My Neighbours Are Stealing My Mail

by Ian Edwards

Sarah stared open mouthed at the strange sight before her. ‘Err, of course. If you’d like to follow me…’

  Giles smirked as the motley crew followed Sarah across the open plan office and through a door marked Studio 2. She waited until the last one had gone into the studio and shut the door.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ Giles laughed as she sat back down at her desk. ‘Are they for real?’

  Sarah sighed heavily. ‘Apparently so. They normally meet at the scout hall, but as that’s being rebuilt after the fire, the council have agreed to let them meet here. In return they’re going to give a talk to local schools on the Arthurian legend. I imagine that’s what they’re doing in there now. Either that or they’re planning an attack on The Saxons.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘If they turn up at the local secondary school like that the kids will tear them apart. They’ll get first-hand experience of fighting off the marauding hordes.’

  Sarah giggled and was just about to respond when Arthur called out. ‘Luv…Sorry luv.’

  Giles and Sarah looked across the office as a stern looking Arthur headed towards them.

  ‘Everything OK?’ She asked.

  ‘No, it’s not actually. Would you mind coming with me?’

  Sarah exchanged looks with Giles and followed Arthur back to Studio 2.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Look...’ He gestured across the room. ‘Just look.’

  Sarah glanced to where Arthur pointed. The members of the group stood around the room in silence, leaning across the walls. Frowning, she asked; ‘Sorry, what’s the problem?’

  Arthur sighed. ‘For fucks sake.’ He banged a fist on the table. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  Sarah looked around the studio again, still not seeing anything out of the ordinary (aside from wannabe knights). ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘How can we be celebrating the life of the greatest ever Briton. How can we show respect to the man, to the legend, by sitting round this...’ Arthur banged the table again.

  Sarah flinched. ‘It’s a very nice table. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘In normal circumstances I’d probably agree that it’s a nice table, but we are the Knights of the round-table. Not the square table, the oblong table with lift up edges or the Knights of the occasional table. Arthur sighed. Sarah noticed the other knights were nodding in agreement. ‘We simply can’t sit round this table and have our meeting.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah apologised, although she wasn’t quite sure why. ‘But I hadn’t been told to get a round table in. Can’t you just use this one tonight?’

  ‘Even if we were prepared to compromise…Just for tonight,’ he stressed. ‘There is no question that Excalibur must only sit on a round table.’

  Sarah gazed down at Arthur’s feet. A plastic sword appeared to have been sellotaped to a breeze block.

  ‘Can you give me five minutes?’ She asked. ‘I’ll try and sort something out.’

  Sarah backed out of the studio and went back to her desk.

  Giles looked up from his phone. ‘What was all the banging and shouting about?’

  ‘They’ve got the wrong shaped table. I’ve got five minutes to find them a round one.’

  Giles laughed. ‘You are kidding?’ Sarah shook her head. Giles shook his head in return, then scanned the office. ‘I think you’re going to struggle with that. Why do they want a round one?’

  Sarah frowned. ‘They’re the Knights of the Round Table. It’s obvious isn’t it?’

  Giles smirked. ‘Not that obvious, or you wouldn’t be looking for one now.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Come on, help me out. Think of something?’

  ‘Sorry Sarah, I’d love to help with this fruitless exercise but I have to go and present some golden scissors.’ Giles got out of his chair. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Sarah mumbled something unintelligible and leaned back in her chair as Giles headed towards the door. There had to be something, she thought.

  ‘One thing before I go,’ Giles said, breaking her chain of thought.

  Sarah looked over in his direction. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why is there a hole in the ceiling?’ He pointed up in case Sarah had forgotten where the ceiling was.

  ‘Oh, that was Ned. He was demonstrating his latest act and hadn’t taken into account the low ceilings.’ She laughed at the memory of the hedge trimmer juggling comedian twirling his hedge trimmer round in circles over his head while firing off gardening related puns. ‘We’re waiting for the builders to come round and repair it. There’s a great lump of plaster out the back.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘That idiot is dangerous.’

