The 11th Floor
There was something about those people on the eleventh floor, Jacob Stedwell thought as he passed it on the elevator. They were probably all Bohemians or something. He’d heard stories - Mrs Kidman on the twelfth floor, who was divorced but was nice anyway, had told him that she’d heard from the landlady that the eleventh floor had parties at least once a month. Jacob Stedwell hadn’t heard anything himself; he went to sleep promptly at nine-thirty and he’d slept like a rock since the day he was born, his mother and wife had agreed. He wondered if they were maybe those Communists he’d heard about. Or they were Rock ‘n’ Rollers, he thought, in his bleakest moments. He slept with his grandfather’s blunderbuss beside the bed, just in case they came for him during the night.