Newspapers normally do, and they certainly did in this case, call such people 'mild-mannered'. They quote neighbours, who use phrases like "I always found him to be the gentlest of men" and corroborate this by saying "He'd do anything for you, he really would".
        
But even gentle men whose manners are mild have a limit. And if you don't know what that limit is and, more importantly, what triggers the crossing of it, then you could find yourself in mortal danger.
        
Enter Blaydon Gartside, bookseller, of early middle years.
        
In the opposite corner, Oliver Baynes, dealer. Late twenties.
        
Let battle commence.
        
***

If you want to live in even a moderately sized city, you have to make compromises. If you want to live in a major city, you have to be prepared to abandon control of your life and be prey to whatever stumbles into your space. Unless you're rich, of course. Then you're mostly immune. But Blaydon wasn't rich. He was just ok. Did a job that he loved. Needed to be in the City because that was where was the work was, and had more or less got used to it over the years.
        
He bought and sold books. Loved reading. And for that, you needed silence. How could you get your head round Virginia Woolf if there were babies crying upstairs and down? Or concentrate on Arthur Koestler if the couple next door were effing and jeffing all night and all morning?
        
Well, you can't. That's all you can say about it.
        
And babies don't cry all day. Though Blaydon thought they seemed to.
        
And couples don't war every day. Probably. He didn't know. His own severe form of bachelorhood didn't give him much insight into that.
        
But there was one thing. One thing guaranteed to irritate him above all else. It was something that was inescapable in the modern world of flat-dwelling and it bothered him in every different place he moved to over a period of twenty years. It was, of course, music.
        
Blaydon had read the memoirs of a once-famous but now largely forgotten thespian who'd said how glad he was that he hated music because it had saved him wasting so many hours. Well, Blaydon hated it too - not exactly for the same reason - but because it was distracting and unwanted and it demonstrated a total disregard for the existence of those in the immediate vicinity. And not just the immediate vicinity either because, at the volume they cranked it up to, you could hear it from at least half a street away.
        
Usually he found that people would reduce their sound levels if politely prompted. Either for good after a couple of requests, or as a response to individual instances.
        
But Oliver wouldn't.
        
Oliver had just moved in upstairs and, though he wasn't sure why, Blaydon always found that downward noise carried much worse. There were streams of people up there from the very first. Footsteps. Jumping. Banging. Even squealing. Yes, a strange type of squealing. But the one constant was music. Luckily most neighbours went out, giving you some respite. But, as far as Blaydon could determine, Oliver never went out. He seemed to be conducting a permanent audience upstairs, like some kind of hipster Pope.
        
Blaydon, never one to be shy about his rights, wasted little time in making his opinion and his desires known.
        
Oliver and his entourage just nodded and smiled. (Or did they smirk?)
        
A pattern emerged.
        
Blaydon went upstairs. Oliver promised to do something about it. Nothing was done. The music got louder and longer.
        
Blaydon knew that he could, theoretically, involve the police. He also knew that the cops weren't in the least interested in the discomfort of regular citizens and that nothing would be done. Instead, he banked on Oliver moving out. Unlike him, who'd been there six years now, people came and went quickly. But Oliver didn't go. The months went on.
        
Then the story took a new and more sinister development. Someone - was it Oliver or a guest? - began to play 'The Lady in Red' over and over and over again.
        
Now if there was one song Blaydon absolutely despised, it was 'The Lady in Red'. If it was playing in a shop, he had to walk out. If it was on in a restaurant while he was eating, he'd ask for the bill and leave, irrespective of what stage of the meal he was at or how delicious the food was.
        
Only this song, or perhaps 'Tears in Heaven' or anything by the Gypsy Kings, could turn his hatred of music into something murderous. But he was a rational man. He recognised the signs and retreated before any damage could be done. Now, though, he was boxed in.
        
He left for work earlier. Came home later. Went out for walks at the weekend.

Two things never changed: 'The Lady in Red' or the volume it was played at.
        
He pounded at the door. A toothy girl appeared. She didn't say anything.
        
"Is Oliver there?"
        
She went off to get him. Blaydon waited. And waited. He even thought about going in.
        
"Man. You alright?" Oliver said, when he finally arrived.
        
"No, I'm not bloody alright!"
        
Oliver looked genuinely shocked. Not shocked enough to ask what the problem was, though. So Blaydon told him. Quite forcefully as well.
        
"Alright, man. Alright!" Oliver slammed the door. Blaydon thundered downstairs.
        
It was true to say that Blaydon was in a rage. On balance, it might have been wiser at this juncture to have gone to the park, sought out a bench, and put his nose into one of his crumbling volumes. If he had, he wouldn't have heard what he heard or done what he did next.
        
The warbling began anew: "The Lady in Red … is dancing with me … cheek to-"
        
Blaydon looked around. The first thing he saw was a metal skewer that he used for his rather tangy vegetarian kebabs.
        
The girl opened the door and this time Blaydon didn't wait. He rushed in, saw Oliver in an armchair, and did what he felt needed to be done.

***

The trial went on and on. The salacious details were devoured by the public over a variety of platforms, with TRUSTAFARIAN SLAUGHTERED BY ANTIQUARIAN surely the pick of the headlines.
        
Despite the prosecution sensationally bringing in an ex-colleague of Blaydon's from several years past, who testified to having seen him kick over a table while '(Everything I Do) I Do It for You' was being played on a loop, the presiding judge, Mr Justice Piggory, delivered a verdict of justifiable homicide and declared that Blaydon was free to go. Furthermore, in a groundbreaking ruling, Blaydon was awarded considerable damages from Oliver's estate for what the judge termed "persistent psychological cruelty bordering on the downright barbaric".
        
"Mr Gartside, Mr Gartside," the reporters called as they jostled on the steps outside the courtroom, "how do you feel?"
        
Well, what could he say? He just said what they always say on TV.
        
"Vindicated … I feel vindicated."
        
"Have you any message for the family of Oliver Baynes?"
        
For some reason, 'tears' and 'heaven' briefly came into his mind but what he said was: "No comment."
        
"Blaydon! Blaydon! What are you going to do next?"
        
"No comment."
        
But what he did was to go home, gather his things and prepare to move. He still wasn't rich but now he was better than ok.
        
A nice little semi-detached, out in the suburbs. That was surely the way to go. And if the neighbours were a bit rowdy at first, well, they'd soon moderate their behaviour when they saw who'd moved in.
        
A piercing stare would hopefully be enough.