Mr. Average

I wasn't expecting any of this. After all, I'm probably just about as ordinary, as average, as it is possible to get. Middle-aged, medium height, medium build, medium hair, doing a mediocre run-of-the-mill job, I could be Mr. Average.

When I looked back, on the Thursday, and saw the same man I’d seen the last few days following me down the street back to work after my lunch hour, I began to wonder.

I mean, I wasn't imaging things. It was... I checked off in my mind... three days since I'd noticed him. He could have been following me for ages without me noticing. After all, when the weather was good enough, I liked to sit and eat my sandwiches in the park a few hundred yards down the road from the office. I like the fresh air, the water birds on the park pond and idly watching the women walking by.

Often, I’d sit there and read a book, nothing profound, I'm not trying to look clever, impress one of those women passing-by into chatting with me, or something like that. No, these are just thrillers, best sellers with gaudy covers and big bold title lettering. Mostly, though, I just like to sit and watch the time pass.

I first noticed him, hanging back, looking in one of the High Street shop windows when I glanced over my shoulder to check for traffic before crossing over to the office. I recognised his coat, a sort of summer lightweight parka, very much like one I used to own that I'd lost one holiday and never got around to replacing. It was the coat that first caught my attention, made me notice and remember him.

Then, when I saw him again, the next day and the day after that, following me, I remembered him. Initially, I just thought he must be someone who worked around here, one of the other offices, a local shop or something, and he took his lunch at the same time as me.

However, after a while I began to notice how odd it all was.

Then, today, Friday, he was standing at the entrance to the park as I came out, right next to the litterbin where I usually dump all the leftover papers and stuff from my lunch. I did the British thing and pretended not to notice him, but as I came away from the bin, dusting the crumbs off my hands, he came right up to me.

He gave a quick glance all around him and reached into his pocket as he closed in on me. It made me step back, but still he hurried towards me. This is it, I thought, preparing myself for a knife, a gun or some other sudden inexplicable violence. Even though he didn’t look as though he had mental problems, it is hard to tell these days.

Instead, as I steeled myself for whatever he was going to do to me, he handed me this small neatly wrapped parcel, a few inches square, nodded once as if in confirmation of a job well done, then turned and strode away, not looking back once.

That small parcel is here, now, in front of me on my desk and here I sit - as I’ve been sitting for I don’t know how long - wondering if I dare open it.