  ‘Giles...’ Sarah snapped.

  ‘OK. OK,’ he apologised, slipping out of the office.

  Sarah sighed, leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling, taking in Ned’s handiwork. She smiled, slowly an idea was forming.

  *

  Arthur frowned. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Sarah protested. ‘But this is the best I can do at such short notice.’

  Arthur turned to the man on his right. ‘What do you think, Lancelot?’

  Sarah bit her lip to stop herself laughing while Lancelot in his bright green robes pointed at the new table with his plastic sword.

  ‘Well, it is round,’ he said. ‘But it’s not really a table. It’s more like…’ He leaned forward, gently touching the surface with his fingers. ‘Plasterboard balanced on a box.’

  ‘It’s not the construction of the table that’s important,’ Sarah insisted. ‘It’s the symbolic gesture.’

  Lancelot looked at Arthur. ‘She’s got a point. And it is round.’

  Arthur sniffed. ‘I suppose that’ll do for now. Thanks for sorting it out.’

  Sarah smiled politely and quietly exited the studio saying a silent thank you once again for Ned’s ineptitude.

  *

  An hour later and three miles away, Hander stood in the cellar of the Merton Palace Theatre and addressed his hired help. He explained what he needed them to do and promised pizza later.

  The cellar was large, roughly the size of two tennis courts, with an eight foot high ceiling and was originally used to store props and stage dressings although Hander suspected the theatre staff had simply used the floor space to store unwanted items. Dozens of dusty boxes were stacked together against the walls while numerous rickety shelving units teetered on the brink of collapse under the weight of rusty tins of paint.

  The plan was to convert the cellar into two smaller performance studios, but before that work could begin the cellar had to be cleared, a job that so far had suffered more setbacks than progress.

  Hander had not mentioned the series of strange incidents to the new employees. No need to give them something to think about, he had told Fingers and then sloped back to the site office leaving them to get on with it.

  *

  Hander sat at his desk in the site office, looking over the cellar plans. He took a pen, drawing a line across the page. He believed it was possible that with a bit of hard work and a fair amount of luck they could finish the project very close to the deadline. He reached for his phone to make good on his promise to provide pizza for the boys

  ‘Mr Hander..?’ The door flew open and Fingers crashed in. ‘You’d better get down to the cellar.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hander asked, a nagging feeling told him it wouldn’t be good news.

  ‘It’s easier if I show you.’

  Hander followed Fingers out of his office and down the stairs. He felt the temperature drop with each step he took, his breath now visible in the creeping cold. Shivering, he zipped his fleece jacket up to his chin.

  ‘Just wait until you see this,’ Fingers said over his shoulder.

  Hander felt the temperature drop even further as he stepped into the cellar. He thrust his hands into his pockets for warmth. The workmen were gathered in conversation at the far end of
the cellar. They stopped talking as Hander approached.

  ‘Tell him what you found, Bodger,’ Fingers said to the collected workmen, and Hander made a mental note not to employ anyone called Bodger ever again.

  Bodger, the largest of the crew, in his mid-thirties, his high-vis jacket straining against his stomach stepped forward.

  ‘We were clearing all this…’ He gestured at a pile of boxes in the middle of the cellar. ‘After we were done, I swept the floor and found this…’ He looked down at the floor.

  Hander followed his gaze. ‘What am I looking it?’

  ‘Can’t you see it?’ Fingers asked.

  Hander shook his head. ‘It’s just a dirty floor.’

  ‘No look,’ Bodger insisted.

  Hander stared again. ‘No, sorry I can’t see anything.’

  Fingers grabbed a broom, sweeping the floor free from the accumulated dust. He stepped back and gestured for Hander to look where he had swept. ‘Stand here,’ Fingers said, grabbing his employer, pulling him round. ‘Now look.’

  Hander looked down at the floor exactly where Fingers and Bodger had indicated.

