The courier, p.2
The Courier, page 2
‘Thank you,’ he says.
I give him a bright, fake smile, walk back to the van and haul myself into the driver’s seat but I don’t turn on the music. I look down at my hands and realise that I’m still shaking. What was I thinking? That was too close. What must he think of me? I glance back and see that Patrick’s lights are still off. Perhaps he’s behind the curtain, one finger hooked around the edge to make an eye-sized gap, watching me.
Chapter Two
The spell cast by Paradise Found is soon broken when I join back-to-back traffic just beyond the gate. My visit is the one moment of calm and light in my day, but the feeling never lasts long. Rush hour in London starts early and finishes late, and ‘hour’ doesn’t quite cut it. Tension quickly returns to my shoulders. A moped cuts in front of me and I jam the horn. I’m in no rush but you learn not to show weakness on the roads or you become a victim. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way.
It’s less than a mile as the crow flies to the low-rise estate in Whitechapel where I live, but it takes forty minutes in the traffic. Patience is something I’ve learned in the five years since I became a delivery driver, that and being able to sit alone with my thoughts. My old job in banking didn’t allow for much self-reflection, but nowadays I have too much time for it.
By the time I reach my parking space in the alleyway behind the estate, I’ve already been over the incident with Patrick several times in my head, my thoughts buzzing with the implications and insinuations. It wasn’t so bad, I tell myself. He seemed to accept my story and maybe it will give us something to bond over and laugh about next time. I can’t believe you thought I was snooping in your bins – how funny! I test it out a few times aloud, adding a false laugh at the end that I work on so it sounds authentic.
I park up and as I walk to the entrance my feet crunch on broken glass, sending empty laughing gas canisters skittering. This area is an odd mix of young people looking to party and families. I’m here because it’s cheap since all the money I earned is long gone. Legal representation is expensive. Another lesson I learned the hard way.
My flat is on the fourth floor and the estate is teeming with life as I make my way up. There are people shouting, a baby crying, and someone is playing hip-hop too loudly. I step over kids tapping on phones on the stairs and breathe in the aromatic smell of dinner that wafts through the building at this time of day. I like being so close to everyday family rituals. It’s easy to feel like I’m part of them and I can fool myself into thinking I’m not so alone.
When I first moved in, the noise took some time to get used to. Our old flat was on the top floor of a new glass building that felt as if it had been hermetically sealed. None of the windows opened and I can remember the stillness of the air and the sound of footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Sometimes it felt hard to breathe in there.
This block is an ugly seventies building made from dirty grey bricks with small rooms and tiny windows, and it’s bursting at the seams. It’s not much to look at but each floor has a walkway that runs the length of the building with quite a view over the city. There’s an unbroken sight line to the dome of St Paul’s but I don’t like to look out for long – the city holds too many bad memories for me.
The walkway is used as an extension to people’s living spaces and is always cluttered with drying racks, stacks of bikes and weedy potted tomato plants. Next door, Ramzan is out on his deckchair, wearing a shiny red puffa jacket and smoking a cigarette. His hair is parted in sleek curtains that he has a habit of smoothing onto his high forehead and his nose pokes through the middle like a blade. He gestures to the pack of Embassy on the armrest with a flick of his skinny wrist.
‘Thanks,’ I say and he tosses me the packet.
I light a cigarette and breathe deeply. I don’t often smoke but after what just happened, I feel like I need one. It takes a minute for the nicotine to circulate but soon I feel it tingling in my fingers and toes.
‘Rough day?’ he asks.
I shrug. Ramzan drives an Uber so he gets it.
‘You?’
He cocks one eyebrow and I can tell that he’s got a story. One of us usually does given that working in our jobs you see the worst of humanity. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before launching into it. ‘I had this one lady right, picked her up on Oxford Street and drove her all the way to Holland Park. She only went and left her shopping in the back and then she calls me wanting me to drop it round right away only I’m already on a job to Gatwick.’
