Here is the first draft of Chapter 2 from my novella ‘The Parcel’. Enjoy!
Read Chapter 1 here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-parcel-chapter-1-by-steven-hardy.html
Alan was sweating, as he leaned back in his seat,
though he was in no immediate danger, he felt on edge. As he looked around the
cabin, all those innocent smiling faces, carefree laughs, it only made him feel
a condemned man, a dead man walking.
‘Water or juice?’
‘Huh?’ Alan was caught unawares by the seductively
dressed air hostess, ‘Water, please.’
She handed him the water - it was warm - and walked
on. Time slipped away with Alan in a state of needless transfixed paranoia; he
did not even watch a film, or sleep a wink.
‘Tsk – okay we are approaching London Heathrow’ the
Captain gurgled through the PA system ‘Please fasten your seatbelt, and cabin
crew please go through your final checks.’
Alan in a
robotic fashion obliged, and before he knew it they had landed in Heathrow.
Alan retrieved his hand luggage and expressed his gratitude to the cabin crew,
without ever meaning a word. Alan followed the throng of people through
immigration control, where the gentleman behind the desk said, ‘Welcome home
again’ and to which Alan thought is it? Is it really? In a solemn state Alan
went to collect his luggage from belt six, and suddenly it dawned on him all he
had to do was find Mr A. Gost give him the package, and it would be over, he would
be a thousand pound better off, and all this worry would have been for nothing.
He smiled.
Returning to his Mr Bean impersonation, with his
grey hand held, without wheels luggage, he walked out to the arrival lounge.
Confidently, he scanned the taxi men’s boards for his name, his heart skipped a
beat when he could not find it, but trying to remain positive he walked to the
group of taxi drivers.
‘Huh- hmm, excuse me, do any of you know Mr A.
Gost?’ Alan asked,
‘Who?’ came the reply from a burly taxi driver, who
seemed the same width as he was tall.
I am looking for A. Gost?’ Alan repeated, to which
the taxi drivers began to laugh at him.
‘So let me get this straight’ a tall, lanky Indian driver
was talking now, in a strong Indian accent, ‘you are looking for a ghost?’
‘Yes, that’s right’ said Alan glad to be getting
somewhere, but they laughed even harder this time.
‘Get a load of this’ the Indian man continued ‘he
really is looking for a ghost’ the drivers were on the verge of tears from
laughing so hard, so after being made to look like a fool Alan stormed off.
Frustrated and beginning to panic again, Alan suddenly realised why the taxi
drivers were laughing at him, he was looking for a ghost. Oh how could he be so
stupid he thought to himself, stretching his memory Alan tried to remember if
Laos mentioned a first name, but he had not. Beginning to feel he was on the
end of a stupid prank to find a ghost, Alan headed for the taxi stand, to end this
nonsense. Walking out the terminals glass doors, Alan was suddenly hit by the
chill of an English February afternoon, shivering he walked down to the line of
yellow taxis waiting to pick up passengers. As he walked up to the first one, a
small Chinese man leaned out the window, calling;
‘Hey, you, you wanna ride, I give good price, huh, huh?
‘Um – no thanks, do you know Mr A. Ghost?’
‘No, I know no Ghost. You want ride?’ the Chinese
man responded.
‘Um – no thanks, have a good day.’
Essentially, Alan experienced the same sort of response from the next
five drivers, however by the sixth he had a different response, an interesting
one.
‘Hello, do you know a Mr A. Gost?’
‘Alexander? Yes’ said the taxi driver in a husky
Russian accent.
‘Alexander Gost?’ Alan checked again.
‘Yes, I told you already’ the man in the taxi
literally filled his cab, his head seemed to crane sideways just so he could
fit in the vehicle, he certainly was not your average taxi driver, with a small
cut down the right side of his mouth, and a small tattoo of a globe on the nape
of his neck. Naturally, Alan was unnerved.
‘Um – okay – sorry, but where is he?’
‘Gone,’
the Russian monotonously replied.
‘Pardon?’ Alan must have misheard him.
‘I said gone,’ he repeated.
‘Oh, it is just that I have something for him,’ this
seemed to capture the taxi driver’s attention.
‘What is it? He asked.
‘Oh – err- well I don’t actually know,’ Alan was
back peddling now, seriously regretting ever telling this stranger about the
package.
‘You don’t know?’
‘Err – no,’ Alan whimpered. They both locked eyes
for what seemed like a minute, before he snapped out of this trance.
‘Look, Alan, let me tell you some advice, go home
fast, okay?’ he spoke with an authority, which Alan was only too willing to
oblige.
‘Yes – well, thank you, that is what intend to do.’
‘Good, you want a ride? I offer good deal?’ he
spoke.
‘Um – no thank you, I have already booked a taxi’
and with that Alan walked away blushing, booked a taxi, what a white lie that
was. Alan quickly strode over to the first Chinese taxi driver.
‘Err – change of mind, I would like a lift please,’
he said, as he opened the passenger door. The Chinese man smiled back at him.
‘Where to?’
‘Take me towards the south coast, I will give
directions nearer the time’ Alan spoke with a confidence previously unbeknown
to him; perhaps it was this unusual situation that required unusual measures.
The Chinese man smiled back and nodded, probably a little confused as he pulled
away from the taxi bay. Alan sunk down in his seat, and patted the package that
nestled in his jacket pocket, what was he going to do with it now? Laos, will
probably never know it was undelivered…maybe he should just bin it and forgot
this situation. Feeling a little more relaxed, Alan played over the conversation
he had with the Russian taxi driver, over and over, remembering his strange
advice, ‘Look, Alan let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ The more
Alan thought about this the stranger the advice sounded; of course he would go
home, right? Where else would he go? But that was not the least of it, as Alan
replayed the conversation in his mind it dawned upon him, that he referred to
Alan by his name, yet Alan never told him his name. This chilled Alan to the
core, the Russian man knew him, and was expecting him; maybe he was the reason
Mr A. Gost had ‘gone’ mysteriously, that short period of relaxation had
evaporated in thin air now, as Alan was now scared again, nay he was petrified.
He felt as if he was a puppet, in someone’s cruel game, and what did they do to
Mr Gost, kill him? No, no he was over thinking, Alan needed to calm himself, he
felt he was suffocating in his own thoughts, so automatically wound open the
car window and inhaled deeply, the crisp air cleared his mind temporarily, and
he fought with himself for control of his body. The Chinese taxi man looked at
him with an expression of concern.
‘You okay, mister?’
‘Yes,’ Alan had broken out in a cold sweat, but
slowly began to calm himself.
‘You sure, mister?’
‘Yes fine, just please keep driving,’ said Alan
almost inaudibly.
They drove for roughly an hour toward the south
coast in stony silence, before Alan broke it to give directions. He lead the
taxi driver through a quaint town, it appeared out of sync with the world,
antique shops lined the high street, as did a butcher, and grocer, but no
Sainsbury’s. The place seemed old fashioned and unassuming, one could argue
derelict considering it was a Saturday afternoon. They turned off down a back
road, two rights, a left, than another right, before they pulled into the
driveway of a small bungalow cottage, with a neat garden, which sadly lacked
blossoming flowers, however its tidiness was pleasing, nonetheless. A white
cottage, with black tarred timber struts supporting its shape, it was not terribly
fancy, but rather something your grandmother might retire in, nevertheless to
Alan it was home, and there on his drive was his pride and joy, his silver Audi
TT. Alan paid the driver, and tipped him too, he even waved him off as he
pulled away. He smiled falsely, picked up his luggage and turned to enter his
house.
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