The Mailwoman: Chapter XXI

Hugh Hamilton

At precisely some time around midnight, Ben awoke to find someone knocking urgently on his door. He hurried out of bed and quickly answered it.
"Hugh! What the hell do you want?"
"Queensland should have an apostrophe!"
The sound of the door clicking violently back into the door-frame was not the response Hugh had expected, and it took him a good deal of motionless minutes before he realised that pursuing the matter further would be unwise.
The next day – Wednesday I believe – they were sitting as they have done so often in their office when a great thud thudded into the door and took great pleasure in startling them; under the current circumstances, this was a welcome relief. Opening the door – the obvious choice of action – they found themselves in the company of another big bag of mail, carefully tied up with string obviously intended for brown paper packages. Ben made a conscious effort to look thoroughly irritated; Hugh nodded indifferently, but was secretly pissed off (I say secretly because he failed to notice the miniscule pause relieving itself atop his head). There was a note attached to the bag, but none dared to inspect it just yet. After Just Yet turned into About Now, Hugh grabbed the piece of paper and brought it to eye-level.
"It's heavy," he said.
"Doesn't look heavy," disagreed Ben.
"But it's a five-pound note," protested Hugh with a smirk.
Ben coughed up a bloody cringe.
"Call me when you get to England," he murmured amid a scowl.
They stood for a few more minutes at the door and looked dolefully at the intimidating bag of mail.
"Wait," began Ben, "what does the note actually say?"
"Let's see." Hugh briefly scanned the neat print. "Six-hundred thousand..." he gasped and trailed off.
No one said anything for another few minutes; he was quite capable of speaking for himself.
"I do like this weather we're having," said Another Few Minutes and left.
"Is this all to the same place?" asked Ben.
"Yes," answered Hugh after looking at the note again. "But we have to return all the other money."
Ben frowned.
"It also states that this is most definitely the last bag of mail," added Hugh.
"Again?"
"Yes..."
A pause.
"Was it too soon?" asked Ben.
"Yes, yes it was," replied Hugh.
"Let's go,"
And they went.
A dozen arduous hours later, they arrived at a busy open area in the city and rested on a green metal bench, where, amid sliding trams and sunken sculptures, they munched on a delightful pair of cucumber sandwiches and watched passers-by pass by. The hot day was mercifully cooled beneath the extensive shadows of tall trees and the brick structures on which they lay were well peopled with workers and the like lunching peacefully. Cars were not permitted here; a pervading sense of contentment floated lazily through every breeze. The tall clock tower was the only reminder of another world.
"So where's this place?" said Ben, licking the last granules of bread from his unchapped lips.
"There, I think." Hugh pointed at a nicely inconspicuous building to the far end of the square.
Approaching with a casual swagger, they were almost utterly shocked to find a school of policemen swimming with watchful eyes around the entrance.
"Oh dear," exclaimed Hugh in riddled fear.
Judging the situation as serious, Ben decided against going into that whole "one of the conditions" thing.
"Be on the look out for two people with a mailbag," advised one of the policemen, then, looking suspiciously behind him, he added: "rather like them."
The "them" in question were soon approached by an eager young participant in state authority.
"Have you seen any people like yourselves around?" he asked. "Possibly with a mailbag."
"No." Ben shook his head. "Have you?"
"No."
The conversation ended there. It started up again a while later with the policeman asking: "What have you got in that mailbag?"
But unfortunately Ben and Hugh were already ascending the cinematic stairs of the large clock tower. Peaking through a small, circular crack in the clock face, they spied an overwhelming group of law on the grey concrete far below. But the real shock came from observing another group of well-armed police actually enter the clock tower; hearing their delicate policeman feet patter rhythmically on the cold metal stairs sent harsh chills up their spines. A course of action was soon decided: they must climb the clock face and get up onto the roof, where escape would be almost possible. Hanging dangerously from the long hand of the clock, they realised with a hint of horror that they were not the best climbers the world has seen. In fact, they could well be the worst.
"This is terrific," sarcasmed Ben as he swung and slipped with every ticking second.
"Yes it is," agreed Hugh, cutting viciously through Ben's pessimism. "All we need to do is wait until the hour."
"Great plan," disagreed Ben.
And so they waited. Unfortunately for them, the police weren't so willing to play along and they expressed this lack of patience with a well-aimed sniper rifle that tore apart the mailbag that Ben and Hugh had foolishly brought with them. Hundreds of violet envelopes shot out of the gaping hole, danced hauntingly in the erratic breeze and littered the ground below. Some spilled their contents of letters and tea-leaves, others of tea-bags and compressed slices of moist chocolate cake — nothing particularly interesting. After the excitement wore off, Ben and Hugh surrendered and, in turn, were arrested.

Just as the trial began to get interesting, a new, highly-convenient law was passed that allowed more then one mail service in the area and our two smugglers were grudgingly let off the hook and returned to society. Society ignored them so they returned penniless (though not entirely dollar-less) to their office and went to sleep.

THE END