I nod along but Ramzan needs little encouragement. We act as a form of therapy for one another, taking a minute out on the walkway to vent before entering our own flats and dealing with our own shit. I consider him a friend, perhaps my only one, but I’d never tell him that. ‘So I must be, what, an hour away, and she says—’
He’s interrupted by a squeal and a thump from inside his flat followed by a loud wail. Ramzan is only twenty-four but he’s married with two kids already. He opens the door and yells something in Bengali. The noise stops. He takes out another cigarette and lights it from the tail end of the first, smoking faster as though aware our time is coming to an end.
‘Where was I? Gatwick, right. So I cancel the job and get back to her house an hour later with her shopping and guess what?’
‘What?’
‘She’s only gone out. I ring her and she says to come back tomorrow. I’m tempted to get her stuff up on eBay.’
We both laugh but I know he’ll be driving across London again tomorrow. He can’t risk his rating. We smoke in silence for a minute. I lean with my back against the railing, elbows on the metal guard rail, and think of Patrick.
‘What?’ Ramzan says.
I realise I’m frowning as I go over again in my head what happened with Patrick. Ramzan might not understand so I just give my head a little shake and force a smile.
‘I actually had a nice one today,’ I say.
‘Why am I not surprised? You always get the good ones. A guy was it?’
I nod.
‘Bet he wanted a piece of the Laurel pie.’
I give a strangled-sounding laugh, not wanting to let on how much I wish this was true, which Ramzan interprets as me agreeing. He whoops and flicks his hand so the fingers clack together.
‘I knew it. Come on, don’t leave me hanging. What was he like?’
‘Just a guy,’ I say quickly.
‘Age?’
‘Forties.’
‘Peng?’
‘What?’
‘Come on, man. Nice-looking? You know, fit.’
I think of Patrick’s scruffy charm and try to see him through Ramzan’s eyes. Today he was wearing chinos and a blazer with orange patches on the elbows and he looked like he hadn’t brushed his hair in days. A far cry from Ramzan’s carefully cultivated look of designer labels and lots of hair gel. ‘He has a certain appeal,’ I settle on.
Ramzan’s face twitches as if he’s unimpressed.
‘What about his crib?’
I hesitate. ‘It’s big.’
Ramzan flicks his hand again, twice this time. ‘That’s what I like to hear. You want to focus, girl. He could be your ticket out of here. Get yourself installed in some mansion and Uncle Ramzan can come for afternoon tea. Hey, I’ll be your driver. You pay well?’
‘Of course.’ We’re both laughing as Ramzan drinks from an imaginary teacup, his pinkie finger sticking up into the air. I don’t tell him that I’ve already been on the other side and lived that life. My last bonus from the bank was probably more than he gets paid in three years.
There’s a loud crash from inside Ramzan’s flat and he jumps up.
‘That better not have been the telly.’
He opens the door and shouts again but his wife calls back in strained tones. It sounds like he’s needed.
‘Bloody kids. Don’t have any.’ He says this with a smile and we both know he’s joking. His kids are his world. I laugh along and try to suppress the flicker of jealousy. A normal family life isn’t an option for me.
‘I better go,’ he says and grinds his cigarette on the bricks beneath his kitchen window. He goes inside, telling off his children to a chorus of noisy tears that I hear as if I’m in the room with them. The insulation here is dreadful, but I’ll happily take the noise if it means I can enjoy our chats. It’s rare that I have any other conversations that go beyond ‘delivery for you’ these days.
I savour my cigarette before unlocking my front door. Inside smells of damp and the noise of the tantrum from next door is barely muffled. There’s nothing inviting or homely about the place but I haven’t made much effort. I’ve moved four times in the past five years and never really put down roots. What’s the point when it’s just me?
