“Curious,” said John, as he crept out of his concealment and led Marchant home. “Mrs King is keeping strange company these days.”
As he pressed his key towards the lock, the door receded before it and there in the passageway stood that very woman, John’s landlady. She was dressed for the “out’, cashmere coat, knitted hat and string shopper. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, which would have left most people lost for a reply.
“Your servant, ma’am,” said himself.
“You’ve had a visitor.”
“Did they leave cash or a cheque?” Omally asked. “I am expecting several such callers this week.”
“And so you should be, you owe a month’s back rent.”
“Where did they leave the money?” John enquired. “I will pay you at once.”
“He didn’t leave any money as far as I know, just a parcel.”
“Oh yes?” Omally certainly didn’t recall ordering anything.
“He said that you and that Jim Pooley had won prizes. He didn’t have your mate’s address so I gave it to him.”
“Prizes, eh? Well, I did enter a competition in hope of winning you a microwave oven, perhaps that’s it.” Omally often amazed himself by the ease with which words of untruth sprang to his lips. “Shall we open it together?”
“I haven’t got time for that, I must get out before the shops close. I’ve left it on your kitchen table. And that kitchen wants cleaning, Mr Omally, it’s a health hazard.”
“I came home at this time expressly to deal with that.” Omally eased himself past the woolly-hatted harridan.
“Just see that you do.” The front door slammed shut upon her words in blessed relief.
John bested the twenty-three stairs which led to his chambers and pushed open the door. Things were very much as he had left them, no good-housekeeping fairy had descended from the lands of the blessed during his absence to flick the much-needed duster or make free with the vacuum cleaner. Although he was a stickler for personal hygiene, John’s rooms left very much to be desired, tidiness-wise.
Omally took off his jacket and tossed it on to his unmade bed. Turning back his shirt cuffs he entered the kitchenette to examine the package lying on the oilcloth covered table. It was a brightly coloured affair, bound in twine and scaled with sealing wax in a quaint old-fashioned manner. There was, however, no accompanying card expressing congratulations or ill-founded birthday greetings.
“Further curiousness,” said the Irishman, lifting it and weighing it in his hands. It was approximately twelve inches to the side and of no particular weight. Omally shook it, something within thumped to one side and so he replaced it upon the table lest he damage its contents. “It’s not a microwave oven,” he said, searching for a clean knife to slit the bindings. As none was readily available he wandered back to his jacket to fetch his Swiss army knife. Selecting a blade suitable to the task he returned to confront the package.
Upon his return he observed a curious phenomenon. The package appeared slightly larger than before. He lifted it. Slightly heavier also. John shook his curly head. Neville’s private stock evidently had somewhat special qualities. He would save the gift bottle for a worthy occasion.
John sliced through the bindings and laid aside the wrapping paper which came away in bright folds. He delved in to gain his prize but, to his surprise and annoyance, he found himself confronted by a further set of wrappings. John flung away the former and reconsidered the remaining parcel. It was no longer a cube, rather a tetrahedron. And … it was bigger!
Omally scratched his head. That was a good trick. He lifted the parcel. It was heavier yet again. A very good trick. With renewed vigour he fell upon the thing, slicing at strings, tearing away paper. They fell away with ease, almost springing from the parcel. The shape which now came to light was distinctly pyramidal, well wrapped and at least twice the size of the original cube. John was beginning to work up a healthy sweat. He folded his knife and tore at the parcel with his bare hands. Paper swept away in great sheets and he flung it to every direction. The revealed cylinder filled most of the kitchen table and Omally found himself standing knee-deep in wrapping paper. He found the parcel now impossible to lift. “Perhaps it’s an AGA?” he said, wiping sweat from his eyes. “We’ll soon see.” Ripping at the paper as one possessed, he revealed shape after shape, growing all the time. Suddenly, with an almighty crack, the kitchen table gave at its wormy legs and Omally tumbled aside into the confusion of multi-coloured wrapping paper as the now enormous package struck the floor with a deafening thump.
It was at about this time that he felt cause to question the wisdom of his actions. The hulking parcel now effectively blocked the door from the kitchenette. John arose from his colourful nest, puffing and blowing for all he was worth, and attempted to shift the obstacle. But to no avail. All he succeeded in doing was tearing away several more layers of paper. The parcel burst asunder, now visibly growing in size, to the accompaniment of loud ripping and tearing sounds.
John flattened himself against a wall. He was trapped and not only that, he was in dire peril. The door was now completely blocked, the kitchenette window too small to permit squeezing through, and a further series of ominous sounds informed him that the parcel was far from finished with its untoward quest for further expansion. With a sharp snap the thick length of rope which had restrained the Pandora’s box severed, whipping Omally painfully across the face. Spitting blood, the indefatigable Irishman sought escape. “Take your Pick” this wasn’t, and he had no further wish to “open the box”.
The parcel bulged menacingly about its lower regions and a huge appendage sprang out from it, splintering the remnants of the dilapidated kitchen table and pummelling against the wall. Omally leapt up on to it and clung on for dear life. Crockery crashed down from the dresser shelves and the elderly porcelain sink crumbled from its mountings and was gone in a cloud of whitened splinters. John scrambled across the seething parcel which was unfolding into every direction with unrestrained force, destroying all that lay before it and rapidly filling the room. The thing pulsed with life and John could feel a hideous strength moving beneath him. Suddenly he was in darkness.
The window was blocked and he was now being driven upwards into the ceiling. It was not going to be a pleasant way to go. John lay on his back across the swelling mass of homicidal packaging, his hands pressed against the polystyrene ceiling tiles he had known and always hated. The smell of a generation’s nicotine, much of it his own, filled his nostrils, his ears popped from the pressure and his breath came in short pants. He was surely done for.
The spreading parcel of death rumbled beneath him wreaking further destruction, pulverizing furniture and fitments, horrendous, unstoppable. Omally’s nose edged closer to the ceiling, he fought to reach his knife, but his hands were trapped at his sides, he was powerless to resist the irresistible, relentless force which bore up underneath him.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” said John Omally, “put a good word in at some speed for this unworthy son.” There was a bone-sickening crunch and Omally was no more. Omally was no more in the kitchenette, he was now in the loft.
John opened his eyes; if this was Heaven, then it didn’t look all that heavenly. Dust and dirt and pigeon shit weren’t much of a happy ever after. Perhaps he’d gone to the bad place. So hell was an eternity of loft space. John sought to escape before the rolls of insulation arrived, his for the perpetual laying. What torment!