Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I found money in the letterbox it was the middle of the hottest summer on record. Roads were melting and sweat glistened every time I dared to move. But then, the beep beep of the postman. Never one to ignore a parcel, I braved the heat and made the journey to the letterbox. Yes, shoes from the summer sales. And in the letterbox sat a single note. Not money I recognised or that I could spend easily, sadly, the note read 10RM. Bizarre. I tucked the note into my pocket as I looked up and down the street. The postman’s motorscooter buzzed out of sight chirping like a cicada and was gone. I guess worse things could happen than finding money in the mailbox, even if I couldn’t spend it. Anyway, 10RM couldn’t be worth much, surely, could it? Probably kids.
By the end of the month there was a row of notes from different countries pegged to a string near my door. Like recalcitrant Christmas cards they waved to me in the breeze, keeping their secret to themselves.
A small glass snail broke the pattern. It hadn’t been mailed because it wasn’t wrapped or addressed. There was no beep beep from the mailman. It was just there with some advertising materials, and a bill sitting on a note in another unfamiliar currency.
I thought back across all of the strange monies and wondered, as I had many times, what this could possibly mean. Could this be a crazy drug transaction? All I know about drugs and drug transactions is what I have gleaned from TV and at the movies. I looked around cautiously. No heavies, no unfamiliar vehicles with blacked out windows. So, feeling a little adventurous, I raised the snail to my mouth, gave it a swift lick and waited. Definitely glass. Probably just as well.
Then, I saw, or thought I saw, someone looking at me from under the frangipani tree across the road. Embarrassed, I hid the snail in my pocket and walked coolly back into the house, like I hadn’t just licked a glass snail in the front yard. I slid the curtain on the front window across just a little, just an inch, really. Another, equally curious eye was staring in. I screamed and dropped to the floor. I gathered my courage and outrage, stood up and flung the curtain open. No-one was there.
It wouldn’t stop, though, the feeling of dread and confusion. I was alone. Why, oh why, oh why did Michael have to go on a business trip today. No-one was coming home. My heart started pounding again. I tried to breathe slowly. I reached for my mobile phone. Called him – voice mail. I sat and I listened and I waited under the window in the dark. Shadows danced across the floor. That did not help. I jumped when my phone rang. Yep. My ridiculous, behaviour confirmed by my absent hubbie. Had I heard of reflections? Yes, and thank you for your complete lack of sympathy. This is not funny. And so, with Michael’s encouragement while he waited on the other end of the phone, I took a deep breath, stood up and flung curtain open again. The street lights were illuminating the footpaths. No-one was there. Of course not, silly.
It was boiling hot, but I was worried about sleeping with the windows open. I lay in the dark hearing footsteps made by people who were not there, could not possibly be there. Outside, possums danced on the roof, little bastards. Inside, creaking and groaning as the house shifted in the heat. No, that was not footsteps, that was not footsteps. Not footsteps. I pulled the sheet over my chin. Should I hide under the bed? No, if the movies had taught me anything, under the bed was the first place intruders would look. I would be dragged out by my feet to meet a grizzly end. Not the cupboard either, obviously, though if I hid in the cupboard and they went for the bed maybe I could sneak out and make a run for the front door. Maybe?
That was footsteps and they were getting closer. I stifled a scream and I felt my heart stop. Was that the doorknob rattling? Maybe in old houses, but not here. No, the doorknob is not turning. It’s shadows, just shadows. Oh God, I am not going to die in bed! No! No! No! I grabbed my umbrella. With a wild yell, I opened the bedroom door and jabbed the umbrella outside in one swift movement. As the umbrella jabbed into empty space, the automatic mechanism opened. Oh, no, umbrella open inside, bad luck. Could this night get any worse? OK, I’ve officially lost my shit. Probably no more than usual, as Michael would say if he were here, but he wasn’t. Time to get a grip.
So, with umbrella at the ready, I took a deep breath, settled and walked through the house checking the locks on the windows and the doors. All secure. No-one was getting in tonight. Finally relaxing, I marvelled at how the mind can play terrible tricks.
In the lounge, I turned on the TV. Ah yes, the final overs of the cricket and a scotch was just what was called for. Then, with the scotch warming my belly and calming any remaining nerves, it was stumps at the cricket and stumps for me. I walked wearily back to the bedroom ready to tuck myself in bed with nightcap and book in hand.
But no, it couldn’t be.
There on my pillow lay the tiny glass snail.