The Delivery

The postman hated me, so believe me when I tell you that his smile as he handed me the brown package was fake. I could see an evil glint in his eyes, I swear. I took the brown box gingerly and read the scrawled writing on the front. I could hear my dog barking savagely behind me.

The postman tipped his helmet as if it was a hat and rode on to the next house in the street. I watched him to see what he would do next. I watched him glance back over his shoulder. I felt his sneer. I shuffled my pink fluffy feet back inside and pulled my phone from the pocket of my robe.

The postman had always hated me. My packages had never been handed to me before. Heck, they were lucky enough to make it into the yard unscathed. For years, battered and broken parcels could be found littering my front yard, some looking as though they had been run over. And this neatly wrapped parcel with crisp calligraphy on the front? Really, who was that fooling?

I called the police and requested the bomb squad, naturally. I had to quiet poor Martin as I did so. Poor thing, he was probably trying to alert me to the bomb. He sniffed at the packaging frantically. But I knew, Martin, of course I did. I was no fool.

No, the postman was up to something.

"What makes you think that the postman wants to harm you, sir?"

"Well," I said in response. "He's always wanted to harm me."

Martin huffed at the police officer, agreeing with me. I gave him a nod and crossed my arms, squared my shoulders. The officer frowned.

"Do you have a difficult relationship with the postman, sir?"

"Quite."

The police officer paused then. I wondered if he was slow. He was giving me a rather strange look, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. His partner was inspecting the package. I watched for a moment and then when it seemed the poor soul may drop the package, yelled, "Hey, be careful with that!"

The second officer started and placed the package down carefully on the table. I recrossed my arms and scowled at the second officer. The first officer was still gaping at me.

"Why isn't the bomb squad here?"

The first officer cleared his throat. "Sir, is it true that you have called regarding mysterious packages in the past?"

I thought for a moment. "Yes, I have. There was a strange gardener last year who gave me a poisoned pack of chocolates."

"When did this incident occur?"

"Last year, in April."

"And did you report the incident at the time?"

"Yes, I did."

"What was the outcome of the investigation? Do you remember?"

"The chocolates were not poisoned."

"Do you have any reason to fear for your safety?"

"Yes! The postman hates me."

The police officer ran his fingers through his hair, nodding as if to himself. "Is there anything more that you can tell us about your relationship with the postman?"

"I filed a complaint against him last week because my packages were coming in all mashed up."

The second officer let out a small laugh and crossed her arms across her chest. "Isn't that always the case?" She came to stand beside the first officer.

They continued on in this manner, belittling my struggles with the postman and asking too many questions to make out the truth. Eventually, the first police officer nodded slowly, and stated, "Sir, have you ever experienced any mental disorder in your lifetime?"

It suddenly dawned on me where the young man was going with this line of questioning. I felt the colour drain out of my face and my chest grow very heavy. I drew up to my full height and clenched my fists. I found myself leaning into his face and saying, in my lowest voice, "Now, what do you mean by that?"

"I just mean to say, sir," the officer blinked politely down at me, raising both hands in defense. His partner had her hand on the gun on her belt. "That it is unlikely that your postman has delivered you a bomb."

I began to shake. I felt it in my hands first and squeezed them tighter into fists. Then I felt it in my knees. My eyes prickled. I was hot, suddenly, flushed through my cheeks. The change in me only took a second and I was sure that the police officers could see it.

"Get out."

"But, Mr Samson...," they tried in unison.

"Out."

"Mr Samson, we believe you might need help."

"I don't need any help. Get out of my house."

It may have been the look in my eyes. It may have been my voice. I could hear it; it was chilling. But maybe it was just that they hadn't wanted to be there in the first place. Either way, really, they left rather quickly after that.

I waited a moment in pure silence and then tramped up the steps. I threw the door to my cupboard open and dove into its depths. I flung aside several years worth of miscellaneous junk and clothing, spreading it heedlessly throughout the room. Then my fingers found the wooden latch, hidden in obscurity at the back of the closet. I yanked it open and soon enough found the cold metal of the safe hidden underneath. I clawed my way inside and heaved out my bag of supplies. In another few moments I was sat at the table, the brown package in front of me.

If I was paying any attention at all, I may have noticed that my knees didn't click or wobble with the effort, and that I was not out of breath for someone so old and riddled with asthma. I didn't notice, however. Instead, I began to slowly pull out the tools I needed for the job. I needed only to touch them and they slid from the case and performed their miraculous dance.

I will not go into details about what I was doing. I merely peeled back the paper slowly and thoughtfully, used the tools to dismantle the bomb inside and stop it from ticking away. It would not have tripped anyway, I would hazard a guess. They had obviously become sloppy over the years. Maybe the new agents had begun to underestimate me? I certainly didn't stick around to find out. Sloppy or not, even minimal effort could sometimes get the job done.

I imagined the police officers returning to the house to find it bare when they returned with an ambulance to take me. I imagined them knocking at the slightly ajar door, then swinging it ominously open. The hallway would be dimly lit, the light of the dying sun the only thing lighting their way as they made their way to my living room where they had last seen me. I imagined their faces, eyebrows raising, jaws going slack as they saw the bomb, dismantled on the table in front of them.

I imagined all of this while I sat in the car of a train heading east. I had purchased a bus ticket for somewhere in the south, a plane ticket to the next country over, and a ferry ticket to the island off the coast. The train ticket had been a surprise to even myself. I purchased it at the airport with cash and rode there in a taxi. My luggage was now boarding the plane instead.

I sipped my whiskey and let Martin cuddle into my side under my jacket. I smiled again as I thought grimly of those poor police officers and the note that I had been unable to resist leaving on the bomb.

I told you the postman hates me.