Schrödinger's box - Bentley 8

[For back story see lower numbers in archive]

The package wasn't from Amazon. That much was obvious, but as Bentley looked the box over from every angle he couldn't work out where it had come from. He had no recollection of ordering anything of this size – indeed he couldn't remember ordering anything at all, but that didn't necessarily mean he hadn't. On the one hand the awfully nice young man from the over-50s club who had sorted out his computer printer had said his printer came complete with an ongoing subscription for paper and cartridges – not that he really needed any of it for all the printing he did. And in any case, this parcel didn’t act as if it had either of these inside. 

Then there was drunk late night online shopping.

He wasn’t a big drinker or a big shopper, but for some mysterious reason, the combination of the two in moderation brought about a huge impact on his bank balance. Trains were the primary weakness of course. Loaded with a couple of beers and a sherry he found himself haring off to the backend of beyond across the Internet where fellow enthusiasts had the audacity to have held on to entire seasons of Train Watchers Weekly from twenty years ago, one issue of which included a particularly fine picture of a previously active diesel which Bentley hadn't seen for ages and now couldn’t live without entering into his reference files. But of course he could never just get that one magazine. It came bundled with the entire season and then he’d realise that buying two seasons' worth would actually save him money even though it looked like he was spending more and if he added another there’d be no postage and packing so… Yes. He'd end up with boxes being delivered and another stack of magazines he couldn't hope to fully file. 

But this wasn’t that either.

Staring at the package and his name on it, and no discernible clue he began to think maybe he wouldn’t open it just yet. Sure, it seemed as if things had calmed down enough for him not to have to worry about contamination in the parcel (unless someone was being really malicious and frankly the moment someone might be) but was there really much point in taking any chances? Particularly as, if he didn’t actually know what was in it – wasn’t expecting anything, didn’t need anything – there was no great reason to open it anyway.

Bentley limped back to his computer where the picture of his granddaughter Natalie was still on display. She looked a lot like her father, thought Bentley, or at least like her father used to, before… before everything happened to him. If this were a recent picture, and the history and timing of the image meant it was probable, she was the hopeful go-getter she seemed to be on the phone. Not only that but her current student status seemed to mask her true success. Her potted history, set on a staff web page of a south coast college revealed she was carrying out some teaching work, supported by clear work experience within a couple of designer houses. Further delving – ducking behind a couple of firewalls and into password protected areas as only someone who doesn’t take no for an answer from a railways timetable website could do – Bentley found she also had a rather impressive sounding mentor/sponsor enhancing her career prospects and promising more when she graduated.

Having traced her this far, through the labyrinth of name changes, location shifts and mistaken identities, Bentley now had her home address (or contact address at least) and a phone number on the screen in front of him. He had what he wanted but he now straddled the point of satisfaction between getting that information and getting stressed by acting on it to contact her.

And if he did contact her what then? Shouldn’t he tell Shiela and put them in touch with each other? Would the very fact that he had made the connection now mean that the same connection could be made by Lawrence and wouldn’t that be a bad thing?

There was a buzz and tone from his phone as something landed in his WhatsApp stream.

Did you open the box? – said the message, direct from the contact he knew as The Vertibrain.

Bentley waited and thought. This overblown self-created noir character was currently charged with keeping tabs on whatever it was Darren was doing in order to trace Lawrence – if that was what the over-priced charlatan was doing. 

What box? –

The one in your hall. –

Bentley thought again. No need to panic. The delivery person registered the box’s delivery and would have described Bentley taking it in.

Is it safe? – sent back Bentley.

Of course. –

Bentley went back into the hall and looked at the parcel. Then he found a pair of scissors and opened it. After a few minutes he found the contents.

He estimated £20,000 in £50 notes and a pair of worn, smart black shoes, size 10.

Bentley sent six letters, all in capitals, followed by a question mark:

OK WTAF?

And got a smiley emoji with a black cloak for a reply.