I put the boxes on the kitchen island, and look at them. They are the same size as the last one, but in better condition. I feel a bit afraid of them. Do they contain more money from crooks unknown? I know it’s blood money of some sort. The boxes feel like a taunt from my conscience: You were happy enough to take the last one. What are you going to do with two more? Maybe half a million dollars more? Why didn’t I leave them at the mailbox with the other one?

I grab the knife, and open one of them. There is a plastic bag inside, white, thick-walled and heavy-duty, but no bricks. It gets worse. Everything always gets worse. I slice the top of the bag, and peel it back. The bag is full of something that might be ash — fine, grey-white ash. What the fuck? seems an understatement. I dip my finger in, and the ash sticks to it like fine powder. I scrape the ash back to see if anything is buried under the fine material, but there is nothing. It is a bag of ash. Then I notice, in the corner, a half-submerged gold ring with a tag tied to it. The tag says, ‘Fatboy Cakestand’. It doesn’t make any sense, but it unnerves me because it is written in a childish freehand that suggests Fatboy Cakestand is a nickname. My half-dead imagination brings forth a picture of a bikie gang rival, assassinated; a large, sweaty enemy called ‘Fatboy’ with the ridiculous surname of Cakestand. Fatboy has been eliminated and cremated. I simply don’t have the horsepower to summon what the reasons for this might be. Maybe Fatboy is the revered leader of an outlaw gang whose remains are due to be scattered somewhere.

I spear open the other, lighter box, and uncover another bag that stretches to every corner of the box and is filled with the same material. There is no ring in this one. I’m confused yet again. I close the boxes. I cannot think of anything useful, and I begin to understand that I am an insignificant bystander in a complex underworld game. They’ve accidentally sent me stuff, and they’ll probably kill me for it and not think another thing about it. I’m going to take the boxes back to the mailbox, and leave them there. Sooner or later, the robber bloke will come along. Sooner or later, someone will tell the person sending this stuff that they’ve got the wrong address.