It’s not much warmer inside than out and I switch on the bare bulb overhead, going straight through into the main living space – a single room with kitchen units on one side that look out onto the walkway. My only furniture is a desk that used to be my dad’s before he retired, a crappy sofa that I got from Gumtree that looks worse in reality than it did in the photos, and an ergonomic desk chair – a large leather monstrosity that has a rest for every part of my body, some days I sleep in it.
My notebooks take up a lot of the rest of the space. They’re piled on the desk and there are stacks behind the sofa that have grown to almost waist-height. Older ones are filed in the boxes in the bedroom and it’s clear from the pungent smell of damp in that room that some have got wet, only I can never find the right box and I’ve grown used to it now.
It may look like a mess but I have a system. It started as a way to fill my evenings after I’d finished my deliveries. I’d record little details about my day – nice things people had said or funny things I’d seen – but I know it’s got a little out of hand. I keep finding streets where I want to keep a record of everything I learn. Places like Paradise Found with the perfect combination of luxury and comfort; the polar opposite of here. It’s just a hobby, I reason, whenever I start to feel like it’s going too far. There’s no harm in looking, as they say.
The wall above the desk is dedicated to Sophie. There are my favourite photos from when she was a baby blown up to A4 size. A newborn Sophie, pink and wrinkled like a baby mouse. Her first day of nursery, with her hair in two plaits, hugging her llama blanket to her cheek – she never let it out of her sight. The last picture I have of her is in the centre of the wall. She’s just turned two; her baby fat is already disappearing and her brown eyes are serious like mine – it’s the straight eyebrows that do it.
My notes are on Post-its scattered around the photos of her. Different colours for different theories. Some days I add to them, my adrenaline pumping as I have a new idea, and other days I tear them down in disgust. Today, I don’t have the energy; it hurts to even think of her, so I don’t. I’ve become an expert at controlling my thoughts since otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed.
I open the kitchen cupboard and take out the bottle of Johnnie Walker and a glass. I pour it with shaking hands and slam a couple of inches back. It’s tempting to keep going at that pace but I’ve promised myself I’ll slow down. Much like the notebooks, my drinking started as a small escape, but it’s even harder to keep it under control when it’s one of the few pleasures I have left.
I pour a second, my hands steady this time, and take it over to the desk where my Paradise Found notebooks are displayed in pride of place. It’s only been six months but the blue covers are already getting tatty. I slide out ‘number one’ and open it to the next blank page. I write: Yale + deadbolt + no alarm. Next, I draw a diagram of the side passage and mark the location of the bins. Not that I can check them again for a while; I’ve already drawn too much attention to myself. And not that I would want to, I remind myself. Today was just a one-off.
The whisky begins to soften the edges of my thoughts and I rest my head back. It was a close call today, but I realise I don’t regret it. Since I began visiting I’ve felt a certain sort of kinship with Patrick. We both live alone, both pursue solitary careers, and we were both married once. Perhaps we’re both lonely? I haven’t really dared believe it before but despite what happened, it felt like a breakthrough. At the very least, I’ve made an impression now where before he probably never even noticed my existence. That’s something.
My eyes grow heavy and I let them close. Next time I’ll ask him a question. Something beyond ‘How are you today?’ An opener. I never was brilliant with men but I wasn’t a total disaster. I managed to marry Dominic, after all. It wasn’t all plain sailing but there were some good years, back when my life was on track. Perhaps Ramzan may be right, I think as I drift off to sleep: Patrick could be my way back. But of course, it could never be the same, not without Sophie.
Chapter Three
At the depot the next morning I open the Zippi app and put the barcode under the entry scanner. The gate whirs open. A collection point number flashes up on the screen and I drive to the correct bay. My parcels are already stacked in a precise order in a trolley, which I heave over to the van. As I load them into the wire racks installed in the back of the van, the delivery log pops up on my phone. I like working for a start-up – everything is streamlined and electronic, and there’s no need to deal with colleagues.
