At the end of August the entrance to the council block on Deansgate went about its usual business: the lift groaned, the bin chute clanged, and the kids zoomed their scooters down into the basement. Mabel got home from the office at exactly seven and, almost every evening on the fourthfloor landing, was greeted by the smell of dog food and the clack of paws on linoleum. That was her cue that behind flat 47, Albert Matthews was still napping and, at the doorway, his mutt Buster waited patiently.
Albert was pushing sixty. Hed spent years as an electrician for the housing office, then went on sick leave and, after that, the gossip in the corridor turned him into the resident tipoff for the local pub. Yet even on his roughest days Buster looked spruced up: the water bowl was always full, the coat on his back stayed untangled, and on evening walks he sported a bright orange leash that Albert swore hed bought with his first sober bonus.
Mabel had an eye for the little things the rag Albert slid under the bowls to keep them from rattling, the crumpled cleaning packets sticking out of his coat pocket, the quiet cheers he muttered when he accidentally blocked someone on the stairs. Those details softened the irritation that still seeped through whenever drunken shouts or clattering dishes escaped from the flat above. No one could figure out why a man who could look after a dog couldnt look after himself.
In early September the noise grew louder. At first it was just music blasting past midnight, but soon Albert started chatting with the radio, demanding the presenter play something decent. Bass rumbled through the walls, making Mabels glasses tremble on the kitchen counter. The residents chat group filled with complaints: How long can we take this? wrote the lady on the fifth floor. Cant get the baby to sleep. The building committee suggested calling the police, while others argued it would be cruel to the dog. Strangely, Buster barked hardly at all, as if he understood there was a volume limit.
Mabel told herself she could survive a few more nights; her throat would get hoarse and the chaos would settle. But on the fourth night she smelled not dog food but sour gin wafting from the crack under flat 47s door, and saw Buster clawing at the floor until his paws bled, trying to get out. Albert didnt answer the knocks. Mabel rang his flatonly the dead silence of the line. She then went up to the flat above, where Natalie Smith lived, and together they tried to work out a plan. No shouting, but the tension felt like a rubber band stretched to its limit.
A makeshift meeting was called right on the landing. Voices overlapped: some suggested breaking down the door, others cursed the drunk bloke, and a few pleaded for the dogs sake. Mabel kept Buster on a leash; the mutt stood by the bin chute, nudging the ajar door with his nose. His fur was damp from his breath, his tail twitching. By the firstfloor landing the concierge, Mr. Patel, was on the phone with the housing office, asking whether they could cut the power to the offender and file an official report. The reply came, as usual, Please submit a written request.
Sunday morning the situation collapsed. The stairwell reeked of vomit and medication, flat 47s door was halfopen, and a faint moan came from inside. Mabel dialed 999, telling the operator that her neighbour was unconscious, possibly from alcohol poisoning. The dispatcher sent an ambulance, asking for the address, the mans age and his pulse. Mabel held Busters leash with one knee, while with trembling hands she counted the occasional thump of Alberts heartsoft, irregular, but there.
A white Vauxhall moved in about fifteen minutes, wheels squeaking on the wet pavement. The paramedic, a sternlooking woman in a navy coat, instantly sniffed the corridors scent, though her face stayed stonecold. She measured Alberts blood pressure, set up an IV line with saline and a drip to counter the alcohol. The police officers who arrived simply logged a noise complaint and signed off on the forced entry. After the doctors left, they allowed Buster to stay, on the condition that Mabel would walk and feed him. The door was sealed with a strip of redwhite tape, dated and signed.
Two days later, in a drizzly October, the stairwell still smelled faintly of disinfectant and the steps glistened with damp footprints. Albert returned from the hospital early one morning, clutching a plastic bag that held a scruffy hospital gown and crumpled paperwork. He looked as if someone had sewn a strangers clothes onto himshoulders drooping, eyes scanning for a hiding spot. Tenants gathered on the landing, including the building manager, Margaret Clarke, a curlyhaired woman armed with a tablet. Mabel led Buster out of her flat and gently placed him before his owner. The dog nudged Alberts knee, wagged his whole body, and Albert broke down, covering his face with the grey blanket of his coat. The room fell silent; even Simon, the neighbour who had been ready to file a report, lowered his gaze.
Tom, Margaret began, her voice briskly professional, lets get you onto the support programme. Are you working?
No, Albert whispered.
Then we have two options: we arrange rehabilitation, or the housing office sues for breach of tenancy. Do you understand the stakes? Albert nodded, glancing at Buster as if seeking advice. Mabel stood nearby, feeling the dog tremblenot from cold, but from a surplus of bottledup energy. In that instant she realised the decision rested on everyone, but the first word had to come from him.
He lifted his eyes slowly. Ill sign whatever you need, just dont take the dog. His voice was hoarse yet firm. The neighbours exchanged looks. Margaret sighed, No one’s taking him. Conditions are simple: quiet after ten, no more homebrewed spirits, weekly checkins with the officer. Well help with the paperwork at the job centre and the clinic. She handed him a pen; Albert signed his name, underlining a fresh start. The turning point was set; the road back to chaos was blocked.
Weeks later Albert was a regular earlyriser, slinging an old coat over his shoulder and taking Buster for a brisk walk. The dogs tail wagged enthusiastically, eyes bright as he trotted along. Mabel often caught Albert chatting to Buster as if sharing his days agenda or simply thanking him for being there.
Another councilblock meeting took place, but the tone had softened. Residents spoke not as commanders but as supporters, discussing how to help Albert avoid a relapse. Natalie suggested a basket of oranges and other fruit to show community care. Heads noddedsimple gestures, but sincere.
Albert gradually rewired his habits. He no longer felt the urge to binge, preferring evenings with old books and new reads to keep his mind occupied. The clatter of drunken shouts vanished, replaced by the gentle rustle of pages and the occasional sigh of nostalgia.
One evening, returning from work, Mabel saw Buster sitting in front of flat 47s door, scratching his hind legs, his paws no longer slipping but merely patting the linoleum. She smiled; the dog had clearly grown used to peace, as had everyone else. Footsteps echoed, the door opened, and Albert peeked out onto the landing:
Good evening! Thanks for the support, it means a lot to both of us, he said, patting Busters head.
Margaret stepped forward, a book in hand, and handed it to Albert with a warm grin: I thought you might enjoy this. Theres more if you like it.
Albert took the book, his expression like a man receiving a gift from an old friend. The volume promised new hopea cosy night in the company of friends.
Neighbours also noticed Alberts newfound attention to Buster. He was seen popping into the vets and buying small toys and treats from the corner shop. These tiny details didnt shout, but they painted a picture of a life turning a corner. Buster remained a loyal companion, not only keeping his owner afloat but also offering a warm paw or a bright, caring gaze whenever needed.
Autumn gave way to winter. Days grew short, evenings turned genuinely chilly. Alberts figure was seen less often on the street, but when he appeared he no longer looked like a shadowhiding man, but like any other city dweller. Returning from the rehabilitation centre, he realised the journey was just the start of change; a small step, but the right one.
By the time the first snow blanketed the council estate, covering the drab surroundings in a white veil, Albert and Buster met Mabel at the landing.
Do you think it will finally be peaceful, Mabel? Albert asked, hope threading his voice.
I think so, she replied, watching Buster sniff the fresh snow and leave tiny paw prints on the concrete. The rivers frozen, the snow has fallen. Its a new season for the blockand for us.
He nodded, and that simple gesture sealed their longawaited reconciliation.
From then on, everyone in the building knew the dog was still the little bridge linking neighbours who once seemed on opposite banks.
