Police cars block our narrow street. Blue lights flash across the winter morning shadows.

I wake my wife. “They’ve come for Jensen.” My breath mists the window. The curtains drape across my ears.
She switches the light on.

“No,” I bark. “Don’t let them see me. I want to enjoy this.”

She grabs her nightgown and hurries downstairs for a better view.

I’ve had run-ins with Jensen. The parties booming until 4 am. His flashy car parked across my space. The sweet odour of cannabis drifting across the garden wall. Packages tossed into vehicles in the depths of night. The hooded man punched to the pavement one rainy day.

He’d come to his door trailed by stale burgers and tobacco. His grin would stretch his moustache as it said: “I’m having it good, so go to Hell.” His voice would say, “So sorry, Captain. We’ll do better next time.”

“I hope he gets ten years,” I shout, “whatever he’s done.”

There’s no reply. Just loud voices and the sound of heavy fists on wood.

Our front door creaks. I hear boots on tiles and Jensen’s laugh.

My wife’s voice is triumphant.

“He’s upstairs,” she shouts.