On reflection, it was surprising how little noise it had made as it landed on the doormat. That package was too little, really, too light for what was found inside.
Something about the way it was presented, the particular manila of the envelope, had seemed familiar but he had shaken his head and told himself that his brain was getting carried away again. “Too much time alone with yourself old man”.
He had bought it into the kitchen and it sat there forgotten about, on his small yellow formica folding table, for more than a few days.
On Thursday when the delivery man from the supermarket carried in his shopping it had been knocked onto the floor, landing softly on the sticky lino. There were apologies for clumsiness and “oh, its not your fault, sorry for the mess” before the package and other letters and junk mail that had been keeping it company, were retrieved and placed in the top of one of the plastic bags.
On another morning, a long time ago when he was a much younger man, he had received a similar sized package in the same sort of warm brown paper envelope. Even then he hadn’t really got pictures up on the wall or photos neatly stuck into albums. He was a man who liked to keep looking forward, not back.
His job had had him dealing with people for sure but mostly from a distance, and despite a life full of family and friends in his twenties, his social pool had shrunk to a limited few by the end of his thirties. An exclusive club now further limited to the odd Christmas card or yearly phone call. He was happy with his lot though, increasingly convinced that perhaps he just wasn’t built for relationships of any sort.
He enjoyed a daily walk in the local park, breaking the quiet of his kitchen with the sizzling of a frying egg on Sunday mornings and never having to wait for his turn in the bathroom. No one to answer to but himself.
And he certainly kept himself busy. He had worked his way up the career ladder and was always in demand. Some days he had sat in front of his screen for twelve hours or more, delegating jobs and refining and realising fantastic visions. On the phone his agent had told him that awards were surely just around the corner.
And he still looked good in a suit, pinched in at the waist where he always had been slender, smelling of something expensive and sleek suave combed back hair that had only improved with it’s peppering of grey. Sometimes, back then, his daughter would join him at the ceremonies if she had the time. They looked picture perfect and those precious hours still raised a smile that reached all the way up to the heavy creases around his eyes.
He would have to dig out a photo from the old shoebox under the sofa, there must be one there at least. She would probably pop over for a cup of tea near his birthday or failing that at some point around Christmas. The children never came any more, it had often been easier to leave them at home or with their grandmother, but he got to hear all about their latest adventures and often that was more than enough. And now of course they were grown with busy lives of their own. Really, he wasn’t too keen on all the noise and chaos that children often whipped up and he wasn’t really convinced that being good with them had ever come naturally to him.
This is all besides the point though “Focus old man”.
The first package, all that time ago, had arrived shortly after his 42nd birthday. It was a frosty morning and he had been up with the mist. Quite newly single again he wasn’t back in the habit of sleeping alone and had only managed a couple of hours of fraught napping before getting frustrated and getting up. On mornings like this he wished he hadn’t stopped drinking coffee. He had told himself it was for health reasons but really it was a reminder of his wife that he could do without.
His wife,
Goodness. It had been such an awfully long time since he’d thought of her. They had married so young that despite nearly a decade of being wed they had never gotten round to getting their wedding photos printed up. It hadn’t seemed needful until it was far too late he supposed.
He couldn’t even really remember now, how or when they had stopped talking. Any chance for a proper conversation had eroded over time and with the growth of other relationships. And his daughter rarely stayed long enough to update him on what her mother was doing these days. He supposed the last time that they had been in a room together was at his retirement. They had spoken, on pleasant enough terms, for a few minutes. “Congratulations, you look well, finally there’s time for holidays, we must go for dinner sometime soon” and so on. The usual chatter. Each of them with respective current partners, and she had not stayed too long, double booked as always.
Enough of that, what’s done is done.
But that morning, as just now, he had allowed himself a little thought of her. And god damn did he want a steaming black coffee, even if just to warm his hands and breathe in the promises of purpose fulfilled that the aroma carried.
It dropped on the doormat, the first package. And it was odd. He hadn’t ordered anything lately and presents were fewer and farther between. But he supposed it must be a gift, a little stirring of curious excitement rising in his stomach.
Smooth brown manila with a crisp white printed label, his name clearly marked on the front.
He grabbed the carton of orange from the fridge and sat down in front of his spent toast plate whilst taking a swig. The package was light and made no sound on shaking. He peeled apart the top of the envelope and inside it was stuffed with black tissue wrapped carefully around the contents. It rustled softly as he extracted it, and whatever it was hiding felt tender to the touch.
