Mouth full of peanut butter on toast, eyes and ears half-attentive to the latest television-reported courtroom shenanigans, Clive only just heard the spring mechanism of his letterbox. He dropped his crust and rushed out but was too late to catch the fleeting postman. His slightly smeary fingers picked up the card which said he should collect a parcel at the local sorting office. He thought he might go there before work tomorrow but suddenly remembered a previous time when it was a mis-addressed saucepan service which he’d ended carting around on the tube most of the day.
     He noticed that they now offered late night opening so he’d go then. Angela lived just a couple of streets away. Part of him hoped he might bump into her because there were still things unresolved but maybe their year long bond was now irreparable and those issues would forever remain pending. What was that Shakespeare phrase? Star-crossed lovers. Yeah, let’s put our own romantic meanderings at the centre of the universe. Solipsism is us!
     His regular newspaper had reverted to type with front and early pages concerned with celebrity canoodlings and some new must-watch TV show. A very minor royal had been spotted leaving a nightclub arm in arm with that blonde weathergirl from a satellite channel he’d never accessed. Her official boyfriend, a Leeds and England midfielder, currently suffering cruciate damage, was unavailable for comment. News of the comet was relegated to page seven. Death might be coming from the stars but meanwhile here’s a starlet who takes her top off in a rap video. 
     “All those billions NASA’s spent on research and technology,” he said to Dave in the canteen “and they still can’t decide whether it’s going to hit us or not.” 
     “A near-miss would be bad enough,” Dave replied. “Anyway, I think they know we’re doomed but they’re not letting on so all the top bods can get on with their contingency plans for surviving the nuclear winter. Have you seen the President and the Prime Minister on TV lately?” 
     Clive pursed his lips, answered, “No, it’s all been that fraud trial and him out of ‘Eastenders’.” 
     “Exactly!” Dave beamed. 
     Clive gave his coffee another thoughtful stir. “So, Dave, how many GCSEs did you get at Conspiracy High School?”

*

The forecourt of the sorting office was resplendent with dark green leafy, non-odiferous plants which looked merely black and non-reflective this time of the evening. Clive collected his parcel. It was shaped like a cushion, soft to the touch, as odourless as the boring bushes. His name was computer generated on the label. 
     He took it home and opened it. Inside was a costume. This seemed to be some sort of dinosaur but not realistic, more in the style of Disney or a football team mascot. It was soft and furry outside; dark, warm and almost womb-like inside. For the moment it was a bit cumbersome and clunky, maybe a size or so too big. Perhaps he’d grow into it. 
     But who the hell was it from? There was not even a manufacturer’s identity tag. Suppose it was meant for someone else? Yet there was his name clear as tropical daylight on the front. Suppose he was expected to pay for it? But then they’d have to send an invoice and that would have a return address or at least a credit card phone number and he could sort it out then. It was all a bit of a nuisance. 
     The other possibility was that this was some strange gift. Halloween was only a week or so away but surely a scream mask or a wizard’s cape would be more appropriate? And who’d send him this stuff? If it was Dave or one of the other blokes from the office having a laugh, the point of the joke would have been more obvious. Angela? Was she trying to tell him he was out of date because he hadn’t approved of those semi-legal pills she wanted to pop before a big night at Jazzles Bar? Was she saying their love was extinct? 
     Pure speculation. Sixty-five million years of it. And why was the head missing?

*

The following evening Clive caught the bus back from Tesco’s. Rain streaked the windows and the top deck smelt of damp coats and wet shoe leather. He gazed idly out of the window. A couple of kids in Harry Potter garb were kicking brown leaves and gravel at each other. Near the newsagent’s he thought he spotted Angela – honey-gold hair, trim, 5’ 6”, sporting what looked like a Red Riding Hood costume. Without an umbrella? In this rain? But the woman turned and glanced towards the vehicle and he saw she was no more than a teenage girl, like a mysterious younger sister of his erstwhile partner. 
     Carefully lifting his shopping bags and his damp feet over the bills and free newspaper strewn behind his front door, he tottered to the kitchen to unpack. As usual he’d bought too many items in bottles or cans so had to juggle the shelves inside his Indesit fridge. A deep door, that was what he needed. Which reminded him... underneath the smudged copy of the Finchdene Advertiser was another Royal Mail Sorry we missed you card. 
     Later that evening he had to go out again for mustard pickle which he’d somehow forgotten on his weekly shop. The rain had ceased but the brown leaves still dripped if you walked too close to the rowans and plane trees lining the street. There was a small gaggle of young women gathered near the pay kiosk in the Saver Mart car park. One was the red-caped teenage temptress from earlier. Her friend – a slightly chubby Afro-Caribbean girl with hour-long hair braids and an eye-catching gold skirt was attempting to re-focus a smart pair of binoculars. 
     “Are you looking for the comet?” Clive asked pleasantly. 
     They gave him that look of sullen silence like a weapon of mass destruction stockpiled for the ceaseless Cold War between apparent generations. 
     Then the girl with the glasses allowed her face to break into a smile and answered, “There’s a guy up in Fortescue Tower who does a fitness workout. In the nude.” 
     “Curtains pulled back and everything!” one of her companions added. 
     Clive nodded, turned and began walking across the poorly-lit tarmac. 
     “Don’t worry, we won’t be spying on you!” braid girl called behind him. 
     “Nothing to see anyway,” Red Riding Hood added.

 

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