Part one

Anyone on the rue des Bleuets, in Waterloo, will tell you that Grégory Martens is the perfect neighbour.

He mowed my lawn all last summer, when I broke my wrist, without my asking. He organises the street party in June, with a barbecue, bunting and a quiz for the children. In winter he clears the snow from the pavement along the whole street, at six in the morning, before going to the office. He is forty, with a smile from a toothpaste advert and a gentle voice. He works for a bank in Brussels. The ladies on the street adore him. So do the men.

His wife is called Élodie. They moved into the house opposite mine four years ago, with their little boy, Maël, who was three at the time.

The first year, Élodie often came over to my house for coffee. She was a nurse in Braine-l’Alleud. She laughed loudly, she wore flowery dresses, she told me about her night shifts and her impossible colleagues. I am a widow, I am fifty-eight, my children live far away. I liked those coffees. I liked Élodie.

And then, little by little, she stopped coming.

She stopped working, too. Grégory explained that she was tired, that she was depressed, that it was better for her to stay at home. He said it with a sad face, lowering his voice, the way you talk about someone who is ill.

She no longer went out.

At the street party in June, she came for half an hour. Grégory held her by the waist. He told everyone he’d given her a weekend in Durbuy for their tenth wedding anniversary. The ladies said: “Aren’t you lucky, Élodie.” Élodie smiled. When anyone asked her a question, he answered. She drank water in little sips and looked at her glass. At nine o’clock he said she was tired, and they went home. He came back alone ten minutes later to run the children’s quiz.

Sometimes I caught sight of her behind the kitchen window. She had lost weight. She no longer wore flowery dresses, but polo necks, even in July. When I waved, she answered with a quick little gesture, then moved away from the window.

One Saturday I bumped into her at the Delhaize. Alone, for once. I went up to her, delighted.

“Élodie! It’s been months! Come round for coffee one of these days.”

She glanced around very quickly. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She looked at it.

“I have to go,” she said. “Grégory’s waiting for me.”

She left, abandoning her trolley in the middle of the aisle, half full.

I told myself it was none of my business. You always tell yourself that. It’s the most comfortable sentence in the world.

But I started noticing things. The shutters of their bedroom staying closed until midday. Élodie’s car, always in the same place, which hadn’t moved for weeks. Grégory coming home at six on the dot every evening and checking, as he arrived, that the garage door was properly shut.

And then there were the noises.

Not every night. Once a week, maybe twice. Voices. A man’s voice, mostly, low, rising now and then. A dull thud, like furniture being shoved. A door slamming. Then nothing. Silence, the great silence of the rue des Bleuets, with its street lamps and neatly trimmed hedges.

The next morning, Grégory would put the bins out, whistling. He’d give me a big wave.

“Have a good day, Nathalie! Shall I bring you back some bread?”

I know those noises.

I have never told anyone on the rue des Bleuets. But I know them. I heard them for eleven years, from the other side, a very long time ago, in a flat in Charleroi. I know what a polo neck in July means. I know what “I have to go, he’s waiting for me” means.

And yet I did nothing. For months. Because he was so kind. Because everyone loved him. Because I was afraid of being wrong, afraid of looking like a mad old woman, afraid he would take revenge. Because you always tell yourself it’s none of your business.

It was Maël who made up my mind.

One Wednesday afternoon he was playing alone on the pavement with his ball. He is seven now. The ball rolled into my garden. He came to fetch it and stood there watching me prune my roses.

“Madame Nathalie,” he asked, “can mummies fall down the stairs every day?”

I put down my secateurs.

“Why do you ask, sweetheart?”

“Because Mummy falls all the time. Daddy says she’s clumsy. But I’ve never seen her fall.”

Then Grégory’s voice called from across the street, very soft, very calm:

“Maël! Home time, champ!”

The little boy ran back, his ball under his arm.

That evening I searched online. I found a number: 0800 30 030, “Écoute violences conjugales”, the French-language domestic abuse helpline in Belgium. Free, anonymous. I called. A woman answered in a calm voice. I told her everything. She listened for a long time without interrupting.

“You were right to call,” she said. “If you hear violence happening, call 101 straight away. And if you can speak to your neighbour alone, tell her she can call us too. Don’t force her. But tell her she isn’t alone.”

I wrote the number on a slip of paper. The next day, when Grégory had gone to work, I crossed the street and slipped it into their letterbox, folded in four, with four words: “I’m right across here.”

For three days, nothing happened.

On the fourth day, a Thursday, I found a slip of paper in my own letterbox. The same slip, folded in four. My slip. On the back was some cramped pencil writing that I had trouble reading.

“He found my emergency phone. He says tonight we’re going to sort this out. If the kitchen shutters are closed tomorrow morning, call the police. Don’t come yourself. He has a gun in the garage. É.”

I didn’t sleep all night. I sat in my living room with the lights off, watching the house opposite. At two in the morning I heard Grégory’s voice. At twenty past two, a dull thud. Then silence.

At seven, day broke over the rue des Bleuets.

I looked at the kitchen window.