SteamSHIFT

Little out of the order of the book but here’s another litte teaser for ya!

————-

‘Special delivery for Mr. Fairfield’ said the courier, stepping up to the reception desk of Fairfield & Co. She was still a bit phased by the place even after all this time. She had been making deliveries here for a couple of years now, but this place was something else. It wasn’t just the scale – after all, how many places have mature trees in their entrances, but it was also the perfect harmony of the very modern steel and glass with the beautifully crafted wooden furniture. It blew her away every time.

‘OK. Where would you like me to sign?’ replied the receptionist, snapping Cary out of her trance.

‘Oh, no, it’s hand deliver only, you can call Mr. Fairfield to check if you like. You must be new here, I’m always here at this time, each month, most of the others send me straight up now.’

‘Let me just check your status, what did you say your name was?’

‘Cary Williams’

‘Yep, got you on my list, you can go straight up. I guess he’ll be expecting you.’ She smiled sweetly.

‘Nice lass’ thought Cary, walking towards the lifts, the small parcel under one arm.

On the eighth floor, she strolled down the hall and sat, as usual, in the comfy seats in the games room. Sometimes she played pool against herself or tried to beat Mr. Fairfield’s monster score on the pinball machine. Mostly though she sat in the comfy chairs and watched the tropical fish.

‘One day’ she mused to herself out loud, ‘I’m going to have fish like that’

‘They are wonderful to watch aren’t they’ said a voice behind her. ‘So relaxing; dreadful cliche I know, but it’s so true.’

She stood up, turned round and walked over to the speaker.

‘Your delivery Mr. Fairfield’ she said.

‘Thank you Cary’ he replied, handing her an envelope ‘and this one needs to go to Mr. Lloyd on Bond Street’

It was all a bit of a joke, this ritual, but that was the way she did business with people like Fairfield. Who was she to argue – it worked and that was all that mattered.

‘See you next month’ she said.

‘Not here. I’ll send you my order before the end of the week, and the delivery address.’

‘Local?’

‘Can’t say. I’ll let you know.’

‘OK’

Cary turned and walked away, down to the lifts, then off outside to pick up her bike.

——

‘Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit’ shouted Cary, presented with an empty space where her mountain bike had been locked up. ‘This is SO not good. What the f**k am I going to do without a bike. F**king bike courier with no f**king bike – that’s a laugh. Shit’

—–

Jacob stepped away from the window and walked over to his desk. Sat in the centre of his writing pad was the delivery. Opening it he found a 4” stainless steel cube. He clicked off the lid and slid out the contents – a good chunk of Moroccan Red and a zip-lock bag of skunk, both carefully packaged in red foil.

‘You’ve gotta love it.’ He smiled ‘This has got to be the only dealer in the whole bloody country where their product is wrapped by craftsmen!’

He repacked the cube and picked up the phone.

‘Janice, could you come in here a minute please … thanks.’

He put down the phone and walked back over to the window.

It was a cold, fresh morning in the middle of April, about 5 a.m.. Boris walked back from his night shift, along the pretty lane to his small flat in a converted Victorian house. He stepped inside, and went along the dark hallway to the back of the flat, into the kitchen to make some tea.

He sat and listened to the sound of the kettle humming to itself as it began to heat up.

Before long the gentle hum was replaced by the shrill call of the kettle on the boil, snapping Boris out of his daydream. He really should try and get some sleep. He switched off the gas under the kettle and went through and lay upon his bed. He took off his glasses, and rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he let the night’s thoughts catch up with him. After a time, eyes closed, he began to drift off.

His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. A look of fear crossed his face and he woke with a start. Breathing heavily he rose, went to the bathroom and washed his face. He stared at the face looking back at him from the mirror; it was a face he barely knew. The face was his, transformed almost beyond recognition by years of insomnia and worry. He slumped down on the toilet and closed his eyes. Again he began to drift off.

A few moments later he was awake once more. His morning ritual had begun. He knew that this would carry on for the next couple of hours until finally exhaustion would catch up with him and he would pass out.

Not this morning though: In those few moments Boris had made the decision that he had been contemplating for some time. Minutes later he was walking back along the path and out into the fields.

—–

In life, Boris had always been somewhat of a failure. He had tried his best to live a good life, to do right by people and live up to his own ideals of what the human race was capable of. But even by his own standards he had fallen short of the mark.

It upset him so much that he ended it. He took a long walk along the cliffs by his home and, accidentally, on purpose, slipped.

In his death however, Boris, shook history.