Finding Zippi was a godsend really. I’d already done a stint with a few other delivery companies and was on the lookout for a new employer when the company seemed to rise up from nowhere. It was only founded two years ago but managed to secure a couple of premium partnerships delivering for John Lewis and Boots and it really took off. It’s a tech unicorn apparently, valued at over a billion dollars, but all I know is it keeps me busy and I like it that way.
I check the delivery log. There are no packages for Paradise Found today but I don’t let it get me down. You can’t win the jackpot every time you play. I listen to Coldplay as I drive my route. It’s a slow day. More people are out than usual, and as the day goes on I feel a familiar, rising frustration. Why do people order things when they know they’re not going to be home? It’s plain bad manners. I know it’s not personal but it’s hard not to feel that way when I’m filling in my fifth ‘sorry we missed you’ form in a row.
My final delivery takes me further afield than usual, as far as Archway where I get snarled up in a backlog caused by a set of temporary lights. It’s been an overcast day with low, hazy clouds that have never cleared, and I flick on my lights earlier than usual as I crawl back south. Soon I’m running late and my frustration flicks over into annoyance. When the car in front stalls at a red light I lean on my horn but it doesn’t make me feel better. It’s just my luck that the one day I have plans I’m held up.
I arrive at my group after the start. The church hall is draughty so I zip up my fleece to the chin as I slip inside. The usual half-dozen sad women sit on plastic chairs in a circle, cradling styrofoam cups of tea. The urn is on a table by the door and hisses and spits as the water boils again, providing the soundtrack to our sessions. Sharon, our newest member, is already speaking, so I take the empty seat closest to the door.
‘It was right after Christmas, and that time of year is hard enough.’ She has a strong north London accent that makes her sound tough but there’s a tissue primed in her fingers and her voice wavers.
Everyone is nodding. They dread the festive period but for me it’s the best time of year. People order so much more – there’s no time to think about what might have been – and there’s always a ready excuse for a drink. It’s Christmas, have another! No need to feel guilty. We even have wine at group.
Sharon goes on and there’s a hush of anticipation in the room. ‘We’d been rowing, but what family doesn’t? Over silly stuff like what to watch on the telly but also she’d got this new fella. I’ll say straight off that I didn’t like him. A wrong sort. Been in trouble with the police more times than he’d been in school. And he didn’t have a job. No means to support her.’
A few people nod and exchange glances. We all know the type. I keep watching Sharon as she presses her lips together with a wince of regret. We don’t look anything alike but occasionally I catch glimpses of myself in her. I think it might be that we both blame ourselves. Sharon can’t be much older than me but she doesn’t look after herself. Overweight, claggy make-up, and a bad dye job. She always smells of sweet perfume with a strong undertone of fags and as soon as she gets outside after we finish she always lights one up. Not that I blame her – I’m usually desperate for one after a group session too.
‘So I said he couldn’t come round for Christmas dinner and she took the hump and said she’d go to her dad’s then, and I thought fair enough, let her dad deal with the drama for once. But she never turned up.’
Sharon’s voice cracks and turns into a hacking cough. She doesn’t sound healthy. We all shuffle in our seats and exchange uneasy glances as we wait for her to stop. I wonder if she’s had that cough checked out. She finally manages to get it under control and dabs at her eyes with the tissue.
‘I thought she was with him and he thought she was with me. Took us a few days to realise that they were gone. Only sixteen she was.’
We take that in, knowing how hard it is to get anyone to show interest at that age.
‘That was three years ago and I haven’t seen her since. He’s from one of those big families with people all over the country. I get news she’s in one place and by the time I try to reach her, they’ve moved on. All I want is to tell her she’s welcome home any time. I heard she had a baby, a boy. I haven’t even met him. My own grandson.’
Sharon can’t go on. She presses the tissue to her face. Audrey reaches out from the next seat and squeezes her hand, making me think of two chubby baseball mitts stuck together. I feel sorry for Sharon but a part of me is hardened against her story. Runaways don’t hold much sway with me because there’s always a chance they’ll run right back. Some of the women in this room have much heavier crosses to bear.
