Identity

There was no knock on the door, no bell ding-donging to let me know it had arrived. It was just there on the path with one corner hanging over the grass, as if to test just how soft a landing that would have been.

It was Saturday morning, and I always go shopping on Saturday mornings. Beats the midday rush. I had the half dozen big bags under one arm even though I knew that I'd only fill three of them, four at a push, but I'd rather have the extra and not need them as opposed to need them and not have them. So, with bags at the ready, I stepped out into the mild November morning, locked the front door, turned around, and that's when I saw it.

A knot of thought tightened above the bridge of my nose. I was pretty sure it had not been there when I first walked out; I would have seen it before locking the door behind me, I felt. I walked over to it. Looked up. It was the only option considering the fence that penned my front garden was too tall to see anyone on the other side had it been thrown over. Nothing above but a bit of blue sky showing itself gamely through a cloudy veil. I shrugged and did what any other normal person would do. I picked it up.

My first thought was of a blu-ray case, or maybe a mobile. About that size and weight. It didn't rattle or smell of anything. It didn't appear damaged except for the slight tatter to the external packaging where it had connected with the path, and the moisture brushed upon it by the feathery touch of tantalising grass. There was no address on it, no stamp either, just a label with a barcode on it with a number underneath: 0 727246 120980. Although that last '8' looked more like a 'g', if I was honest.

My second thought was what I should do with it. I couldn't be bothered to go back in the house, unlocking the door and putting it down and locking the door again seemed like a waste of time. Besides, the general post office would be open soon. I could hand it in there as a wrong delivery. The barcode would probably be something their system would recognise.

Not thinking any more about it, I opened the car's passenger door and threw the bags onto the passenger seat. The parcel went on top. I shut the door, went to the gate to unlock it and open it, then got back in the car and drove out. Sainsbury's was a good half hour drive away, but I liked the drive, and I liked the shop, so it was half an hour well spent in my head.

There was never much traffic on the road at 8am on a Saturday morning. One of the reasons I liked the drive; I could put my foot down and not worry much about it. But when you're averaging 80 and the car in the rear-view catches up with you, you tend to notice. Thinking the guy is just in a hurry I drop to 60, making it easier to overtake. He was clearly doing a ton-plus to reach me so fast and if it were me, I wouldn't hesitate, but he just sits there a car length away. My brow furrows again as the needle slips below 50 and still my mirror is full of car.

Well, not one to puzzle over the behaviour of others I shrug it off and stamp on the accelerator. The car behind me sticks to my speed, never more than two car's length away from me. I see the nose of a car waiting at a junction ahead. I slow and flash my lights, allowing him to pull out and hoping he's going my way. He does. I overtake when I know there's enough gap for one car to get through but the guy behind me keeps up, drawing a honk of aggravation from the other car as he goes round a blind corner. What is this guy's problem? I slow again - same speed as the car I just got by - but my automotive shadow doesn't take the bait and pass me too.

Not wanting to urge the guy into any kind of race or stupid decisions I keep my speed low the rest of the way. It's only when I pull into the supermarket car park that he doesn't follow, carries on at the lights. I breathe deep and shake my head. There are some crazy drivers out there, and that guy didn't just take the biscuit he took the whole damn tin! I try to get a look at the car as it motors on, deep blue hatchback, typical boy-racer type, but I wouldn't put money on it being a Ford or a Vauxhall. Didn't get a good enough look.

Back into shop-mode. Bags under arms and small parcel into inside pocket. Bags into trolley, open, shopping list in hand. Twenty minutes later I'm paid up and heading out to the boot of the car. Ten minutes after that and I'm walking toward the post office. No point driving as parking anywhere in town costs money, and I never carry cash anymore.

Joined the queue waiting for the post office to open. Not too bad a wait; it's not raining and there're only half a dozen folk ahead of me. Doors open and the line trundles in like we're on a conveyor belt. The old guy at the front is hard of hearing, so they open another station so the rest of the line can get by. The old man is still there when I hand over the parcel, tell them about it, thank them for taking care of it, and leave.

Walk back to the car. Drive back home. Front gate shut and locked. Shopping away. Job done. Aside from the idiot in the car it was a nice Saturday. Sunday went all kinds of sideways.

It was wet Sunday morning, but the app said it would dry up before dinner. My bedroom overlooked the drive and when I opened the curtains I had to stop and stare. There was a parcel on the path, near enough exactly where I had found the one yesterday. Surely it wasn't the same one?

