To Indigo by Tanith Lee (read along books txt) 📕

eight or before, seldom now appears much before 11 a.m.

But today there was an envelope on the mat.

In the brilliant light of too-early-summer morning I bent to see.

No 74, said the hand printing on its surface. The writing was erratic, but I still took it for some circular, a charity appeal, Jehovah’s Witness threat, or one of those Householder issues that suggest to us we can sell our house and then rent it back, must be aware of this or that road-widening, pipe-renewing or other potentially destructive plan, or that our government loves us, and we should be en garde.

I didn’t bother to open it, only carried it through to the kitchen and put on the kettle for coffee.

Outside sparrows, blue tits and pigeons were flying over in squadrons to the bird-tables and baths of No 72, my attached neighbour, and unattached 76 the other side of the wall.

I have nothing against birds, or any creature come to that. My mother used to have a bird-bath also, but I never remembered to fill it. It was drily down there somewhere by the end fence, among the weeds and ivy. And beyond, stood the fir.

Gradually I glanced out at the fir.

Which was how I saw the thing sitting there on the paving.

It was a large black plastic dustbin. Not, I hasten to add, a dirty one. This was spic and span. It looked brand new. There was even a red and white sticker left on the lid.

I switched off the kettle.

Nothing else out there was disturbed. Certainly the airforce of birds wasn’t nervous.

Perhaps ridiculously I picked up the bread knife. I undid the kitchen door and emerged.

The air was lit, and peaceable with noisy morning sounds.

I walked over the paving and inspected the dustbin.

It was definitely new, pristine in fact. I don’t know why, possibly force of habit for this is what one does with dustbins, I reached out and pulled off the lid.

As I did this, complete terror gripped me. I had an instant mental picture of Joseph Traskul, like some handsome, hideous jack-in-the-box, leaping out of the interior – Surprise! Surprise!

But there was nothing like that. There was something in the vault of the bin. I could see at once what it was but its incongruity made it incomprehensible to me. I stood there staring. In the end I dropped the lid on, walked back into the kitchen, shut and locked the door. And saw again the letter that had been on the mat.

Now I grabbed hold of it. Dropping the knife I ripped the envelope open.

A leaf of plain white paper was inside with strong, erratic writing in black biro, not astonishingly the very same writing as was on the outside.

I removed it. It could be read clearly enough: Back garden. See bin. Open to find 1 x bottle of Wincott’s Special.

Which was of course exactly what I had done, and found.

“Hello. I wonder if I could speak to Harris?”

“Arriz,” said an unfamiliar and not very kindly female voice. “Mr Why Bother do you men?”

“That’s right. I…”

“He’s off.”

“He’s not there?”

“Noah. He’s gone to Spine.”

“Already.”

“Yez. Abuts dad.”

“I see. Do you know when he’ll…”

“No I don’t. I’m hellip for Miss Lornce.”

“Oh, I see. I suppose Miss Lawrence isn’t…”

“Mss Lornces owd.”

“Could you tell her Roy called.”

“Ray.”

“Roy. Roy Phipps.”

“Roy Fibs. Yez, I’ll tell.”

The phone went down quite forcefully before I could ask if Janette Lawrence, Harris’s fiancée, would call me back, or when I could call again.

Once more a dead end, then. I’d already tried a couple of other publishing semi-friends, ostensibly to check on business matters, a contract, a payment. I had wanted to try them out, see what they thought it was best for me to do. There is a strange chap who seems to have followed me from central London. No, I haven’t a clue why. He latched on to me in a pub, and now he’s left a dustbin in my garden.

A difficult speech. No doubt they’d only assume I was trying out on them a new plot-line for some sinister tale.

Actually I could imagine Lewis Rybourne at Gates saying, “Oh come on, Roy. That’s drivel. Why would someone do something so – well frankly soppy. Is there a body in the fucking bin or what?”

Should I therefore call the police? I could imagine that too. All the world reeling with terror threats, rapes, murders and burglary with violence, and myself phoning them about my problem. “Well, some people, sir, might be very grateful for a nice clean bin. Not to mention a free jar.”

It got to noon, and I couldn’t settle to anything, or decide what to do. I’d placed the note and envelope in a plastic sandwich bag and put them in a drawer, to protect DNA. The bin and beer I left where they were. A pair of pigeons subsequently flew over and landed there momentarily, and one had relieved itself on the purity of the lid. I went upstairs and belatedly shaved and dressed. I shut and locked every window, even the narrow one in the lavatory. Downstairs, all bolted and barred, I poured the cold coffee I had made and not drunk into the sink. Outside the bin was still there, undisturbed except by me and the pigeon.

The house has a burglar alarm. I didn’t very often activate it, as it had a handy knack of going off for no apparent reason. Now I did. Next both sides had people in all day, 72 an elderly but spry couple, 76 a house-husband with a child that went to school and came back for lunch.

I walked out of the house and double-locked the door.

Despite the sun it was cooler today. I scanned carefully up and down the street as I had already done with the path and the back alley from my upper rooms, my bedroom, the lavatory and adjacent bathroom.

All this was very silly. But I write such stories. I know how appallingly worrying these tiny incidents may seem. Anything that doesn’t