'The Parcel', Chapter 1 by Steven Hardy

Firstly, my apologies for giving you different work – again. I am busy juggling stage, screen and improve acting (on top of a degree) that I have not had any time to write new follow on material. So let me introduce my first ever novella ‘The Parcel’ I will give you chapters from this book over the next few weeks, whilst I am doing all my acting roles to bide me some time and I promise that during December I will write new follow on material to ‘No Separation’ my dystopian novella and my other work so that it makes some chronological sense. Enjoy!’

Alan never really liked his name, especially when he handed over his passport and ticket to the masked girl behind the desk. Well actually she was not masked, however the unholy amount of foundation on her face lead him to believe she looked nothing like that first thing in the morning. She took his passport with her long, claw-like manicured nails and recited ‘Alan James Ingram’.

‘Uhm – yes, that is me’,  In retrospect there was nothing wrong with his name, or his life to be honest. Alan was an accountant for a minor banking firm; he did not earn a lot, but it was sufficient enough to send him on this holiday to Brazil. However, now it was over it seemed like a sad waste of money. For all the stress induced by a holiday - the packing, the leaving, the security checking - the relaxation was by comparison not all that worth it. To be fair though, the sunshine and tasty food was most welcome…also that day trip to the monastery was rather quaint and very informative.  The most disappointing element in Alan’s life was that he was not married; honestly he was never really close to getting a girlfriend. I mean which girl really wanted to date a thirty five year old accountant, five foot six, who can manage to boast a head full of grey hair? Although in his favour he did drive an Audi TT, the average man’s ‘‘I want to be a rich man’s’’ car, and he managed to fully pay of the mortgage on his house. Unfortunately, in reality those are not the two strongest pickup lines in the world.

‘London Heathrow?’ the check in lady inquired.

‘Uhm – yes that is right’, he really did not have a charm with the ladies. Airport, and other busy places tended to disagree with Alan, and the fact he works London probably attributed too much of his grey hair. The never-ending carousel of meetings and deadlines according to his Doctor had led to his premature greying and general aged disposition.

‘Okay Mr Ingram, you are gate 21, please head toward the departure lounge.’ She smiled at him, which resulted in Alan severely blushing and mumbling to himself as he left. He looked back outside the terminal; the skies were clear, people were smiling and he was heading back to England.  He pocketed his passport and ticket in his brown corduroy trousers, righted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and set off with his grey suitcase without wheels, in essence Alan looked about as out-dated and awkward as Mr Bean. His trousers swayed about his ankles, revealing white socks, which over time have become slightly yellowed by sweat and dirt. He wore a brown blazer (corduroy of course) and a brown belt. It was safe to say that he wore the colour palette of murky water.

The hustle and bustle of passengers did not help his unease at airports but that was unavoidable. Without speaking to anyone Alan swiftly made his was up two flights of stairs at the end of the check in room and emerged into the departures lounge. The departure lounge was lined with shops selling their wares. Anything from perfume to new suitcases was available, and speaking of new suitcases, Alan could have done with one; however, the old saying ‘do not fix what is not broken’ rang true with Alan. Walking along with his eyes fixed on all these shops was a recipe for disaster, as he accidentally swung his grey leather suitcase into a small child holding his mother’s hand.

‘I am so sorry…’ Alan began.

‘You careless man!’ the mother chided, her son had begun to cry, she smothered him in her arms.

‘Uh- I’m sorry, is there anything I could do-‘

It was about this time her husband came on over from the coffee shop after seeing the commotion.

‘What’s happened?’ he addressed his wife and a brief description of the events lead to this tank of a man squaring up to Alan. The man had muscles on his body that did not look as if they belonged there and his skin-tight t-shirt only served to exemplify this.

‘I did not mean to –‘, words were not forming in Alan’s mouth, as he blubbered nonsensically.

‘If I ever see you again, you are in big trouble’ he dug his finger into Alan’s chest. It hurt. The husband then swooped up his son and luggage and walked away; his wife glanced back disapprovingly.  

His boring, unassuming self normally never led him to much trouble (with the odd exception of clumsiness) however, without realising it, today he was being watched, followed and chosen by people that seamlessly blended into the background. Alan was shaken up by his encounter with that family, not so much the whole ‘finger in the chest’ thing, but mainly because he felt sorry for the young boy: it was honestly an accident. He concluded he would take that as a life lesson, learn from his mistakes and think about it no more. Alan was very methodical like that. His Doctor said he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but Alan just thought he was logical. Sure, he has to line up the television controls in a manner in which all were parallel, with an exact spacing of one centimetre between each controller and each controller was flush with the end of the table, but we all have our habits right? Promptly he made his way around the circular lounge and began to walk toward gate 44, his shoes rasping loudly on the floor as he did. He entered his gate, and displayed his ticket without ever saying a word and proceeded to sit down a full hour before the flight was due. The gate was virtually empty, except for a couple of families. One family had a young son who was crying, Alan swallowed hard, it was that same family and boy he had knocked over, secretly he made his way over to a seat at the end of the lounge without being seen by the boy’s father. There was also a tanned man, with a wild afro in a Hawaiian shirt, who perched himself like a vulture on his seat. He seemed tense, and the tension was tangible in the room. Alan began to read the newspaper that was left on the seat next to him, but there was nothing out of the ordinary: tax was being increased and somewhere in the world somebody had died, also another celebrity couple have filed for divorce, so as mentioned before, ‘nothing out of the ordinary’. As he was reading the newspaper, the Afro-man stood up. He looked a full six foot, yet was rather thin like a disproportionate stick insect. The stick insect – bird – man walked over to where Alan was sitting; Alan noticed he walked with a slight limp as he proceeded to sit next to him. Alan now felt uncomfortable and he began to finger the edge of his newspaper. The man smelt of barbeque and cigarettes, a sweet sickly aroma, as he leaned towards Alan and spoke;

‘Alan,’ he spoke with a heavy Jamaican accent, which to be honest typified his look ‘dawnt make a scene.’

