THE PACKAGE

Coincidence can be the most vicious beast of all. It stalks with furtive intent, its talons covered in blood on the whim of a power hidden from sky and earth.

On that late October day, I had no idea where my life was heading. Well, that isn't strictly true. I knew that I was heading home from work, via the Cooperative. A quick supper for me to nestle down with and the latest box set on Netflix. Money was tight, my vagabond lodger, Shane, had just upped and left – giving it a chance with the girlfriend, again – so I was forking out for all the bills. It was doable; the solitude was quite nice for a change. Sobering, even, literally.

The calm was sorely needed. I had to take stock of it. I could hold out for now, but in a couple of months I would feel the pinch, colder months, Christmas – bloody Christmas – new shoes, the converse had had it, fraying into nothingness.

That was the plan. Food, home, jumper on (did I mention the money was tight), sofa, blanket and the telly.

Coincidence, chance, maybe destiny. Call it whatever you like. All operate with transient strings, invisible to the naked eye. We are, puppets on a stage of furies. I gradually dragged my feet up the road and noticed the red post office van nestled in the layby. Its driver, Dave Smudge, further down the pathway, slumped, coughing up a a ton of lung butter by the look of it, swearing effortlessly as his fleece caught on the metal catch of an iron gate.

I smiled walking up to him. 'Alright, Dave? Under pressure?'

He pulled up the snot equivalent of Lake Windermere back into his nose and shook his head. 'Ah, mate. Shit.'

'That time of year, hey?'

'Just a bit.'

Dave was alright. Wouldn't say boo to a ghost. We had been at high school together. He had earned the name Sicknote while there. I liked him personally, but he tended to overplay the ill card. If he had the sniffles he would usually be found bathing in honey and whiskey and watching the shitest daytime telly you could muster.

'One more bloody parcel to go and I'm done, Bobby. And that old wanker over the street,' he pointed dramatically over to the house in the corner. 'Won't bloody answer his doorbell.'

'So just leave a note.'

'Well, I would but I haven't got any.'

I couldn't help smiling. 'And why is that?'

'Well, I did. I had a couple left over from yesterday but for some reason there wasn't any spare this morning. Forgot to put the order in or something, I dunno.'

'Oh, dear.'

'I couldn't leave it with you could I, Bobby?'

'You'll get in trouble mate.'

'I won't say anything, c'mon. How long have we known each other?'

'I don't know, Dave. It doesn't seem proper. Write a note, here I've got some paper, and a pen.' I foraged in my bag, deeply, and came to the realisation I had left it on my work bench, the boss had caught me at the last minute of the day, deflecting my keenness to get the hell home.

'You must have a pen, Dave. You're a bloody postman.'

'Um.'

'What?'

'Dropped it down the drain at Bygrove Close.'

I sighed. I was dying for a piss and the sheer incredulity of this was making me clammy.

He turned away, disappointed. 'Yeah, maybe you' re right. I'll stick around. Sure, the old fart won't be long, probably popped out to get eye of newt or something,' he joked, smiling, revealing heavy eyes, flushed cheeks, and a waterfall of mucus.