Their guardian smiled at us when she opened the door. We barged past her. It’d been raining, but we kept our boots on and made sure our heels dug into the carpet while we searched the house. It was a tidy home. The bass that had been emitting with intensity for us to feel it and hear it had stopped the moment we knocked. None of that music nor the noises that had been reported were present. We reached the upstairs hallway, and there was still nothing. Not even a speaker. We moved towards the bedroom and saw a teenage boy reading a book. He paid no attention to us and refused to look up even when we tapped the wall. The bathroom was opposite, and the door was slightly open. We peered through it, and there was another boy lighting a cigarette while taking a bubble bath. He grinned in our direction. “Keep it down, will you? Andre’s studying for his exams.”
Michael and Andre were 17-year-old cousins who were looked after by an auntie they shared. They bore no resemblance. We had suspicions they weren’t related, but casework said otherwise. When we left the house, we saw several of their neighbours had come outside and were watching us. We weren’t sure why; notes we’d been given described the cousins as consistently loud but not much else. As we headed back to our car, one of them came up to us and said, “I really dislike you people, but those two are a problem.”
That was all we needed.
Things come to life only once they’re seen, and we had laid eyes on the cousins. Reports about them came in more than ever, but they were followed with no proof. The boys’ actions were elusive, and they were well-mannered when we called round; they had nothing to admit or deny whenever we asked them about an allegation. Andre’s focus was always elsewhere, while Michael never looked away from our eyes.
Stories came from neighbours, other kids and passersby. The constant complaint of bass-heavy music persisted but became trivial in comparison to what was now being said about them: the postman claimed he saw a mini-weed farm in their shed after leaving parcels in the back garden. We found nothing. An old woman swore she’d seen Michael distract a bus driver during his lunch break while Andre snuck onto the bus and drove for three stops with a vehicle full of panicked passengers. We never found the footage or the driver. A parent called us at night and accused Michael of inappropriately touching her daughter, Shea. When we arrived, Shea disputed everything her mother had told us. She was relaxed, and while we spoke to her, her focus would at times drift to the corner of the ceiling. It didn’t take us long to realise she was trying to hide a smile. We stopped at the cousins’ house before midnight. Andre opened the door with Michael behind him. They looked pleased to see us. As always, they were polite and mature in their manner. Their story matched Shea’s. As we turned to leave, and the door gradually closed, Michael sniffed the ends of his right hand. “That’s odd, Andre? Why do my fingers smell of pussy when we don’t have any cats?”
They were silently making fools of us. We had to be louder.
Any football game they had with friends in the local park, we were there, although we didn’t wait in the car: we brought camping chairs to the field and watched them play.
They stopped kicking ball.
We had our lunchbreaks at the chippy where they hung out. The cod was excellent, so we tipped the owner well.
They found somewhere else to eat.
We bought our snacks where they got theirs. Our shopping was now done nearby too, and every time we bumped into their auntie, we offered her a ride back and helped carry her bags to the front door. Wherever Michael and Andre were, we were too. We even gave free rides to neighbours of theirs who were running late for work or a Jobcentre appointment. Eventually, we were referred to by our first names rather than our previous title of Carpet-Staining Wankers. We knew we’d reached the desired volume of impression when the daughter of a resident street pharmacist pointed at the two of us as her father pulled her away and said: “I want to be them when I’m older.”
When Michael and Andre turned 18, they moved out before we had a chance to welcome them into the world of adulthood. Neverending tales of nuisance stopped, and their auntie changed address. Actions that had seasoned conversations for so long faded. The stillness everyone had wished for came, while the thanks we received was quiet and almost restrained, but it was sincere. Our presence had been protection against the cousins’ pollution. It was a position we’d grown to value, but now, we travelled the area with diminishing purpose. To go from facilitating what was wanted to becoming insignificant was hard, but we were happy, and this is what we told ourselves despite us waiting, and hoping, for another set of low-down individuals who were brave enough to pitch through the silence.
Featured drawing, Bass, by Thomas Fowler