by A. D. Winch
Serge had managed the Post-Office for seventeen years where the Meyer’s PO Box was based. Not only did he work in the Post-Office but he also lived there. Serge was scared of the randomness of the outside world, the dangers it possessed and the people it housed. He was sitting in his office when the phone rang, admiring stamps and reflecting on the predictability of letters. They were written, sent, arrived and read, altogether a very straightforward routine.
He answered in a gruff voice and spoke as if he wanted to be off the phone before he had even picked up, “Bonjour.”
“Serge, it is Andrea Duna,” she said in French.
At the sound of Andrea’s voice, Serge relaxed, and his voice mellowed. He did not like people, but he had warmed to Andrea because, like letters, she was predictable and followed routines.
“Andrea, what can I do for you?”
She explained that the competition was over, and the PO Box could be closed. Serge looked around his office; he was drowning in sacks of entries.
“What shall I do with the remaining ones?”
“Recycle them,” answered Andrea.
“I would be delighted.”
Serge already knew the postal employees who were to have the pleasure of this task.
“Shall I bring in the empty sacks for you?” Andrea asked.
“You can keep them. There is no need.”
Serge knew the post office would not miss one or two empty post sacks.
“There are two hundred and fifty-three, Serge.”
For a moment, Serge reflected on the cost of all these sacks.
“In that case you had better return them. The post office closes at seven this evening, please come anytime before then.”
Andrea promised she would be there and then ended the call. She would now have to face the Meyers and break the bad news.
The Meyer’s living room had been hoovered, swept and brushed since Eric had destroyed the chandelier. In its place now hung what looked like a giant ice-cube with a spinning fan below it. It was a light completely out of character with the room, and Eric could not decide if that made it better or worse.
Since he had been told about the competition, he had kept tabs on Andrea and monitored her every movement. From the arrival of the first post bag four days ago to the phone call earlier that morning, Eric knew exactly what was happening. During the call he had been hiding in the ventilation shaft, perched on a narrow ledge five floors above the basement and listening to every word.
When Andrea put the phone down, he tiptoed around the ledge and snuck through the loose air vent back into his room. He crept silently through the hallway, into the living room and hid on the floor behind the chaise longue. His parents were sat upon it reading. Eric heard Andrea enter and followed her footsteps with his ears as she approached the expensive sofa. She greeted his parents, sat down on an Edwardian armchair next to the mantelpiece and told Eric’s parents what had happened.
Mrs Meyer brushed the news away as if it was really of no importance at all. This was a reaction she had perfected at beauty contests, and she used it whenever events did not go the way she had hoped. Her husband showed no reaction, his face and body language were impossible to read, which was not surprising from an experienced poker player. They sat in silence wondering what to do next until Andrea asked if she should re-advertise the puzzle in children’s magazines. Her suggestion was declined on the basis that Eric never read them so a suitable ‘friend’ would not be found there either.
“Maybe we should do what we have talked about for a long time and send him to boarding school,” said Mrs Meyer, banging her fist smartly on the sofa arm to make her point.
Hidden behind the chaise longue, Eric shook his head and mouthed, “No!”
He would much rather be left alone than go to boarding school and lose all his freedom. The idea of having to share a dorm room with other boys his age, and having all his time scheduled by teachers, he found terrifying.
“You are correct my darling,” agreed Mr Meyer. “Miss Duna, please contact the best boarding schools in England and Svitzerland. Make a decision and enrol Eric in one you feel vill best suit him. Thank you.”
Andrea replied that she would start the task once she had returned the sacks to the post office and that Eric would be enrolled in the best boarding school by the end of the following day. She left purposefully through the same door she had entered from. Eric slithered out of the room on his belly like an army commando. He was biting his tongue so hard that he could taste blood.
