A Rubbish Story (Short Fiction)
29th July 2025
In: Short Stories
You can tell a great deal about a person — in this case a couple — from what they throw away. It’s a fairly disgusting task, sometimes taking a strong stomach, to disembowel a black plastic refuse bag and examine the stinking contents. We did it, not out of idle curiosity, but to perhaps find proof that our neighbours were the monsters we’d reported them to be.
They were trouble from day one. At first, seeing her in a wheelchair, him pushing, and seeming so attentive to her needs, we’d imagined something far different — quieter and maybe a little considerate regarding other tenants in our small block. A forlorn hope. They had their first row on the afternoon they moved in, and it was alarming. Her screeching was of such a pitch and volume, echoing up the stairwell due to their front door being propped open, none of us could fail to be aware of the altercation. It was epic. The insults thrown offered nothing new by way of vocabulary — the usual combinations of four-letter words — but the violence of it was shocking. The sound of things breaking kept us all on edge, too nervous to do anything but stay in our individual flats until hostilities ceased. It was surprising no one called the police.
The fight stopped as abruptly as it started. A door banged, then another. We peered out to see him lift her, almost tenderly, into their car. They were out for the rest of the day, returning after midnight, very much the worse for drink.
We saw him take a piss on the grass outside. She was now screeching with laughter. Something would have to be done.
We held a meeting in our flat. Five other tenants attended. We agreed we would each write letters of complaint to the landlord — nip this situation in the bud, and maybe even get them thrown out, such was our naive expectation. The reply was brief. It explained the woman (let’s call her Tina) was disabled — a victim of domestic violence and, as a special case, her social worker protected her fiercely. Our combined complaints against her should be seen in the light of a defenceless woman unable to deal with a male ‘friend’ who had been helping her move. He alone was responsible for the incidents reported. His violent behaviour, his act of indecency. She’d been physically unable to stop him, and was very apologetic. It wouldn’t happen again. None of us believed a word.
He (we’ll call him Reg) was living there — they were a couple, you could tell. We stated this in another letter. The fact was refuted. No, the landlord confirmed, it was a single tenancy. Further, she was separated from her husband. He was not in touch with her, and she had no idea where he was. Again, it just didn’t fit with what we were observing. We’d noticed, too, that she still wore a wedding ring.
Although we actually saw little of him in the following weeks, there were more rows, which we noted down — dates and times — with direct quotes when she actually insulted him by name. ‘Reg!’ spat out in her grating fishwife voice, as though hawking up a bone.
It did no good. All those notes and observations weren’t proof, we were told. Apart from waiting until they were out, somehow breaking into their flat and searching for something incriminating, ie an item that was undeniable as proof, but knowing we would then have to explain how we came by it, we were stumped. Which of us it was who suggested the idea of investigating their contribution to the communal rubbish bins, I can’t recall. Not at all a pleasant prospect, but it might yield something useful.
Fortunately, it was easy to sort out which three plastic bags were theirs. Tina and Reg favoured a grey/black brand that had a distinctive yellow drawstring. Identified, retrieved and hauled up to our top-floor flat, we emptied each one into the bath so we could take out time going through it without danger of interruption. Rubber-gloved, we proceeded, and it proved to be an education. Revolting in some ways, fascinating in others.
It didn’t take us long to put together a picture. They threw everything in — no attempt to sort or recycle. By the end of the third bag, we knew what they ate, drank and smoked; which newspapers and magazines they read; what prescription drugs she took; how very wasteful they were with food and, from a half-completed crossword in a woman’s magazine, that she was poorly-educated. She’d made several mistakes, despite the easy clues. There were also a few items of clothing. A bra with a broken strap; a t-shirt badly stained with either blood or ketchup; an odd sock and, the biggest surprise — a very grubby blue Babygro. The most satisfying discovery was a letter, torn in four or five pieces, but easily reassembled. Almost a month old, judging from the postmark, addressed to Reg somewhere in London — 44, Leaman Street, N4, or it might have been W4, the handwriting was terrible. The note inside was brief and to the point, and in the same scrawl: You missed your appointment — Barney’s very upset. Get in touch soon. Don’t make us come and get you. Not the most friendly communication, and it was unsigned.
It’s always been a handy thing to have someone in the family who can forge notes. From quite an early age, my brother was good at copying our mother’s handwriting. He did no end of notes for me — got me out of games countless times. He was now only too happy to help. It wasn’t as if what I asked was exactly criminal. Not an explicit threat, as such. More of a gentle nudge to do the sensible thing. Same sort of cheap paper and envelope, similar blue/black Biro. My brother did a convincing job. Barney thinks you’re avoiding him, Reg. He wants to meet up next week — Thursday 8.pm your place. So see you soon.
We went for a day out in London. Might as well take advantage and enjoy the trip, we thought. We posted the note to Reg on the Tuesday, first class. The Royal Mail must have delivered it on time because Tina and Reg were packed and gone by Wednesday night. Flushed out like a pair of game birds, we heard them squawking in all the panic of loading up an old Bedford van with their worldly goods. She, miraculously, out of her wheelchair, carting boxes and glaring at anyone who got within range.
They left with a month’s rent owing. The landlords came to us, a little embarrassed, asking if anyone knew where they’d gone. We looked at each other.