My heart was thumping more than from the effort of charging down the stairs, hurrying with the door key and dashing outside in my dressing gown and slippers. I snatched the parcel off the floor and checked it over. Same size. Same weight. Same barcode. Same number.

What.

The.

Hell?

I hustled back inside, locked the door. Usually, a cup of tea woke me up on a Sunday morning, now I felt it was the only thing that would calm me down. As the kettle boiled, I just stared at the parcel I had dumped on the kitchen table as if it would bite me if I touched it. Either someone really wanted me to have this thing, or, well, I couldn't think of anything else. I didn't even know what was inside. I didn't want to know, at least, mostly. There was a small part of me that urgently wished to rip the packaging open and find out, but it seemed that doing that would just acknowledge the fact that it was there, that it was in my house, that there was somebody out there with me as a target, or something.

Shit. What if it's a bomb?

I grabbed my mobile and dialled '101' for the cops. I suddenly decided this was not something I wanted to be involved with. After a few seconds silence I disconnected and tried again. Still didn't ring. A cold flush settled into my bones then as I understood there was a presence behind me.

I'm not sure what gave it away. My house is always quiet; I live alone and pet-less, and I don't like the inane chatter of the radio DJ's even though I have those smart speaker things all over. I didn't hear anything more than normal, so whoever it was moved just as quietly as I did. Even so, I knew with the mobile pressed to my ear I was not alone now. My mouth was dry, but I clamped shut my lips, forcing my breath to remain steady.

If this was a benevolent meeting the stranger would have announced their presence, so I could only prepare for a struggle. I controlled my movements, not wanting to give anything away to a would-be-attacker that I had detected them.

A plan came to mind suddenly, and I moved swiftly into the living room, swearing at the phone to release some of the energy building up in my body. I knew as I entered the room the door would hide my right side from any pursuer following from the hallway, allowing my arm to reach out and collect one of the golf clubs I kept in the space behind the door. It slid out of the bag with practiced ease. I was already spinning around and bringing it overhead in a downward chop when the other man entered the room and met the metal club full in the face. He went down heavily, eyes closed, nose a red mess. Somehow, if you rebuilt the nose into its former shape, he had the same kind of build and facial structure as the old guy the post office.

It felt like an hour passed before I could move again, shoulders and chest heaving, limbs shaking. The bent sporting instrument clattered on the floor, but all I heard was the sound it had made when it landed in the other guy's face. It echoed through my mind over, and over, and over.

He wasn't moving. Was he dead? I didn't want to check, to prove I was a murderer. Still, wasn't it self-defence? He was an intruder, after all. I glanced around the floor looking for the weapon I knew he must have and was rewarded with the shining four-inch steel loose in the fingers of his right hand. I swallowed, shuddered, picked the knife up by the tip of its wickedly sharp blade like it was still dangerous, and wondered if I would have felt anything as it slid across my throat, or dived into my spine.

I numbly stumbled back into the kitchen, the question as to why my mobile hadn't worked earlier when calling the cops now silenced by the fact that I had a dead body, ironically, on my living room floor. The parcel innocently looked back at me, as if to deny it had played any part in what had just happened, but it was far too coincidental for it to have arrived moments before someone I didn't recognise tried to kill me. If he had come for the parcel, why didn't he just ask for it? He could have had it with pleasure - I didn't want it.

It was now of immediate urgency that I know what I had killed a man for. The packaging was shredded in moments, falling to the floor like dread confetti, and left in my hand after it all was gone was an Apple iPhone 10. There was a post-in note stuck to the screen. It said: ring the number, go.

The 'g' looked almost like an '8'.

With my skin shivering like I was in Siberia rather than the comfort of my 18-degree home, I rifled through the bits of packaging in search of . . . found it! The bar code wasn't a bar code, just disguised like one. It was a phone number, 07272 461209 go.

The phone was not locked and allowed me to hit each digit in succession. It rang (why did this one work, but mine didn't), but not for long. The woman's voice said, "Hello, Harry. Nice to hear from you again."

Again? "What are you talking about?" I know I didn't sound anywhere near as frantic as I should. My breathing had returned to normal now, just like I had returned from the shops.

"When we last parted you gave me a package and a drone, said the drone would find you wherever you were and drop the package off. You told me to activate said drone when I had no other option. Well, Harry, I have no other option."

"My name's not Harry, lady," I replied, sternly. "You got the wrong guy."

"That's what you said last time I hired you."

"Hired me?"

"Of course. You're Harry Barker, assassin for hire. And I need someone killing."