I wasn’t sure why I was being woken up at half past three in the morning by my dim-witted neighbour. I also wasn’t sure why he only had three teeth. I wasn’t sure why he sounded German when actually he was Irish, and I wasn’t sure how long this night would go on before I felt compelled to stick a brick around his ear.

I felt a fat finger prodding at my chest and, slowly exiting my peaceful slumber, I heard his unmistakable voice. He spoke lyrically, because he was Irish, but came over stern because he sounded German. He looked Welsh, but only when the moon was out, and he was known to drive like an Aussie. I called him Cabbage Eyes, but his name was Jerry and, yet, he seemed to like being called Cabbage Eyes despite the fact I regarded the term as derogatory. This threw me off, and I’d lost many a night’s sleep wondering why Cabbage Eyes seemed emotionally validated by my contempt for his existence. If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.

It’s fair to say, I didn’t like Cabbage Eyes, but he seemed to like me. This was a problem.

Eventually, I was well awake. I found myself slumped in a deck chair in his garden, still in my vest and best long johns. It was dark and it was nippy, and I could only really see Cabbage Eyes because he was being illuminated by a few candles he had dotted around. Soft light, hard face. Cabbage Eyes handed me a cup of coffee and a packet of cheese crisps.

“Drink up,” he said.

“What’s going on, Cabbage Eyes?” I enquired with disdain.

“I’ve accidentally murdered Theresa,” he replied. He was solemn, yet I detected a lightness in his being.

“What?” I took a sip of coffee. “You did what?”

He looked at me. It was the most serious I’d ever seen him. Usually, he was on his trampoline. “Theresa. She’s dead.” Cabbage Eyes paused. “I killed her, and I need you to help me bury her.” He turned to his left and shone his torch at a spot on the lawn. It illuminated Theresa’s lifeless body. She’d never been much to look at, but death afforded her a certain intrigue she had always lacked.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I said, quite irked.

“She never took me seriously when I said I would one day make a great fruit loaf. Yesterday I tried. I spent three hours working on the fruit loaf. I followed the recipe; I swear I did. But it was horrible. It was… What’s the word?” He paused, searching for descriptors. “Inedible? Yes, it was inedible. Well, Bernard, I was distraught… But Theresa thought it was all extremely amusing. I asked her why she didn’t take me or my dreams seriously and she told me that me and my dreams weren’t things worth being taken seriously. She told me that if I wanted to be taken seriously I should stop spending all day on the trampoline. But, as you know Bernard, I love my trampoline.”

Cabbage Eyes paused and averted his eyes downwards. He was twiddling his thumbs, nervously. “I admit, I lost it,” he continued soberly. “But there’s only so long one can go without being afforded a decent amount of dignity. What’s a man without dreams?”

He stared off into the darkness. I hated this man. With every fibre of my being, I hated this man. And yet, I’d tried to bake before and knew what the disappointment of a failed baking endeavour could do to the spirit of a person. It wasn’t just the disappointment of the end product, it was the sunk costs. All that time, all those ingredients, and nothing tasty to show for it. I’d been there. Christ, I’d been there.

“How did you do it?” I asked.

“With flour, and some bananas.” He said softly.

“No, how did you kill Theresa?”

“Yes, with flour and some bananas,” he said. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand. Back inside, there was a bed with my name on it. That’s where I wanted to be. Not in the garden with Cabbage Eyes, all damp and discussing his dead wife.

“Help me bury her, will you? Her parents will be here at first light. I’d hate them to see her like this.”

I sighed. This fucking guy. How did I get a neighbour like this fucking guy?

“How would we do it?” I asked.

“You’re a real gent, you know,” said Cabbage Eyes. He looked around, searching the garden with his torch as a spotlight. “I don’t know. I’ve got a shovel, an anvil, and more coffee…”

By six in the morning, after three hours of digging, we had a hole. No, it was more than a hole – it was a gaping lacuna so deep that one couldn’t make out the bottom. Theresa was still lying prostrate on the lawn behind us; dead. I had certainly sweated off a few pounds and was more than ready for all of this to be over. Cabbage Eyes stood next to me breathing heavily. I thought he might croak it too.

We looked down into the black hole, admiring the fruit of our labours.

“That looks deep enough,” I said.

“I’d say so,” said Cabbage Eyes.

“Perfect,” said Theresa.

I spun around with a gasp. There she was. Right on top of me. I felt her breath on my face, then two palms on my chest followed by a gentle push. I fell backwards into the hole of my own making. Flailing desperately but with nothing to grab onto, it felt like I was falling for a lifetime. The hole was so deep that the descent gave me time to think, but as the smiling faces of Cabbage Eyes and Theresa watched me go, I confess, I didn’t understand. Life had never made much sense, but this really was a clear signal that the universe was indifferent or, at the very least, not on my side.