Someone wanted to knife me last night

daev has to deal with blade-wielding freaks

Around 4am, we were woken up by music blaring – bizarrely enough, by the godawful *Grace* By Jim McCann. This was loud. I live in a terraced row, and it was loud enough for people 3 or 4 houses away to hear.
The music wasn’t the only thing. It was accompanied by loud thumping on the walls, and shouts of ‘come on you bollocks, I’ll fucking kill you’ and the like. It was clearly directed at me.
I got up, paced the floor, tried to wake up and understand what the hell was going on. Maria said ‘be careful’, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I went to phone the Gardai… as I lifted the phone there was a huge bang outside, like someone had thrown something at the door, or close to it. ‘They’re trying to break in’, I thought. On the phone to the Bridewell Garda station, the cop started telling me the ins and outs dealing with noisy neighbours. I told him I could hardly hear him because of the abuse that was coming through the walls.
‘OK’, he said, ‘I’ll send a car’
‘You’d better, I said, there’s a ruckus happening out on the street now’.
I ran upstairs, put some more clothes on, ran down, peered out the front door of number 7. My neighbour from the other side (number 8) J, was standing outside the perpetrators house (number 6), a large smooth rock in his hand.
S, the noise freak, had a knife in his hand. I heard the door of number 5 closing. ‘There you are you cunt, I’ll fucking kill you’, said S, waving his 3″ kitchen blade towards me. His landlord’s Mercedes was between us.
‘What?’ I asked.
S:’You threw that fucking rock didn’t you?’
‘Eh, no, I was asleep’
J: ‘No S, it was someone else, cop on’
S: ‘This fucker has been after me for ages, the fucking gaylord, he’s fucking dead. He’s been throwing eggs and shite at my house.’
‘I’ve been asleep, what are you on about’
S: ‘It was fucking you. I’m going to get you, some evening when you’re coming home, I’m going kick the shite out of you’. I’ll knife you, watch out. Turns to J, points at me. This cunt came around at 9 ‘o’clock one night to complain about the noise, the bastard’. I’m going to kill him’.
J: ‘Calm down’
‘It was 7 o’clock’, I said. [this refers to an evening, three months ago, when after listening to him whooping and screaming for 1/2 an hour, I politely asked him to keep it down.]
‘Fuck off, I’m gonna fucking kill you.’
He spits a big spray in my direction. A light mist descends around me.
‘That, I think, is assault’
‘I’ll tear your head off, fucking faggot’
I gestured, ‘sure, c’mon, you might as well do it now’ (though I hoped he wouldn’t)
J: ‘Lads, calm down, S, get into the house!’
S: ‘Here take me knife, I’m gonna get the fucker’.
Gives knife to J, takes it back, J gets it back off him, throws it away inside house.
S: ‘I’ll fucking kill you’
I leaned back on the car, slapped my cheek invitedly, folded my arms. Prayed I could call his bluff.
S comes around car, towards me. I flinch involuntarily. He’s so close he’s breathing on me. He’s big, over 6 foot tall, well built, shaved head. I’m 5’10, and thin as a rake. He pauses up close to me looks me and down. Some big equation is computing in his tiny brain.
‘The guards are on their way, y’know’, I said, looking him in the eye.
He considered. ‘You’re not fucking worth it’, he says, walks away, ‘fucking gaylord’.
To cut a long story short… he goes into his house. J comes over to me, we go over to his house… ponder the situation and the mysterious rock. S appears at the door again, shouts ‘keep away from him, he’s a fucking wanker J’.
‘Go to bed S’ says J
The bald head vanishes.
Turns out the rock came from someone else. It struck J’s house, amidst the commotion. He reckoned that it was someone freaking out about the noise from number 6 – J could hear the yelling and pounding through two walls. He went to number 6 to investigate, and was met at the door with S carrying a knife, obviously waiting for me. He was lucky that he didn’t get knifed.
‘What’s the story’, asked J
‘Just listening to some music, having a drink’, says S
‘Why have you got a knife?’ asked J
Then, pounding from the wall of number 5. ‘I fucking turned it down’ screams S, pounding the wall back. L, from number 5 comes out, shouts at him to keep it down, vanishes. That’s when I arrived on the scene.
Anyway, I talked to J, then headed back indoors, no sign of police. Phoned again, told them about the knife, etc.
Maria and I made tea. Two helpful Gardai arrived – one guy, one girl, took notes… decided to come back the next day to talk to S, rather than inflame the situation further… told us to phone if anything occurred, but to keep away from J.
‘Busy night?’, I asked, as they headed out the door.
‘Yes, it’s crazy out. Full moon, ‘y’know?’
Addendum: That all took place on Sunday morning.
Sunday evening:
I’m on the street with P and L from number 5, and J from number 8. We’re discussing the events of that morning. Number 6 is getting a fast food delivery. The landlord, B, comes to the door, pays. Sees us, comes out, and offers a sheepish apology. He is told, in detail by all four of us, exactly what happened the night before.
He says ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I can do’.
‘No it’s not’, I say
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Get rid of him, he’s trouble’
He listens to what we have to say, shuffles his feet a bit, goes back inside.
Monday:
Update:
Spoke to guards, the bloke that I was dealing with is off till Wednesday. Shite.
Update 2:
We were in the back garden about 1/2 hour ago. A bald head appears above the fence, with a weird grin attached. I had to look the fucker in the eye.
‘… sorry about the other night. I’m sorry for spitting in your face. I was out of line, there was no reason for me to do that, no reason at all’
‘That’s nice. To be honest, I don’t care. I have nothing to say to you. I never had anything to say to you. Just keep away from us.’ He nods, seems to acknowledge all this at some weird, reptilian level. Bald head disappears. Freak goes back indoors.
No ‘I’m sorry for threatening to murder you, sorry for waving a knife at you, sorry for getting out of bed at 4am, etc.’
Fucking freak.
Meeting with solicitor tomorrow
Update, June 23:
ah, the sweet stench of success.
After being woken at 5am by noise next door on Sunday morning, at 8:30 I was packing up the car to drive to Tyrone (for a cycle race), when the drunk mad brother of the landlord appears out the door, starts hassling me for fags. I sent him packing, the bastard.
Flipped out at the landlord (B) today. He’s now promised to kick out the knife-wielder – in six weeks time. In fact, S is only going to be around for 2 weeks out of the six, and THEN he’s moving to Siberia to work there, apparently.

daev

Chief Bottle Washer at Blather

Writer, photographer, environmental campaigner and "known troublemaker" Dave Walsh is the founder of Blather.net, described both as "possibly the most arrogant and depraved website to be found either side of the majestic Shannon River", and "the nicest website circulating in Ireland". Half Irishman, half-bicycle. He lives in southern Irish city of Barcelona.