try to help him?"

"No."

He lowers his notepad slowly. "Why not?" he grits out.

I shrug.

He throws his notepad at me with an impressive amount of force. I manage to move my head out of the way, just in time. It smashes against the wall behind me, the papers flying out, diligent note-taking now disorganized. I wait until the flurry of papers calm. He is fuming in anger in front of me, a look of disdain and frustration clearly etched on the crease of his brow.

"Are you going to arrest me, Inspector?"