  ‘Sorry, still can’t see any…’ Hander paused. ‘Actually I can see something. What is it?’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Bodger asked.

  Hander frowned. ‘Well, from this angle it looks like…’ he stopped and bent down to get a closer look at the ground. ‘It actually looks like the impression of a person.’

  Fingers smiled. Bodger and several of the other men nodded.

  Hander pointed at the floor. ‘This is the face, and these two things, they’re his hands. It looks like he’s pushing something away.’

  ‘It’s like that Turin Shroud thing that they found in…’ Fingers looked at Hander. ’Where’d they find it?’

  ‘Turin.’

  Fingers nodded. ‘Right. It’s like that.’

  Hander reached for the broom and started sweeping around the image. ‘It’s got to be just the way the dirt has ground into the floor. Did you try washing it?’

  ‘We tried that.’ Bodger said. ‘It didn’t make a difference.’

  Hander scratched his chin, deep in thought. ‘I suppose it could be damp.’ He bent down, taking a chisel from a toolbox by his feet. ‘I’ll see if I can scrape it off.’

  He placed the blade of the chisel against the image and began to scrape.

  Then the lights went out.

  *

  Alan woke up as the commentator on the sports channel went into meltdown over a goal scored in a Peruvian football match. He looked at his watch. It was just before midnight. Rosie had slunk off to bed an hour ago and he had taken advantage of her absence to flick straight over to the World Football Channel before promptly falling asleep.

  Deciding that the lure of a 2nd tier Peruvian football match was not strong enough to keep him up he turned the television off and headed off to bed.

  He quietly climbed the stairs, avoiding the creaking floorboards so as not to wake Rosie. He entered bedroom and was surprised to find Frankie looking out of the window.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He whispered.

  Frankie turned to face him. ‘Just looking out there,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling a bit odd.’

  ‘Odd?’ Alan repeated.

  Frankie nodded. ‘Yes odd. Weird. You know like when a storm is coming.’

  ‘There’s no storms forecast, that’s just Rosie snoring,’ Alan chuckled.

  ‘It’s just I’ve got a weird feeling.’ Frankie went back to looking out of the window.

  ‘Well,’ Alan slipped off his T shirt. ‘Can you go somewhere else and feel weird. I don’t want you staring at me while I’m trying to sleep.’

  Frankie sighed. ‘Good night son,’ and disappeared.

  Alan shook his head. He removed the rest of his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He knew this would annoy Rosie, but he didn’t care. He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts which had seen better days and gazed out of the window. Frankie was standing outside on the pavement. He appeared to look up and down the road before walking off.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Alan asked himself out loud before crossing the bedroom and getting into bed.

  Rosie rolled over. ‘Who are you talking to? She asked, half asleep.

  Alan pulled the duvet up to his chin. ‘No-one. Just a ghost who is convinced there’s a storm coming.’

  ‘That’s nice dear,’ she mumbled and went back to sleep, emitting little snores.

  Alan laid still, listening to Rosie’s gentle snoring and thought about Frankie’s odd behaviour. After a few minutes he decided whatever it was didn’t affect him so he rolled over and went to sleep.

  Chapter 22

  James sat in the school dining room picking at his ham salad.

  ‘Not enjoying that?’ Mary Mitten asked.

  He crunched on a piece of carrot and shook his head. ‘It’s just not proper food. Humans aren’t rabbits. We’re meant to eat burgers and steaks.’

  ‘But does it make you feel better?’ Mary nodded at the barely touched salad.

  ‘No. I’m hungry all the time. And miserable.’

  Mary laughed. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she told him, gesturing at the small year seven pupil who had appeared alongside him.

  James turned round. ‘Lewis.’

  ‘Hello sir,’ he said, and passed what looked to Mary suspiciously like a wrist watch to James.

  James turned the watch over in his hand. ‘How far?’

  Three miles, sir,’ Lewis told him proudly.

