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"The Neighbourhood Watch" by Mathew Gostelow


CW: Violence



When the beatings began, I wondered if I should intervene. But we were waiting for our new fridge to be delivered, and that show with the chefs had just come on. We didn't want to miss it. You’d have done the same, I’m sure.


Nobody knows where it all started anyway. A dispute over a borrowed lawnmower, we think. I don’t know the details, can’t say who was to blame.


Look, don’t get me wrong, this street is great. Soaring property prices. Pleasant neighbours – our sort of people. Amazing school catchments. But one thing I never really liked was the kitchen windows – the way they look directly into the house next door. The Smiths are nice and all, but it’s awkward. I sometimes pull the blinds down, just so we’re not staring into each other’s lives. 


The neighbourhood messaging group is a double-edged sword too. It’s great for keeping up with bin collections, that sort of thing, but when someone starts ranting about politics, I tend to mute it. You know how it is.


I was cooking a casserole when it all kicked off. Borlotti beans. We go plant-based a few days a week. Good for health, good for the environment. Win-win. Anyway, I saw Jones from two doors down, walking towards Smith’s place. Both families are really lovely, and they used to get on, until this lawnmower thing.


Smith and Jones started arguing in the front yard. Jones was furious – eyes wild, face red. There was a bit of a fracas. Smith pushed him over, gave him a kick, and he slunk off home.


A few days later, in the garden, I saw Smith shouting at the Jones kids over the fence – really ripping into them. They were bawling, faces all screwed up. Jones came out, grabbed Smith by the collar. Looked like they were about to get properly into it, but I drifted away.


They were whipping up a dish with herring and juniper berries on that chef show. It looked incredible. The recipe is online, I'll send you a link.


Not long after that, Smith posted a video of himself on the neighbourhood group, down in the basement of his house. He’d done it up really nicely, turned it into an office – during the pandemic, I suspect. Lots of us did the same. I think one of his kids was filming. 


Anyway, Smith turned to the camera, smiled with a kind of manic look in his eyes, and then started slamming through the wall with a sledgehammer. Bricks and plaster flying everywhere. Within a few minutes he was through to the other side. 


The Joneses’ basement looked nice too. They’d done it out as a sort of laundry or utility room. Smart tiled floor. Recessed spots in the ceiling.


Anyway, Smith grabbed a power tool and screwed planks across the door to the Joneses’ basement, from the inside. Barricaded the whole thing, then screamed into the camera: “It’s my basement now!” All a bit over the top. 


The message group blew up. You can imagine. I didn’t have the headspace for it. Turned off my phone and went to bed. You’d have done the same, I’m sure.


Next day, I saw him beating Jones’ wife. I glanced out the kitchen window, straight into Smith’s place and there he was – fist thumping into her ribs, over and over as she wheezed for breath. Then he punched her face – knuckles splitting lips, blood running over shattered teeth, her cheeks distorted in black-bruised lumps.


Word got out on the group chat later. Jones shared photos of his wife’s injuries. He said she’d gone round to ask for the basement back. Didn’t seem like a smart move to me. Thompson from number 35 waded in, but most of us felt it was a private matter between the two families. Best not to get involved. 


Last night, from upstairs, I saw Smith and Jones in the yard. Our back bedroom looks out that way. We turned it into a sewing den for Jackie, after our son moved out.


Anyway, it looked like Smith had been mowing his lawn. Provocative, I suppose, given that Jones believed it was his lawnmower. They were scrapping again – both bleeding, deep cuts on their faces. 


The mower got kicked over in the ruckus. It was lying on its side, still running. Smith managed to wrestle Jones to the ground – held him in a headlock. Both men were screaming, grunting with strain, and Smith was forcing Jones’ face towards the blur of blades – inching closer as the other man struggled for his life.


I saw it. I watched the Catherine-wheel explosion of bone and flesh, the lawn-sprinkler spray of blood. I heard the noise it made too – Jones’ terrified roar brought to an abrupt end by the howling strain of the lawnmower motor, the chunky chug of rotors churning through skull and brain.


Well, Smith really had gone too far this time. He left me with no choice. I had to take action. What else could I do? I strode across the room, closed the blind, and drafted a strongly-worded comment on the neighbourhood group chat. You’d do the same, I’m sure.




Mathew Gostelow (he/him) is the author of two collections of speculative stories; See My Breath Dance Ghostly (Alien Buddha Press) and Dantalion is a Quiet Place (DarkWinter Lit, coming 2025). He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction. @MatGost

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