Mr and Mrs Miren

Om Alva

Mr Miren and Mrs Miren moved next door a few days ago. Mum and I went to introduce ourselves, being the neighbourly thing to do. Mr Miren greeted us, albeit unwillingly, and said Mrs Miren was out running errands. Mr Miren had kind eyes, but they were steely grey, resembling stormy skies and emitting a clandestine impression. Or perhaps it was his disingenuous smile, with his missing bottom tooth. His teeth looked so perfect, almost like dentures but the missing tooth appeared as a deliberate attempt to sabotage the flawless symmetry. He was a burly man, but his mannerisms were so gentle that his massive build seemed unimposing. Mr Miren was bald. His nose was nonexistent and looked awkward between his plump cheeks.

Later, mum described Mr Miren, as the stereotypical “quiet type”, to my dad. To me, Mr Miren was somewhat of a contradiction. Take for example, his squeaky, high-pitched voice, unusual for his Herculean physicality. You almost felt like it was someone else talking. His lips didn’t move when he was speaking and he barely made eye contact, so you were forced to look away, but he was a rather big man to be inconspicuous. Mr Miren had a tattoo of a python on the back of his neck and a large mole on his left arm. He gave the impression he was an old man (relatively speaking), maybe 65. Yet his physical features did not appear to be aged, only his mannerisms were archaic. He seemed like an old man stuck in a young man’s body. Mr Miren also said that he worked from home and rarely went out.

Then later that day, Mrs Miren came to say hello. Mrs Miren was a tall, well-built lady. She spoke non-stop. I doubt she ever stopped to take a breath. In a very short space of time, we knew all about her; from her family, to her favourite cereal. Mrs Miren was not physically beautiful, but she was innately charismatic, or perhaps it was the spectrum of rainbow colours that she wore. Her make-up was over-the-top, red lipstick and an array of colours on her eyelids. She wore mesmerising dangly earrings and lots of jewellery around her neck and wrists. She sported a garish purple, orange and red floral top matched with blue and green polka dot pants. Unlike Mr Miren, Mrs Miren was chatty, humorous and effervescent. She was exactly the type of person that mum would ask to babysit my little sister. Mrs Miren had big brown eyes, a vivacious smile with perfect white teeth. She laughed easily and used endearing terms like “dear”, “honey” and “child”. Her blonde hair was styled in a bouffant and neatly tucked on the top of her head. She appeared to be a young girl stuck in an old lady’s body. Mum asked Mrs Miren to come over for brunch the following day with Mr Miren. Mrs Miren froze, the only time she went quiet. She apologised and said Mr Miren was always out working and would not be back in time for brunch, but that she would certainly stop by.

That afternoon, I couldn’t resist the urge to spy on our enigmatic neighbours. Yes, I knew it was morally unacceptable to invade someone’s privacy, but I’d felt I had a right to know if I was living next to delinquents or worse, serial killers. So, when mum and dad went to the supermarket, I wandered nonchalantly over to the Miren’s. I peered through the windows to ensure no one was around. I surveyed the driveway cautiously. I yanked at the windows and finally one opened stridently to the kitchen. I wrenched myself roughly through the half ajar window. I walked through the eerie silence. The only noise was the creak of the floorboard beneath my feet. The kitchen was messy; dirty dishes in the sink, maggots crawling in a negligently overlooked pasta dish. The Mirens certainly had not come across as insalubrious people, but the grubby kitchen was a testament to their lifestyle. I could see the fence outside and the roof of my house beyond. Seeing this provided a sense of safety in knowing that I was close to home, yet I was also acutely aware this was dangerous territory. I slowly entered the living room, the same room we were in yesterday when we met Mr. Miren. This room was immaculate. Every piece in the room fitted like a jigsaw. The room was pristine. I had to look back at the kitchen to reassure myself that I was still in the same house. The rooms were worlds apart. Exactly like Mr and Mrs Miren; a total dichotomy. A riddle. A paradox, posing as our neighbours.

I walked steadily to one of the rooms. Unusually, the room was styled in pink and purple, the kind that my six year old sister would marvel at as one of the seven wonders. Why would a middle age couple want a Barbie Doll bedroom? I pulled on the closet handle and it opened with the loudest shriek. I jumped at the noise, I didn’t want to be found dead in this house. I spoke loudly. Time moved slowly. I wanted to stop verbalising, but it was giving me solace in my diabolical situation. Mrs Miren’s clothes were neatly stacked. It felt sinister to look at her things, so I closed the door without touching anything. Her room was tidy, and I left it as I found it. Then, as an afterthought, I wondered why Mr Miren’s belongings were not in the room. I decided to explore the last room in the house.

As I opened the door, all I saw were piles of clothes haphazardly discarded. Food and waste covered every available surface and a mattress on the floor was covered with piles of bills and hospital documents. I steadied my pulse and knew I was violating a sacred boundary by reading the document. My nerves did not allow me to comprehend the content of the document, but some words leapt out at me with accusatory clarity; “psychological ward”, “sociopathic behaviour”, “regular medication”. The ground beneath me shifted as I struggled to regain my composure. I grabbed a sheaf of papers and stuffed them into my pocket. The putrid smell in the room made me nauseous. I couldn’t bear to stay in there anymore. I had procured what I came for and didn’t feel safe to stay there a minute longer. I was sick. My heart was pounding. I wanted to reach out to the roof of my house and swing like Spiderman. I couldn’t bear to go back to the filth in the kitchen. I decided to walk out of the main door and run all the way back home without ever looking back.

I opened the front door and to my absolute horror, there stood Mrs Miren on the doorstep about to enter and towering over me with an ominous smile.

“Howdy, good neighbour,” she said, “how nice of you to drop in, unannounced.”

“Err, um, my ball smashed through your window and I came looking for it,” I said.

“Did you find it, love?”

“Er, no, it’s ok, I’ll get it another time.”

“A boy without his ball, that would be a travesty, you came all the way looking for this very precious ball,” she said, holding me by my arm.

She had a strong hold. It hurt my arm and I knew I would bruise the next day, but I didn’t outwardly show fear. I grimaced on the inside. My stomach was churning.

She walked into the house and I followed suit, involuntarily propelled by her grip. “Let me help you look for this very important ball that made you trespass my property, eh!” she said.

I felt utterly powerless, transfixed by both Mrs Miren’s hairy legs as they crossed the kitchen and her perfect smile with a missing bottom tooth.