  ‘Excellent, well done.’ He looked at the boy. ‘Go on, off you go.’

  Lewis hurried off, glad to be out of the company of teachers.

  ‘What was that about?’ Mary asked as James fastened the watch around his wrist.

  ‘Amy has me wearing this fitness tracker. He tapped the watch. ‘She downloads all the data onto her phone every night and if I’ve done enough I get a treat.’

  Mary raised an eyebrow.

  James smiled. ‘Not that kind of treat. A food treat. Three miles has got to be worth at least two chocolate Hob-Nobs.’

  Mary frowned. ‘How will Lewis running around with your fitness tracker help that…?’ She paused for a moment her brain slowly putting two and two together. ‘Oh please tell me you’re not.’

  James speared another piece of carrot with his fork. ‘Amy has no idea who’s running three miles at lunchtime. She only knows that the fitness tracker has run three miles…’

  ‘So you’re getting you’re class to do your exercise for you?’

  He nodded. ‘In return for an A in their end of year report.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘That’s so wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They have to earn those grades, you can’t just hand them out for favours.’

  ‘The kids love to run about during lunch. They get good grades and I get a chocolate Hob-Nob. Amy thinks I’m getting fitter and stops nagging me – Everyone’s a winner.’

  Any further attempt to justify his teaching methods was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw Alan’s name on the screen, gave Mary a wave and left the table.

  ‘Mate, what’s up?’ He asked, answering the phone as he pushed through the dining rooms double doors.

  ‘Just firming up the arrangements for tonight.’ Alan told him.

  ‘You mean aside from being a hundred quid better off at the end of the night?’ James stared at the deputy head who walked past him and into the dining room, pointing at the phone in James’s hand and shaking his head in disapproval. James waited for the doors to swing shut behind him and shot him a gesture that would have seen a pupil suspended.

  Alan gave a tinny laugh. ‘It kicks off at seven thirty so I’m looking to get there at seven. Is that OK with you?’

  James nodded, realised that was a pointless gesture, said, ‘That works for me. Does Frankie know what he’s got to do?’

  ‘I’m just going
through it with him now.’

  ‘Excellent,’ James said. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He ended the call, pocketed his phone and went back to his salad.

  *

  Frankie stood by the window, hands in pockets and stared at the street. He was vaguely aware of Alan chattering away in the background.

  ‘OK, do you want me to go over it again?’

  Frankie turned away from the window. ‘Perhaps you should, just in case I haven’t quite grasped the concept of reading words off of a sheet of paper.’

  Alan nodded. ‘Good point,’ he said, failing to detect any sarcasm. ‘Right, so we’ll be at a table as close to the front as possible. You stand up the front by the question master and read off the answers as they ask them.

  ‘Right, I think I can manage that.’

  ‘But…’ Alan continued, unperturbed by Frankie rolling his eyes. ‘They’ll always go with the answer that’s written down on their answer sheet. So you might think that West Ham won the FA cup in 1975…’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Yes, but if the answer they’re looking for is West Ham United, that’s the answer they’re looking for.’

  Frankie nodded. ‘So the answer is West Ham United?’

  ‘Unless it’s not.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Look it doesn’t matter. As long you only concern yourself with the answer they have written down we’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to follow a simple instruction. Have a little faith.’

  ‘OK, I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘Trust me, son, I know what I’m doing.’

  *

  ‘You’ll want to turn left at the lights.’

  Amy glanced across at her husband and pursed her lips. He was sitting alongside her and tapping on the dashboard, hopelessly out of time with the song playing on the radio.

  ‘I do know where I’m going,’ she said. Her tone leaving him in no doubt what she thought of his input.

  James stopped his poorly timed drumming. ‘You’ve never been to the Hoof. I’d know if you had, you’d still be moaning about it.’

  Amy came to a halt joining a queue of traffic. ‘I know where it is and I know its reputation.’ She eased the car forward as the traffic began to move. ‘I’ve read the reviews online.’