He unrolled the tissue revealing a small plastic ziplok bag which dropped onto the toast plate, dotted with crumbs. It looked, odd…”What?” He poked it and realised it contained something small and meaty, uncooked. He carefully opened the bag and the iron tang of blood leaked out into the room… Horror erupted in his mind and his hands let go of the bag letting it fall and land back on the plate the congealed blood settling around the tiny organ inside the bag, accentuating it’s iconic shape.
He bent over his own knees and brought up the contents of his belly before wobbling to the phone and calling the police.
That year he had worked on a controversial project, there had been protests outside the cinemas and even at the major awards ceremonies. They never did figure out who sent it but it had to be connected, some kind of sick feminist protest aimed at a mans name they had seen scrolling up the credits. Other members of the production team had received threats and even had fake blood thrown at them in the street. But nothing quite like this… It was admittedly extreme.
He had been frightened for a while but nothing else had materialised and with new projects, and soon after a new person in his life, things had slid back to normal quite quickly. He had been through four different addresses since then, and here in this little one bedroom for the last 12 years. It had everything he needed, even a small balcony on which he had always intended to grow tomatoes but he’d never yet gotten round to hauling up the grobags required. It was central enough and had a few decent restaurants and shops to feed him. And crucially there was usually enough life out on the street at any hour to keep him from feeling lonely. Yes, it suited him very well.
It had been a long time since he had thought about all this, but there was something about that envelope. He picked it out from on top of a pack of mushrooms and had a good look. It was covered in stamps indicating it had travelled quite some way and the smooth paper was tarnished from the touch of a few too many hands. The white label with his name on it also had an old address and the scribble of pen. ”No longer at this address, please forward to” written a couple of times. He wondered how long it had sat in his old homes before their new occupants had decided to deal with it and send it on.
Besides that there was nothing particularly special about the package, and no clues regarding it’s sender beyond a London postmark, which honestly isn’t much of a tell. He put it back on the table and circled around it for the day, doing his usual Thursday things but also wondering if he should call his daughter. It had been a few months since they had last spoken and this uncharacteristic nostalgia had set him to wondering if she was ok.
It felt like the darkness fell early that day, even for winter, and he rushed home from his circuit of the park as the dusky chill set in. There was still more than half an hour before the gates were supposed to be shut but a man with fluorescent stripes on his muddy trousers followed after as he was clearly the last to vacate the small green area, and they were assertively locked behind him as he left.
Dinner was a simple affair, a ready-made fish pie from the freezer section, but washed down with a good glass of white wine, small but punchy. He put the rest of the bottle in the fridge to keep but hesitated at the glass cupboard before reaching in for a tumbler. Its heavy base clacked confidently on the table top and he glugged a good measure of dark brown bourbon into it.
The package was in his hands now and he took a moment with his reflection in the kitchen window to have a quiet word. “What are you so frightened of old man, stop being so daft.”
The glue on the top of the envelope was old but strong and took more tearing than he was expecting to give way. His heart jumped and time stopped for a moment. Inside the envelope, slightly perished at the edges, was a crumble of black tissue. Holding his breath he pulled at it and out it came. This time it concealed something small and hard. His insides flipped and he considered calling the police, throwing it in the bin, not looking, not looking at all.
But his fingers started to work at unravelling the carefully wound layers of thin dark paper for what felt like an age. It took him a minute to realise.
This single slender stick of a thing, dry and gently curled. It had been so carefully wrapped what must have been a very long time ago.
It was a finger, quite neatly cut from a long absent hand just above the bottom knuckle.
And where it had shrunk and gone hard and dry there was still sitting gently, encircling the finger, an all too familiar ring.
Time had stopped briefly but despite turning so incredibly white the thundering of his own heart beating brought him to. It must be hers, and evidently from such a long long time ago. How had he never noticed it was missing? And why had nobody ever said. They had talked, they were on good terms. Why? Why would she do this?!
And the panic started to well up in the back of his throat as he considered the first package. The tiny little blood soaked bag with that sad tinier than you would think it would be lump of procreative tissue inside. He was frozen in the little wooden kitchen chair when the quiet still solid dread in his flat was pierced by the screaming of his phone. It rang through once and he came to again as it started up a second time.
‘Sorry Dad, I’ve been meaning to call for a few days. I just didn’t know what to say. It’s all been rather full on you know, but…if there’s anything you can suggest for the funeral.
Oh, I assumed you’d read in the paper. I know what things were like with you…
Dad?
Are you ok?..... Dad?”
Gemma Abbott
Nov 2020
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