In that split second, when he first looked inside, he believed it full of grains of rice. And that puzzled him, because why would those shit-for-brains kids send him rice? There were hundreds and hundreds of pale brownish grains, filling the envelope right to the brim, and when he looked again they were moving. They were moving.

Maggots.

He gagged. Dropped the envelope. And then they were everywhere, squirming across the carpet and moving over his slippers in their seemingly directionless quest for dying flesh.

Retching, Trefor lunged for the envelope while trying to sweep up a handful of the tiny, wriggling larvae, but he fumbled with it and lost his grip, tipping it over on its side. Now there were many more of them, spilling out of the Bubble Wrap, corkscrewing across one another, burrowing into the polyester fibers, seeking out dark places. Disappearing.

Sweet Jesus, those fucking kids. Did they have any idea what they had done?

Trefor kicked his feet, his movements wild and uncontrolled, trying to dislodge the maggots. He ran to the cupboard underneath the stairs and pulled out a vacuum cleaner, ancient and bulky. Hands shaking, he plugged it in and shoved it across the floor, hitting the baseboards and the radiator pipes in his panic to contain the infestation defiling his home. He needed them gone. Every last one.

But it was impossible to be certain.

When he had finished cleaning up, he opened his front door and scanned the street. It was empty. But he knew who they were. He recognized their voices.

And those little fuckers were going to pay.

19

Monday 30th July 2018, 12:01 P.M.

The Avenue

The kids on their bikes almost knocked into him as they flew up the street, their whooping laughter as cruel as the midday sun.

The postman shielded his eyes with his hand and watched them go. He thought about checking on the old guy—he’d seen them congregating outside his house earlier that morning—but decided it was none of his business.

Instead he walked up the path to number twenty-seven, more certain of his welcome there. He was thirsty, a fresh sheen of sweat coating his forehead. A couple of dried leaves clung to the cotton fibers of his shirt. Needing to kill some time, he had driven his van around to the northwest entrance of Blatches Woods, where he had sat on a bench amongst the quiet company of the trees and contemplated his next move. But now he was back in The Avenue, magnetized to this place.

As he bent to post the letter he had deliberately withheld, Audrina Clifton opened the door, floral apron tied around her waist, lamb’s wool slippers on her feet. “You again?” There was a teasing note to her voice. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“Missed this one.” He waggled it. “Looks like a bill, I’m afraid, Mrs. C,” he said, straightening up and handing it to her.

She tutted good-naturedly. “The dreaded brown envelope.”