Pop Goes the Weasel

26

People never take any notice of couriers. In their uniform of biking helmet and leathers they are viewed as robots, programmed to come, drop and go without personality or impact. Cogs in the wheels of everyday business.

People thought it was ok to be rude to them, as if they were somehow less human than real people. This was certainly the case now. She stood by the front desk ignored, waiting patiently for the two receptionists to finish their private conversation. Typical – underlining their own sense of self-importance, in the process betraying how utterly worthless they were. Still, they would get their comeuppance.

She coughed and was rewarded with an irritated glance from the fat one. Reluctantly she dragged her carcass over.

‘Who?’

Not even the dignity of a whole sentence.

‘Stephen McPhail.’

She kept her voice neutral.

‘Company?’

‘Zenith Solutions.’

‘Third floor.’

She paused, momentarily unnerved at having to go inside the building with her precious cargo, then regaining her composure, she walked to the lifts.

The receptionist at Zenith was no more polite than the others.

‘Need a signature?’

The courier shook her head and handed over the package. A plain, brown cardboard box, bound shut with duct tape. The receptionist turned away without saying thank you and placed it on her desk, before resuming her conversation.

The courier left, slipping away as anonymously as she’d arrived. She wondered how long the receptionist would gossip for before actually doing her job and alerting the Chief Executive to his unexpected package. She hoped they wouldn’t wait too long. These things begin to smell after a while.