First piece from the book - Thursday
A version of this (entitled "Someone at the Door") was submitted to Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge: "Knock Knock, Who's There?"
(Chuck Wendig, Terribleminds: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/wait-who-the-hell-is-chuck/)
Liz placed the parcel on the small, battered table by the front door, the table that held day-to-day detritus and straddled wet-weather boots. The courier, in bike leathers and helmet, returned along the front path to his waiting machine, well used and greasy, not sleek or for show.
She watched the package – addressed to her husband Dan - while closing the door. The third of its kind in as many weeks. Not the typical internet marketplace variety that usually arrives, Dan gets plenty of those, preferring distance shopping to actual shops. No, this parcel, like its cousins previously received, was different. Smallish and wrapped with neatly folded corners in brown parcel paper stuck down with wrinkle-free, bubble-less sticky tape. Not your average delivery. The label was large and clearly written with an expert hand, not printed, and affixed with precision on all four sides. Dan will no doubt squirrel this one away, like the others, announcing casually that it’s something for the computer. She stooped to pick up leaflets and take away menus from the doormat and stood sifting through them, but they went largely unseen. The parcel was just visible in her peripheral vision. They didn’t need anything else for the computer. The laptop in the study - or rather, the unused dining room - wasn’t too old. And they had printers, tablets, flash drives, CD roms, external hard drives and miles of leads. There couldn’t be anything to need. She knew enough to get by tech-wise. Various jobs over the years, while bringing up a daughter, had secured the necessary skills and paid the bills. But she supposed she didn’t know enough about the nuts and bolts. Dan would scoop up his packages and retreat to his man cave, where the desk was littered with man related debris. It was meant to be for joint use, a place to do ‘stuff’. Liz left him to it and used the kitchen table for her ‘stuff’. This was fine because at least he cleaned in the study occasionally. She turned her back on the parcel and scrunched the flyers together ready for the recycling bag. She wasn’t especially concerned. It was all perfectly normal mannish behaviour that she remembered from her first marriage. She didn’t see Dan as the secretive type either, hiding the products of a newly found fetish or - heaven forbid - a geeky hobby. The marriage was sound, although of only three years. Liz thought any glitches unlikely at their age and after lessons learned from their previous alliances. Life was as it should be wasn’t it? Safe and comfortable - suburban. It suited them both. Didn’t it? She caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. It could be worse. Decent skin for nearly forty-nine and easy hair – wash, dry, go – and age appropriate clothes. No pricey designer labels here. She deemed herself fit for purpose as usual. She blended in. So what does Dan see in me? He wasn’t what you’d call a looker, and therefore out of her league. He was tall, she liked that, and he had a knack of knowing what to do and when, without fuss, or doubt. And he was always right, always rational, and kind. She shook her head. Mid-life crisis clearly. We found each other and deserve to be content. So what’s in the packages? In the kitchen Liz got on with some chores, the parcel out of view, out of mind. Radio 4 murmured in the background, dinner was prepped and her clothes ironed for work the next day. She worked three days a week for a local solicitor’s office and had Tuesdays and Thursdays at home. Dan worked in marine insurance in the city and usually arrived home around 6.30pm, if he wasn’t away on business, as he had been a lot in recent weeks. It was just another Thursday in the Henderson house, nothing different, very simple. It was about 4.30pm. Answering the doorbell Liz mumbled about “packages” and having things to do. ‘Right, hand it over. It’s ok, I saw it being delivered.’ The man was nodding and bobbing his head. He looked frequently behind him and wrung his hands. ‘I can’t hang about, hurry up,’ he pleaded. He wore ill-fitting well-worn jeans, grubby trainers and an equally aged hoody, but he wasn’t a youth. More like thirty-five. Liz smiled, and frowned at the same time. ‘I’m sorry, are you sure you have the right house?’ ‘Don’t mess me about, someone could come any minute.’ The man was fervent and, although not tall, Liz didn’t doubt he could get nasty. She clung to the front door, keeping it between her and him. ‘I … I’m really sorry but do I know you? Who’s coming?’ She looked behind him to the street beyond, afraid to see someone there. The man’s eager brow line dropped, then furrowed. ‘You don’t know who I am do you?’ He seemed genuinely deflated. Liz was now as much worried for him as for herself. ‘Was Dan meant to tell me something?’ ‘Dan? Who’s Dan?’ She started to close the door a little further. ‘I think you definitely have the wrong house.’ But she wanted to be helpful. ‘What’s the surname? I might know them.’ She glanced over his shoulder again, looking for help, fearing the opposite, but hopeful it was all just a big mistake. ‘No, it’s here! I saw it arrive. Just give it to me anyway.’ He stuck out his hands. ‘Well … no, I can’t do that, it’s addressed to my husband.’ She was now quite flushed, wishing that she hadn’t confirmed the parcel’s existence. She wanted to shut the door and lock it, it seemed the only sensible thing to do. The man looked like he might cry. ‘Look lady, I don’t know you and I don’t know any Dan, but the package is addressed to D. Henderson and …..’ ‘Um … yes, that’s my husband.’ ‘ …. and then Phil passes it to me. Husband? What husband?’ ‘Phil? Who’s Phil?’ Philip Clark ejected the flash drive and tucked this and his latest passport into his inside jacket pocket - a zip up, so he could blend in, be inconspicuous. The laptop he’d been using and a few papers he trashed in a large bin in the alley outside, along with the keys to the rented office he was using. The unit had been paid up, in cash, for the next three months, and he knew he had never been followed here. No-one would be coming by any time soon. He was pushed for time. The message had come through much as expected late last night. A relief, and it set the ball rolling. He just had to wait for that final package or he wouldn’t still have to be here. Dixon would be fine, a bit of blagging and Liz would hand it over. They’d meet later and Phil could collect. He looked at his watch while waiting outside for the cab he’d ordered. He was focused, aware of the street, the people in it. At the same time he went through the plan in his head, and would keep doing so, until the rust fell away. In the process he could forget yesterday, and the day before that, and the year before that, as if they’d never happened. The recent past wouldn’t cloud his thoughts, his decision-making. No distractions, normal business would be resumed. As he waited, on a fine May day, a fresh breeze promising summer behind it, he wondered who would have been hired to track him down, and what they might find. There wouldn’t be much at the house for anyone to make use of, and he reasoned that Liz would find the money eventually and forget about him. The cab pulled up and he climbed in, small overnight bag in hand. Passers-by hurried through the void left behind. |
Photo on this page: From Flikr, by Brad Greenlee