Granddad Benjamin was lying on his bed not feeling well. During the night while asleep, he had knocked all his medicines from the bedside table onto the floor. This would not have been a problem but before sunrise Mémé had decided to clean. Not wanting to disturb her husband, who was deaf while asleep, but woke at the slightest change in light, she had vacuumed in the dark. Her ancient beast of a hoover had greedily sucked up his multi-coloured tablets. He had, therefore, missed his morning medication and his lunchtime tablets too.
Ursula had left for the pharmacy after breakfast, but it was now almost four in the afternoon, and she had still not returned. A frown began to sketch across Granddad Benjamin’s face. He was in pain. His pills were not the best, but they did help. The frown stretched further as he thought about the puzzle competition. They should have heard by now that Ursula had won. Maybe his wife had been right when she said that the chances of winning were hopeless. However, if she had really felt this then she wouldn’t have posted the entry.
After forty-nine years of marriage, he knew that she also had dreams and most, like his, were for Ursula. If she could do anything to achieve these for her granddaughter, she would. He was convinced Ursula had won and decided he just had to wait patiently to be told. Pushing his head back into the pillow, he tried to relax and focus his thoughts on something else.
The high-ceilinged post office was not busy. A few elderly women queued up in front of glass counters, moaning about the hot weather while they waited. The automatic doors opened, and Andrea entered clutching twelve blue and yellow postal bags. Each of these bags was stuffed full of more bags. She strode to the front of the queue and asked to see the manager. The post office clerk phoned Serge and then directed Andrea towards the office door. The gossiping quickly stopped, and all eyes turned to Andrea. Nobody ever saw the manager. Nobody had seen the manager since his arrival many years before. Nobody could even remember what he looked like. The chattering began again as Andrea moved away from the queue towards a plain, grey door. This time the subject of conversation was her. The ladies shuffled their positions so they could watch but made sure they would not lose their place in the queue.
There was a creak as the door moved slightly on its hinges followed by shh-ing from the women in the queue. The door squeaked more as it opened, and gingerly Serge stepped into the doorway. A stunned silence fell over the room. His head bent down, and he looked over the grey tiled floor to make sure there was no obvious danger. Reassured by the lack of water, or other slippery liquid, he stepped cautiously out of his office.
Serge was an average sized man with prematurely thinning hair which failed to cover his bald patch. Conscious of this fact, he tried to brush the hair with his fingers, so it rested more evenly over his head. Feeling more confident in his appearance, he moved towards Andrea and greeted her with a hesitant kiss on both cheeks. Andrea thanked Serge for all his help and placed the sacks she was carrying by the door against the wall. She kissed him back on both cheeks, apologized for the short visit and left the post office to gasps from the watching women.
Serge watched her leave; his head sunk and he turned to the pile of sacks that Andrea had delivered. Keeping his back straight, to avoid pulling anything he shouldn’t, he bent down, picked up a sack and promptly dropped it again. It was far heavier than he had expected, and he did not want to risk any injury. The sack swayed, before falling onto its side and spilling out the contents onto the clean floor. The old ladies lau
ghed, and Serge silenced them with a glare. Sacks now littered the area outside his office, and he knelt down to pick them up. As he picked up the first bag, he noticed a glimmer of white. He walked forward and picked up a small crumpled envelope with a Parisian postmark. It had been used more than once and written above the crossed out writing was the competition address. Serge stood up and carefully walked across the foyer to the post office’s doors. He would have run, but he was bound to slip on the polished tiles and had no desire to go to the hospital. However, he wanted to catch Andrea before she drove away, and he knew this would mean leaving the safety of the post office. In front of him, the automatic glass doors opened and closed in time with Serge’s quickening breath. He clenched his fists and walked through.
