Sandman
| SANDMAN Twelve eighteen – Annabel Riley stepped from the train onto Saxmundham platform right on time. She was glad of that; there were a hundred and one things to do following her trip to Ipswich and hardly enough time to… ‘Oh Miss Riley, glad to have caught you…’ the postman known locally as “Jack,” emerged from the booking hall straight into her path. He shoved a large envelope into her hand and she found she required both to grasp it. ‘Tried to post it through your box, too large I’m afraid – thought I’d have to take it back.’ His quizzical stare transferred from her to the package, ‘Odd parcel if you don’t mind me saying, feels like a load of granules.’ ‘Does it now?’ Annabel mumbled, wondering whether he made a point of examining every package he handled. But she only had to shake it to realise what he meant and with the brown package flopping over her wrist she made the short trek to her terraced home, a stone’s throw from the station. The level crossing gates were closed for the train and it provided her with a chance to examine the envelope in greater detail. She’d ordered nothing of late and the postmark was unreadable; the carefully printed handwriting gave nothing away but its seemingly painstaking nature made it slightly sinister. The first thing she did once home, apart from kicking aside the gas bill sitting on the mat, was to rip it open and then watch in horror as a million grains of sand poured through the large slit she’d made, depositing themselves on the thick pile carpet she’d thoroughly vacuumed before leaving for the station. Annabel screamed with anger, what kind of freak had done this? She thrust a hand through the remains of the envelope; there was no letter of explanation, no note – nothing. It had to be a sick joke, though why, what relevance? As she stormed to the vacuum cleaner Annabel determined that if the sender was ever stupid enough to own up she’d punch their lights out. She’d calmed down somewhat by the time her partner Carl came home, but her mind had been spinning like a top, trying to fathom out who she’d upset and had come out with a name or two. One girl she’d floored on a boozy Friday night sprung to mind as a prime candidate and for a while her rage was rekindled – but it had been a one-off incident and she hadn’t even seen the stupid girl for months. Annabel might have mellowed but Carl still detected something was wrong, ‘What’s ruffled your feathers?’ he asked, spread-eagling on the couch. ‘Oh it’s nothing,’ she sighed, realising she’d spent too much time dwelling on the stupid parcel, she might find Carl dull and boring these days but it was surprising how quickly he could pick up on her moods. She leapt up, ‘I’ve got to get on, work to do – you know, w-o-r-k?’ Annabel saw Carl’s face sour, but he laughed it off. Carl was a police officer and with the police station just across the street he was in and out like nobody’s business; what was it they said about the police force being hard pressed? She was going through her exercise routine during the afternoon when the thought struck her. There were several members of the athletic club she belonged to who might be up for the stunt. She was the club’s star female athlete and the slightest chance she might end up with “egg on her face,” could have provoked them to do this. In this case it was sand Her mind connected to an incident a couple of weeks back where she’d slipped on the supposedly “all-weather” surface and skidded into the sandpit, ending up like a walking sandman. Who’d laughed at her longest? Darren Smith – though would he stretch to a stupid prank like this? But if it wasn’t him, then who? Annabel got her opportunity to confront him that evening, one of their twice weekly training meetings. He’d been limbering up on the back straight when she caught sight of him. She sprinted across the arena and slapped a hand on his shoulder, ‘Nice one Darren – you had to prolong your little joke didn’t you? She poked her finger in his ribs, ‘Well the humour’s gone – now back off.’ He screwed his face, gave her an absurd look like she wasn’t on the planet, ‘What are you talking about Ann – sun getting to you?’ She felt like seating him on his nice new running shorts – as if he didn’t know, ‘The parcel of sand you sent, it exploded all over my carpet.’ ‘What sand?’ Darren stretched out his hand, palm up, he must have seen she was squaring for a fight, ‘Hey look, calm down, I haven’t sent you anything. ‘Well you certainly saw the joke when I fell in the sand pit,’ she said testily. ‘Oh come on, that was weeks back…’ for once he sounded serious, convincing…’I don’t know who your little sandman is, but it’s certainly not me.’ ‘He’d been troubled by her accusation and she’d marked him down as genuine. Back to the drawing board, she thought ruefully. Still it wasn’t worth falling out with all and sundry over a stupid sand parcel. So she’d left it, gone home feeling like she’d acted like a brat, and kept the sand issue from Carl, when perhaps she should have raised it. Well, any distraction from police monotony would have been a bonus. The following morning Jack the postman arrived with a square package and one look at the nondescript printing on the label provoked rising anger in Annabel. So what had the twisted idiot sent this time? She resisted the temptation to bin it straight away, curiosity got the better of her, that and the possibility towards the identity of the moron who’d sent it. It felt solid and heavy compared with the floppy contents of the previous day. At least there would be no mess to cope with, although for a ridiculous moment she considered whether it might be booby trapped. Annabel slit the package open. Cushioned by paper and encased in cardboard she drew out a china castle, its pinnacle glistening in the sunlight flooding the room. She held it in the palm of her hand, the brand name and minute detail of the model suggested it must have cost a pretty penny. But why go to the trouble? The plain truth was that the exquisite detail of the miniature castle seated on its plaque contrasted starkly with the reality of the situation. Pretty it might be, but it had to be part of a mind game waged by some sick creep who’d be in pieces by the time she’d… And then she saw the note lying amidst the paper she’d ripped from the package. To go with the sand Anna, hope you kept it – hope you’ll return soon – ten long lost years. Adam. Adam, how could she forget? In truth she hadn’t, not ever; memories flowed like sweet wine warming her mind, misting her eyes – eighteen year olds playing at making sandcastles – how she’d laughed at him – how he’d laughed at her – how it had developed from a chance meeting on the beach to an affair that had strengthened to grip the strings of her heart – until her mounting guilt had caused her to tear away. Betrayal of her partner overruled her emotions, guilt had won in the end. But she’d kept his memory safe as if it were secured in a bank’s deepest vault. She’d stayed with Carl, hadn’t been able to tear herself away from him in the end and so poor Adam had been the main casualty. But she’d never seen him again, he’d seemed to have disappeared right off the face of the planet; well, she could understand that. Ten long years ago; but now she had a chance to right the wrong. Her guilt factor had dissolved into ashes. Yes, the ashes of her and Carl’s relationship. Her existence with Carl was stale, non-existent in fact. Annabel looked at the letter again, return soon, the words burned into her brain and from somewhere the glow was rekindling. She wanted to do it, more than anything she wanted to do it. Without realising she’d even moved Anna found herself in front of the mirror, fingering her long golden hair. She’d a spotless complexion, she’d kept in shape, had a powerful body that drew attention. She deserved some reward, oh yes, she did. Return soon. But how would she know when to return - he’d given no hint. She ran downstairs, rummaged through the remains of the package and there she discovered it, lying in the bottom of the box… July 5th – ‘the day we met,’ an ageing clip from a diary that Adam must have kept. How she’d missed it before she hadn’t a clue, but right before her eyes was the answer. Three short days, but Carl would be off. No matter, she could deal with that, there could be a hastily arranged athletics meeting for all he knew. She destroyed the package but kept the castle, holding it close to her chest before slipping it into a drawer beneath her bed, then wondered how Adam had weathered the years, whether he’d kept his physique as strong as hers. She pictured his hair, the colour of sand, began counting down the hours, minutes, seconds. July 5th couldn’t come soon enough, Carl had been his usual uncommunicative self and her sense of guilt hadn’t even raised its head. To cap it all Carl had an errand for a friend that would keep him out for most of the day, so her athletic meeting ruse had been accepted with little more than a raised eyebrow. And so here she was on the beach, heart beating a little quicker than normal, but looking magnificently bronzed she thought in vest and shorts. Surely Adam couldn’t fail to be impressed by her stature. Years of dedication to physical excellence had achieved this. She looked around, it was warm and sunny, hardly anybody about on this remote stretch of beach, just as it was then – nothing seemed to have changed and it was easy to picture him the way he was, how he might be now – tanned, fit, just like her. The approaching figure was easy to spot, he wore a hat, its brim pulled low across his eyes. His gait was familiar. ‘Waiting for someone Ann?’ He raised the hat, watched her jaw clench, ‘Thought you’d fooled me didn’t you Ann?’ He loosened his balled fist, let the sand slither through it, run between his fingers. ‘Contrary to popular belief Ann, but then you of all people have now learned – You can’t fool a copper.’ |
