This isn't my favourite story ever. But it jumped the queue in my head and I had to write it to get it out. I hope you enjoy it.
P.S. Thanks to Dave, for spotting "Discordia" (and only Discordia) on the side of a van.
Mail Order (988 words)
Patricia stumbled down the stairs hissing, "Be quiet," at the chiming doorbell. Her boys needed their sleep, and what would the neighbours think? She put the chain on the door and cracked it open.
"I’ve got the phone right here," she said. "I’ll call the police."
A young man in a cap grinned at her through the gap. He wore a brown wrap-over jacket and loose trousers, and was holding a small package and a clipboard.
"Discordia Deliveries," said the young man, waggling the package at her.
"What? Do you know what time it is? I have to get up early tomorrow. My son Robert has an important interview."
"It’s oh three thirteen, madam. We deliver anything, any place any time, just like it says on the van," the young man said cheerfully.
"I haven’t ordered anything." She sneezed, and wiped her red nose with a clean hanky. Wretched cold was getting worse. "You must have got it wrong."
"Package from Eris." He held out the parcel.
"I don’t know any Eris."
"Mrs. Patricia Callum, 35 Millway Close. It looks like Eris knows you."
Patricia undid the chain, signed the paper in the space marked "Favoured, One:", and took the package. She watched the delivery boy get back in his van. There was no writing on it at all, just a strange blobby logo that seemed to vibrate in the orange streetlight.
She opened the box with little pecks of her fingers. Inside was a jointed teddy bear. Its fur was patterned with rainbow swirls, its black button eyes glinted evilly and it had a tongue poking out. She had a sudden impulse to snatch up scissors and cut it off. Was it supposed to be a joke?
Best get back to bed. Busy day tomorrow, Robert’s suit to iron, and Max’s lunch to make for college. Such clever boys. Her face relaxed into a smile for a moment. Then she sneezed again and shivered. She had to go to the office, despite her aching head and chills. They’d never manage without her. Kevin was a sweet boy, but he took his time over his work. She was sure he’d do better when he found a position that suited him. But Erica spent ten minutes a day on the phone to her boyfriend, Patricia timed her. And there was Christine, who she supposed worked hard enough when they had things to do. But when there were no forms to process, she’d be on the internet unless Patrica looked over her shoulder, keeping order. She’d had words with the supervisor about them both. Was that it? Was the teddy with the wagging tongue a message, to keep quiet?
Well two could play at that game. Erica didn’t have any get up and go, so it must have been Christine. She’d send the teddy back the same way she’d got it, in the middle of the night. Let Christine wake up with her heart pounding, wondering who was hurt. Wondering if she was being attacked. She’d look up the number for Discordia Deliveries tomorrow. In her lunchbreak, of course.
#
Christine watched the alarm clock flick to "03:13" when the doorbell started ringing. She felt an odd little leap of glee. Probably just kids arsing about. She peered out between the curtains. A van with a fractal design painted on it was parked in front of the flats. A bloke in a cap and a brown martial arts outfit stood at the communal front door. Light spilled out of the flat below, and Christine hurried downstairs before someone could complain.
"Hello," she said. "I’m pretty sure I didn’t order a Jedi Knight." She sneezed, searched her dressing gown pocket for a tissue, and had to wipe her nose on her sleeve. Bloody Pat the Martyr, dragging her stinking cold into the office.
"Discordia Delivieries," said the man, grinning. He held out a small box and a clipboard. "Package from Eris."
"Really? I thought she was too busy with hurricanes," said Chris, signing the paper in the space under "Favoured, Two:"
"We deliver to Order. Just like it says on the van."
"Um. No it doesn’t."
The man made a pistol with his fingers, and winked, then passed her the package.
Back in her flat, Chris put the kettle on. She hadn’t been getting any sleep lately anyway, just lying staring at the ceiling, wondering how she kept getting sucked into the clockwork routine of work. She hadn’t made any sculptures in months. She was so desperate for something to change that she welcomed tonight’s bit of random weirdness.
She’d looked on the internet for some inspiration when Pat wasn’t hovering over her shoulder like the Vulture of Doom. Mayan art, Native America totem poles, something to inject some meaning into her work, but she didn’t just want to make ersatz copies of another culture’s art.
She made herself a cup of tea and opened the package. Inside was a multi-coloured teddy with a mischevious twinkle in his eyes, sticking out his tongue at the world. Chris smiled. He had the right attitude. Screw them all.
Maybe she’d got too serious about it all. When she was a teenager, she used to run around with a couple of mates collecting up people’s garden ornaments. They’d make them props and accessories, and set up scenes on the grass of the big town roundabouts: the neighbourhood gnomes do Hamlet, the Processional Avenue of Concrete Donkeys. They always put everything back, so they didn’t get into too much trouble until the Grand Bacchanal tableau. Apparently people had Views about concrete and plaster inter-species relations.
A little inkling of mischief capered at the back of her mind, and she began opening her boxes of collected charity shop buys and discarded stuff. She’d play around and see what took shape. She only needed to be half-awake to do her job. Tomorrow could take care of itself.
RSS Feed