Outside it was noisy, busy and muggy after the calm and the cool of the post office. Cars rushed down rue Paul Baudry, zooming in front of Serge’s eyes, but none contained Andrea. Turning his head steadily, he surveyed the road but he could not see her. Disappointed, he turned to go inside when he saw a silver Range Rover indicate and pull out from behind a butcher’s van. Serge was relieved to see that Andrea was driving, and she was heading in his direction. As wary as a deer he stepped into the road, between two parked scooters, and waved to the Range Rover as it approached. He did not want to step out too far in case he was hit by a car and had to be taken to the hospital. The Range Rover slowed down and came to a stop beside him. The passenger window hummed as it opened, and Andrea leant across towards it.
“Serge, is there a problem?” Andrea asked. It was abnormal for him to leave the safety of the post office.
“I’m, er, fine,” replied Serge and moved towards the window. He produced the letter. “I found this.”
He dropped it through the window.
“Merci,” said Andrea, taking the envelope and opening it.
She scanned the puzzle solution completed in neat, childish writing, glanced at the written puzzle, looked at the age of the entry and smiled. The entry would have to be checked back at the apartment, but she knew it was correct.
Serge withdrew his hand from the window. Andrea closed it, waved goodbye and drove away. Delighted with his achievement Serge turned around carefully, admired his post office, stepped forward and disappeared down an open drain. Three old ladies rescued him, and an ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital twenty minutes later.
Agent Hoover stopped laughing at the man who fell down the gutter when he saw Ursula skip past the ambulance. With an energy that he normally reserved for tracking bank robbers, he took note of the street name, rue Paul Baudry, and scanned his computer database for drug stores on that street. The computer gave him two matches. From watching Ursula for several weeks, he knew that she had already been to the Pharmacie Europa, but she had yet to visit the newly opened Pharmacie Baudry nearby. With more speed than his fat fingers seemed capable of, he typed the name into his computer, found the pharmacy’s telephone number and used the computer to call.
A Frenchman with a bass drum voice answered, “Bonjour.”
“Hello,” he drawled, “you gotta a kid coming into your drug store in a minute and she’s gonna swipe some of your drugs. I’m just warning ya.”
The pharmacist was confused, “excusez-moi, mais je ne comprend pas. I... er... not... understand.”
Agent Hoover leant forward into his chair, moved his hands in the air to make his point and tried to make the pharmacist understand.
“YOU GOTTA A KID COMING INTO YOUR CHEMIST AND SHE’S GONNA SWIPE SOME OF YOUR MEDICINE! YOU UNDERSTAND NOW?”
Demonstrating a remarkable amount of patience the pharmacist replied, “Non, no.”
“Geez, buddy it’s about time you got with the program and learnt some English. Let me spell it out for you. Black girl, thin, thief, medicines, okay?”
“Okay,” replied the pharmacist.
“Understand?”
“Er... yes... thief... take medicaments.”
“Whatever you say bud,” and Agent Hoover ended the call.
For once he was alone in the large, dark room and had decided to have a well-earned break by catching this thieving punk instead of his usual search. His fingers sprang to life over the keyboard again. Within a few seconds, live feed from the Pharmacie Baudry security camera appeared on one of the countless screens in front of him. The black and white footage showed a well-built man in square glasses and a white coat standing behind a counter covered in medicine. Behind him were white shelves and drawers full of more tablets, creams and sachets. In front of him, the pharmacy’s door opened and Ursula entered.
On her first step into the pharmacy, Ursula had located the medicine her Granddad needed behind the counter. By the second step, she had spotted the most difficult to reach tablets and sized up the agility of the pharmacist. On the third step she had to fight back the urge to flee and convince herself that what she was doing was for the best, even though she knew it was wrong. Before she reached the counter, she had to perfect her most innocent and helpless look. She managed all of these and stood facing the full figure of the pharmacist. Pointing high above his left shoulder, she asked if she could have the Anusol cream in the blue and white box, in the corner of the top shelf.
