The Brief-Case Affair

Chapter Five - Surveillance

I was intrigued by the contents of the briefcase - I can't really deny that. And yet, by the time I'd made the journey back to my home and settled down at my desk to open it, I was seized by a sudden wave of doubt. It grasped hold of my mind in the way I imagine football fans occasionally doubt what the point is of wasting every weekend watching twenty-odd millionaires kicking a ball back and forth. The doubt began like a small virus, infecting a single cell of my body before multiplying and spreading until every conscious thought I had was somehow defiled by the fear of the truth that lay within.

I didn't open the briefcase. Instead, I placed it next to my current work case under the desk. Marjorie often questions how I can tell the difference between my briefcases. To her they appear exactly the same: black leather, golden-bronze combination locks, neat, black needle work around the linings. But to me, each briefcase has its own unique character that makes it ever so slightly different from the others. They're like identical triplets, I suppose. To the casual observer, a trio of triplets will appear indistinguishable, but to their mother each one is as readily identifiable as a fingerprint. My briefcases are my triplets. Only there are more than three. And they are briefcases.

Whilst I couldn't bring myself to open the case just yet, there was something in the client's words that spurred me into action. I wasn't ready for the truth yet - but I suspected that the client was trying to tell me that I should maybe engage with the journey.

It was that realisation that led me to wait outside the Hawkins Window Cleaning Service offices later that afternoon.

I was sure my wife would leave work as scheduled, and I endeavoured to follow her. I had read a book about the SAS some time before and endeavoured to put some of the practices I'd learnt into practice.

Please don't misunderstand me - I took the potential breakdown of my marriage very seriously. But somehow the idea of skulking through the dark alleys as I pursued my wife across town excited me in such a way that I took to the task with great enthusiasm.

By the time five o'clock had rolled by, I was outside the office, concealed in one of the many bushes on the opposite side of the road to the entrance. The book I'd read had advised that the best stalkers follow their prey by remaining upwind of them. Not knowing in which direction my wife might walk made that a somewhat difficult prospect. So I opted for the alternative approach and made my best effort to blend in with my environment.

I believe I achieved this quite admirably. For twenty minutes, various people had walked past my position, and not a single person had spotted me. I had outdone myself. Instead of a suit, I was dressed in a khaki trousers and T-shirt combo. My face was masked with black face-paint, which blurred my outline from anyone that happened to look at me, and over the top of my head I placed what I could only describe as a headdress consisting of stringy plants and clumps of earthy deposits.

Nature and I were indistinguishable.

Five o'clock came and went, and there was no sign of Marjorie. After twenty more minutes, I began to fear that I had missed her, that she had left work early to continue whatever liaisons she may have been engaging in. I was almost ready to give up, when the door of the building across the street flung open and Marjorie stepped out into the brilliant sunlight. She peered up and down the street, and for one horrible moment I feared that I had been spotted, for she stared directly at me. Her eyes soon moved on, and Marjorie began the long walk down the street in the direction of the bus stop.

I crept carefully along the bushes, being careful to avoid stepping on any wayward twigs that may snap and reveal my location. My progress was slow, and Marjorie was fast disappearing into the distance. But perhaps the biggest snag to my otherwise brilliant plan came in the form of the end of the bush.