‘Didn’t he mention Brighton?’ one of our neighbours suggested.
‘Yeah, I think maybe he did,’ my husband said, adding quietly ‘Of course, we can’t prove it.’
They were trouble from day one. At first, seeing her in a wheelchair, him pushing, and seeming so attentive to her needs, we’d imagined something far different — quieter and maybe a little considerate regarding other tenants in our small block. A forlorn hope. They had their first row on the afternoon they moved in, and it was alarming. Her screeching was of such a pitch and volume, echoing up the stairwell due to their front door being propped open, none of us could fail to be aware of the altercation. It was epic. The insults thrown offered nothing new by way of vocabulary — the usual combinations of four-letter words — but the violence of it was shocking. The sound of things breaking kept us all on edge, too nervous to do anything but stay in our individual flats until hostilities ceased. It was surprising no one called the police.
The fight stopped as abruptly as it started. A door banged, then another. We peered out to see him lift her, almost tenderly, into their car. They were out for the rest of the day, returning after midnight, very much the worse for drink.
We saw him take a piss on the grass outside. She was now screeching with laughter. Something would have to be done.
We held a meeting in our flat. Five other tenants attended. We agreed we would each write letters of complaint to the landlord — nip this situation in the bud, and maybe even get them thrown out, such was our naive expectation. The reply was brief. It explained the woman (let’s call her Tina) was disabled — a victim of domestic violence and, as a special case, her social worker protected her fiercely. Our combined complaints against her should be seen in the light of a defenceless woman unable to deal with a male ‘friend’ who had been helping her move. He alone was responsible for the incidents reported. His violent behaviour, his act of indecency. She’d been physically unable to stop him, and was very apologetic. It wouldn’t happen again. None of us believed a word.
He (we’ll call him Reg) was living there — they were a couple, you could tell. We stated this in another letter. The fact was refuted. No, the landlord confirmed, it was a single tenancy. Further, she was separated from her husband. He was not in touch with her, and she had no idea where he was. Again, it just didn’t fit with what we were observing. We’d noticed, too, that she still wore a wedding ring.
Although we actually saw little of him in the following weeks, there were more rows, which we noted down — dates and times — with direct quotes when she actually insulted him by name. ‘Reg!’ spat out in her grating fishwife voice, as though hawking up a bone.
It did no good. All those notes and observations weren’t proof, we were told. Apart from waiting until they were out, somehow breaking into their flat and searching for something incriminating, ie an item that was undeniable as proof, but knowing we would then have to explain how we came by it, we were stumped. Which of us it was who suggested the idea of investigating their contribution to the communal rubbish bins, I can’t recall. Not at all a pleasant prospect, but it might yield something useful.
Fortunately, it was easy to sort out which three plastic bags were theirs. Tina and Reg favoured a grey/black brand that had a distinctive yellow drawstring. Identified, retrieved and hauled up to our top-floor flat, we emptied each one into the bath so we could take out time going through it without danger of interruption. Rubber-gloved, we proceeded, and it proved to be an education. Revolting in some ways, fascinating in others.
It didn’t take us long to put together a picture. They threw everything in — no attempt to sort or recycle. By the end of the third bag, we knew what they ate, drank and smoked; which newspapers and magazines they read; what prescription drugs she took; how very wasteful they were with food and, from a half-completed crossword in a woman’s magazine, that she was poorly-educated. She’d made several mistakes, despite the easy clues. There were also a few items of clothing. A bra with a broken strap; a t-shirt badly stained with either blood or ketchup; an odd sock and, the biggest surprise — a very grubby blue Babygro. The most satisfying discovery was a letter, torn in four or five pieces, but easily reassembled. Almost a month old, judging from the postmark, addressed to Reg somewhere in London — 44, Leaman Street, N4, or it might have been W4, the handwriting was terrible. The note inside was brief and to the point, and in the same scrawl: You missed your appointment — Barney’s very upset. Get in touch soon. Don’t make us come and get you. Not the most friendly communication, and it was unsigned.
It’s always been a handy thing to have someone in the family who can forge notes. From quite an early age, my brother was good at copying our mother’s handwriting. He did no end of notes for me — got me out of games countless times. He was now only too happy to help. It wasn’t as if what I asked was exactly criminal. Not an explicit threat, as such. More of a gentle nudge to do the sensible thing. Same sort of cheap paper and envelope, similar blue/black Biro. My brother did a convincing job. Barney thinks you’re avoiding him, Reg. He wants to meet up next week — Thursday 8.pm your place. So see you soon.
We went for a day out in London. Might as well take advantage and enjoy the trip, we thought. We posted the note to Reg on the Tuesday, first class. The Royal Mail must have delivered it on time because Tina and Reg were packed and gone by Wednesday night. Flushed out like a pair of game birds, we heard them squawking in all the panic of loading up an old Bedford van with their worldly goods. She, miraculously, out of her wheelchair, carting boxes and glaring at anyone who got within range.
They left with a month’s rent owing. The landlords came to us, a little embarrassed, asking if anyone knew where they’d gone. We looked at each other.
‘Didn’t he mention Brighton?’ one of our neighbours suggested.
‘Yeah, I think maybe he did,’ my husband said, adding quietly ‘Of course, we can’t prove it.’