The pharmacist moved away from the counter, but his movements were slow and looked too deliberate. Ursula instantly felt that something was wrong. As the pharmacist reached up, Ursula’s hand darted forwards. Silently she grabbed the medicine she needed and moved them under her white vest and into her jean’s pocket. She followed this by announcing loudly that she had left something in the shop next door, and she would be back in a minute. As she twisted around towards the exit, she saw the police car pulling up in front of the pharmacy. It stopped her dead and then she sprang for the door. She sped out at the same time as two policemen left the car. The taller of the two put out an arm to stop her, but she ducked underneath and broke into a sprint. Her heart was racing.
Officer le Blanc was young, fit and only three weeks out of the National Police Institute. During this training, he had shaved three seconds off the Police Force four hundred metres record. He felt confident that he could afford to give the girl a fifty metres head start.
“Follow in the car,” he told his fellow officer and began the chase on foot.
The girl was slightly further than fifty metres ahead by this time, but he was sure that she wouldn’t pose a problem. There were only a few pedestrians on the pavement, and he knew they would move as he began his pursuit.
As she wove around a woman with a pram, Ursula shot a glance over her shoulder. The police car was pulling away, and a tall, shaven-headed officer was chasing after her. High above the hot sun beat down, but Ursula’s perspiration was not due to the heat. She saw a side road about three hundred metres ahead, dug her heels in and accelerated up rue Paul Baudry. As she sprinted the police car pulled up beside her and shadowed her while the Officer followed.
It had taken her five hours to find a suitable pharmacy that she had not stolen from before. According to the speed she walked, Ursula thought that she was probably about fifteen kilometres from home.
“Fifteen kilometres!” she exclaimed to herself between breaths. She couldn’t run for fifteen kilometres!
Slaloming through families, she reached the side road and turned down it. The police car followed but was forced to stop as Ursula sprinted across the road in front of it and down the opposite pavement. Behind the police car, a driver distracted by a loose chicken in his Renault 6, shunted into the rear. Ursula breathed a short sigh of relief. She had lost the police car. Unfortunately, the policeman was just crossing the road, having narrowly avoided becoming part of the smash.
Cutting down a grubby alleyway behind some shops, Ursula slipped on some mushy fruit. She just managed to retain her footing and skidded away. The alley was long and littered with old food, cardboard boxes, plastic bags and packaging. In the distance, she could see the end of the alley and glimpses of the Avenue de Champs Elysées. If
she could get there, she knew she would be safe. She sprinted over the rubbish, striding over the small bits and expertly hurdling the larger pieces. About halfway along, a black cat strolled out in front of her looking for affection. Ursula jumped. Her right foot missed the cat by a whisker and sent it scampering away towards the policeman. At the end of the alleyway, she reached the busy Champs Elysées. Skidding out from the dirty, she bumped into a well-padded German tourist with a handlebar moustache, bounced off him and shot into the crowds.
Officer le Blanc smacked into the already flustered German and scanned the area. He was stunned. A girl of about ten years of age had just outrun him and then disappeared. Admittedly the alley had not been wide and the car crash, plus the cat, had slowed him down. However, he should have still caught her. There was no real excuse, and he would be a laughing stock back at the station when the other officers found out.
Thirty minutes later the police car, which now had two smashed rear lights, pulled up beside him and he jumped in. Before he could say what had happened his colleague spoke.
“We have been given some information. Unsurprisingly it looks as if she is heading for les banlieues, near the Stade de France at Saint-Denis. We will drive over there and see if she shows up.”
Le Blanc nodded his approval, and they drove off.
Dark black clouds had formed in the sky by the time Ursula saw the square of apartment blocks which she called home. Her heart slowed down, and she began to relax as large drops of rain started to fall. She ran down the road towards the path that led to her apartment block. On the street opposite, parked between a silver Range Rover and a faded bronze Peugeot 205, was the same police car. It was parked underneath a graffiti covered cigarette advert, and the two policemen were still inside. They waited until Ursula was a safe distance away and then left their vehicle to follow her. Ursula was so happy to be home that she didn’t even notice they were there.
