Gibson Dispatch and Delivery

Benjamin Evans, postman, is tired and ready for lunch. He has three stops left on his usual route, but they are all for letters, he knows, so he isn’t worried. And besides, he is very much looking forward to the third stop.

His bright white van trundles quietly through the lanes, pausing infrequently, the blue half moon of Gibson Post that is emblazoned on both side doors glowing in the midday sun. Evans indicates, slows, and steers the van so far onto the edge of the road that its two left wheels are in the gutter. He pauses, hand on door, as a small green tractor wobbles down the lane towards him. Old Jim Mosley has taken to driving it everywhere these days; it has cheaper insurance than his car, he says, which now sits in his driveway collecting dust. Old Jim raises a withered hand as he passes, and Evans grins in return. He lets his face fall comfortably back into place as soon as the man has disappeared into his rear-view mirror.

Evans delivers two more bundles of letters on this road — one to Mrs Finchley of number thirty-seven, which contains mostly long white envelopes with “FINAL NOTICE” stamped conspicuously across their fronts, and the other to Mr Roberts at thirty-nine, who only ever receives heavily-scented letters from, Evans suspects, a significantly younger mistress. After this, the canary-yellow fence of number forty-one is an almost welcome sight, and Evans’s heart leaps as the peeling pickets appear around the bend in the road. The front door is closed but Evans knows she is there, waiting.

He drives the van a small distance past the house, then puts it into reverse and steers neatly into the narrow driveway. He can still see deep treads in the garden beds made by the wheels of his van from the early days, if he looks hard enough. He cuts the engine and climbs out, boots meeting gravel with a soft crunch.

“Good morning, Mr Evans,” she calls from her front door, which she has opened just a fraction, as usual.

Evans adjusts the satchel on his shoulder and arranges his face into a pleasant smile. “You’re looking well, Mrs Bentleigh,” he says as he reaches her.

Though she knows that this is a part of it, she still blushes and places a self-conscious hand to the knitted beret that is pinned to her grey, wispy hair.

“I have just baked a cake,” she recites, eyes sliding up and down the street, wary of prying neighbours. “Do you fancy a slice? It is too much food for an old woman like me, but a hardworking gentleman such as yourself could surely use some refreshment.”

“Of course,” Evans says, loud enough that his voice will carry but not so loud as might rouse suspicion. “Your baking is the highlight of my morning route, Mrs B.”

Mrs Bentleigh giggles girlishly and waves a modest hand at him. She disappears into shadows of her house, leaving Evans standing expectantly on the step.

The old woman returns after a perfectly-measured amount of time. Evans is not made to wait too long, but she is not so quick to return that it would look like she was anticipating this. In her hand she holds a thick paper napkin, in which is nestled a large slice of cake.

“Chocolate, today, Mrs B,” Evans says, trying to keep his voice even in spite of his excitement. “You spoil me.”

Thank the Lord, Evans thinks. He is sick of the recent bout of lemon butter-cream and has been itching for chocolate all month. There is no mistaking what is means and besides, Mrs Bentleigh’s cocoa icing is like heaven.

Mrs Bentleigh smiles and presses the cake into Evans’s hands. “Have you passed by Cedar Street yet, Mr Evans?”

The postman’s lip twitches nervously; he has friends there.

“No,” he says evenly, “not yet.”

“Would you be a dear and pass this on to Edgar Antree, if you go by? I’ve been meaning to return it to him. He’s at number ninety-three.” She picks up a black zipper pouch from the small table just inside her door and holds it out to Evans.

“Of course,” he says automatically, breathing an internal sigh of relief and taking the pouch from Mrs Bentleigh. He lowers it carefully into his satchel. “I’m always happy to help where I can.”

Mrs Bentleigh beams at him. Evans returns her smile and glances at his watch.

“You’d better go,” Mrs Bentleigh murmurs as she catches sight of the time. She looks briefly at the street, then frowns.

“Thank you again for the cake,” Evans says clearly and somewhat loudly. “What would I do without your cooking, Mrs B?”

She looks back at Evans and clears her throat.

“You remind me of my John,” she says, letting a single tear build in her eye and roll gently down her wrinkled cheek. “He was a good boy, just like you. Oh!” The frail woman reaches both arms up and arranges them around Evans in an awkward embrace. Evans can feel a tissue she has balled up in the sleeve of her crocheted cardigan tickling his ear, and tries not to think about whether or not she has used it yet.

“Such a good boy,” Mrs Bentleigh repeats. She moves her lips to Evans’s ear, her breath hot and smelling of marmalade. “They’re not happy,” she hisses and then, by way of explanation, adds, “Cufflinks.”

Evans squeezes her arm so she knows he has understood and lets her go.

Her bony arms drop by her sides and she smiles again. “Always good to see you, Mr Evans, dear.”

