He tried to keep his breathing quiet and shallow so he could hear as much as possible of what transpired downstairs. It was a difficult task: Roman’s obesity squeezed each inhalation into a protracted snort through fat-compressed airways.A deep male voice resonated outside in the stairwell, one floor down. The voice was quiet, too quiet for Roman to make out exactly what was being said, but it was calm, controlled, strong. Authoritative.Another voice made Roman recoil slightly from the door. This voice was louder; angry and harsh. Accented.‘I bet it was that fat pig of a paedophile upstairs!’ The voice was clear and Roman imagined the Albanian leaning into the stairwell, over the banister, shouting up in the direction of Roman’s flat.Of course it was me, thought Roman. I called them. And I’ll be sending an email to the landlord, you can be sure of that.‘You should go up there,’ the Albanian shouted for Roman to hear. ‘I tell you. I tell you that what you should be doing.