‘How do you know me? Who are you?’ Alan's mind was racing as he began to breathe heavily.

‘Calm, Alan, calm’ the Jamaican man soothed, ‘I am Laos’

‘Okay – um – how do you know me? Please leave me alone, I have not done anything to you’ Alan was almost pleading now

‘It is nawt a question of what you haven’t done to me but what you could do for me, see Alan I have a favour to ask,’ Laos paused for a while, to let Alan absorb this new information, as he crossed his legs and sat back in his seat.

‘Talk to me Alan, can you help me?’ Laos inquired.

‘Look – err – Laos I don’t know you, and anyway how do you know me?’

‘Irrelevant’ Laos drawled, ‘Look Alan I have money.’

‘Okay - good - for - you, but please leave me alone,’ Alan insisted. He was actually quietly proud of himself, as this was probably the first time he ever tried to take authority.

‘I will go’ Laos said after some consideration, ‘If you deliver this package for me’

‘What? No I can’t trust you!’ Alan now began to feel uncomfortable again; this man wanted a favour.

‘Look, Alan, what are you afraid of? You deliver this simple package for me,’ as he spoke, Laos slid out of his cargo short a small brown envelop about four by two inches. It was padded, with bubble wrap Alan guessed, and was heavily sealed at the mouth of the envelope with masking tape.

‘Look, Alan, I ‘ave money’ Laos raised his eyebrows, sensing he might be getting his way.

‘Well – err – what if it is illegal, or dangerous, or gets me killed, or in prison or something’ Alan rambled, ‘this is an unusual request, I don’t even know you!’

‘Look Alan, you don’t need to know anything other than I am Laos and I have money. T’ink aboot it Alan, I have already got through security, pass dem sniffer dogs, through dem scanners, it is not illegal or dangerous,’ Laos spoke soothingly, and let his rhythmic Jamaican tones assure Alan.

‘Fine,’ Alan began to reason, ‘If I do this for you will you leave me alone?’

‘Yes,’ Laos monosyllabically responded

‘And I am I no danger?’ Alan asked, as he turned investigator.

‘No.’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘One thousand pounds.’

Alan paused, and thought about this, the money would be useful; it practically pays for his airfare. Also, Laos is right he has been through security, so what he is carrying is not illegal. After much consideration;

‘Okay, I will do it,’ Alan confirmed in a confident tone.

‘Good’ Laos smiled, ‘At Heathrow, you will find a man at the taxi stand called Mr. A. Gost’ as he spoke Laos wrote the name on the package for him, and slipped it onto the newspaper sheet spread across Alan’s lap. Laos then reached inside another pocket and pulled out a small roll of bank notes.

‘One thousand pounds exactly, I counted it myself,’ he seemed proud.

Alan smiled weakly as he pocketed the cash, supposing that this was the proverbial signing of a contract, and from this point onwards there would be no backing out.

‘Now listen good Alan, do not lose this gift, guard it with your life, and finally, only give it to Mr. Gost, understood?’

‘Um – yes’ Alan felt nervous again, why did he call it a gift? Guard it with my life? That seems a bit extreme.

‘Okay goodbye Alan, stay safe’ Laos hissed the last words. Feeling uneasy, and already regretting this decision he looked down at the package, whilst mumbling something that sounded vaguely like goodbye. So many questions flew through Alan’s mind, primarily what is the package? Who is Mr Gost? Alan had to ask Laos now before he boarded the flight.

‘Laos?’ Alan said.

No reply, Alan looked up again, and turned his head left to where Laos sat, or used to sit, because now he had gone. Alan had almost jumped out of fright, how did this man vanish? Frantically, Alan began to look around the room, the two families were still there; the boy had stopped crying and was whimpering in his mother’s lap. Panicking, Alan involuntarily stood up and he began to pace around the waiting lounge, he stared down the corridor he had just walked down, but all he saw was a barrage of people heading toward him, probably about to get the same flight as him, but no sign of Laos. Conceding defeat, he sat back down in his chair, head buried in his hands, why on earth did he accept the deal? Stupid, stupid, stupid…. He repeated over and over in his mind.

‘Damn it!’ Alan unintentionally said out loud, attracting the attention of the mother cradling her whimpering child and her husband.

‘You!’ he said beginning to rise out of his seat, until his wife put a comforting hand on his arm, confining him to his seat. He made a motion with his hands, trying to communicate that either he will be watching me, or that he had something stuck in his eye.

‘Sorry,’ Alan mumbled, and he bore his vision into his lap again his heart missed a beat at the thought of being confronted by that human tank again. In all honesty Alan was not sorry, he was scared and annoyed with himself. Naturally, Alan began to reason with himself. Look, nothing bad has happened to me yet, I did not tell them where I live or anything. But then again he already knew my name, what if he has a whole file about me, overthinking the situation Alan concluded he would stop using Facebook or Twitter. All I have to do is give this package to Mr. A. Gost - instinctively he patted the packet that rested in his blazers pocket - and then that would be it, it would be over, he could return to being mundane Alan, the thought of which soothed him. His mind, entertained many ideas and thought each of which only lead to a chain of new thought, concerns and worries. Time slipped by as Alan thought deeply, and by the time he raised his head again, the waiting lounge was fully of passengers, and the stewardess was announcing rows twenty-seven to fifty-seven could board. That was Alan. In a sustained daze Alan stood up, gathered his things, and went to board the plane.