“You take care, Mrs B,” Evans replies. Almost as an afterthought, he fishes an empty, sealed envelope out of his satchel and passes it to her, and she tucks it into the folds of her cardigan.

Evans clambers back into his van and places the napkin of cake carefully on the seat beside him. He will eat it later, when it is all finished. He reverses back onto the street and drives to the end of the road, not turning to glance back at Mrs Bentleigh.

***

Cedar Street is not far, and it takes him only three minutes to get there from Mrs Bentleigh’s house. There is no car in the driveway of number ninety-three, and all curtains are drawn. It’s his lucky day; Mr Antree has done some of Evan’s work for him.

He does not stop in front of the house, but turns down the alley that runs along Edgar Antree’s west-facing fence. It is very narrow, and Evans is not sure how he will manoeuvre the large postal van back out again. But that is a problem for after.

Evans easily finds the old gate in the fence that leads to Edgar Antree’s yard. It is secured with a padlock, large and rusted around the edges. Evans takes a hammer from his satchel and, with a surreptitious glance in both directions to ensure nobody is watching, lands a carefully-calculated blow on the padlock. It breaks with a dull pop, and Evans catches the broken pieces before they hit the ground. He puts them and the hammer in his satchel and walks back to the van. He slides one door open and takes out a clipboard and a large cardboard box. Once he has locked the van, he makes his way to the front of the house.

Edgar Antree answers the door on the fourth ring, squinting at Evans in the glary afternoon light though a pair of spectacles that make his eyes bulge comically.

“Good afternoon,” Evans smiles politely. “I’ve got a delivery for—”He glances down at a clipboard, for effect, “a Mr Edgar Alltree?”

“Antree,” the man corrects.

“Right.” Evans says, and nods down at the box. “Look, it is rather heavy, would you like me to bring it in for you?”

Mr Antree glances nervously at the box in Evans’s arms. “Er— yes, thank you. What is it, anyway? I wasn’t expecting anything today.”

Evans shrugs. “All I do is deliver them, sir.”

Mr Antree moves aside to let Evans pass. Evans steps into the house, making sure to look as though the box is extremely heavy. It is weighted, of course, with bricks, but all the same Evans has to be sure to sell it.

Edgar Antree’s house is musty, and cluttered with piles of what Evans can only think to describe as junk. Broken telephones, stacks of newspapers, plastic children’s toys, more pedestal fans than any one person could need. Evans has long been interested to meet this man; he has been delivering three different types of women’s swimwear catalogues to this house for the past seven years and he knows for a fact that Mrs Antree has been dead for two, because he himself dropped off at least two dozen condolence letters after the funeral. Evans has to give Mr Antree the benefit of the doubt and assume he is just too lazy or bereft to cancel the subscriptions, but in any case, Evans isn’t here to judge.

Mr Antree clears Evans a space on his disorderly dining table. Evans lowers the box down and then makes a purposefully-audible sigh of exertion.

“Say,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, “is there any chance you could spare a glass of water? I’m parched.”

Mr Antree nods and disappears into the kitchen, which is thankfully several rooms away.

Evans wastes no time. He slips his satchel off his shoulder, opens it, and takes out the small pouch that Mrs Bentleigh gave him. He unzips it and lets the contents drop into his hands. There is the sound of a cupboard opening and closing from the kitchen. Evans sniffs and attempts to speed himself up.

The needle and syringe are already attached, for streamlining purposes. He inserts the needle into the small vial that was also in the pouch and draws up the clear liquid with a practiced hand. Mr Antree has filled the glass and Evans can hear the other man’s shuffling footsteps coming back down the corridor. He shoves the empty pouch back into his satchel and tucks the arm that holds the syringe behind his back.

“There you go.” Mr Antree holds the glass out to Evans.

Evans reaches his free hand forward, but instead of taking the water he claps his hand on Mr Antree’s shoulder. He swings the needle up and directly into the other man’s throat, and pushes the plunger down. Mr Antree’s eyes bulge, if possible, even larger than before, and then he goes limp.

Once Evans is sure the man is dead, he goes over to the brick-filled box he delivered and takes a large plastic cadaver pouch from inside it. He zips it around Mr Antree, then uses the back door of the house to return to his van in the lane. He takes out masking tape, two fat boxes and a platform trolley.

When Mr Antree is safely packaged up — so neatly, Evans thinks, that the postmaster would be proud — Evans loads him onto the trolley and into his van, then tidies up inside the house. He scans the room carefully, making sure no trace is left behind — he was sloppy last time, and doesn’t want to disappoint Mrs Bentleigh and the higher-ups again.

Evans gets back into his postal van and turns on the radio. He squeezes carefully out of the lane, whistling. After he delivers this final package, he will be finished for the day.

He is not worried that anyone will be suspicious; people trust him around here and besides, he has made sure that Mr Antree’s boxes are appropriately stamped and labelled. With those things done properly, they’d let him deliver anything.