Mr Weaver is out. I sigh with pleasure as I watch his house. He must have been gone for a while. Maybe he’s even due to be home soon. That would be perfection. I slip my card through his door, then hurry back to the van and go on my way. Thick black fumes splutter out of the exhaust as I floor the accelerator to make the onward journey more entertaining.
In the next village a baby squeals, unsettled. I can remember that pitch from when my wife held our babies in her arms, cooing and pacing to lull them to sleep. I wait and watch as the sounds diminish. I can imagine Bethany Morris gently putting her little one down in his cot now. I expect she will settle down for a rest when her baby sleeps. A small smile tries to contort my lips when I see her blinds being closed upstairs. I’ll give her ten minutes.
As I get out of my van and walk towards the door, my finger tingles. The excitement mounts as I reach up and press the doorbell. I hold it that tiny bit longer than is strictly necessary. A high pitched squeal sounds inside, and I smile to myself again. My work is done. The door opens and I say, “Delivery for Ms Morris.”
A dishevelled, bleary-eyed face looks at me as she signs the delivery slip.
“Have a great day,” I say cheerily as I stride back down the path to the sound of the baby's screams.
My special training has paid off. It takes skill to know when people are out or resting. I settle back into the driver's seat and make another mark on my tally chart.
Benjamin Smithers Always Delivers shines on the outside of my van as I speed along the road towards my next victim.