Sandman (standard:drama, 1809 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Oct 17 2005	Views/Reads: 3671/2356	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Annabel receives two packages through the post, triggering memories of a decade past

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sandpit, ending up like a walking sandman. Who'd laughed at her 
longest? Darren Smith – though would he stretch to a stupid prank like 
this? But if it wasn't him, then who? 

Annabel got her opportunity to confront him that evening, one of their
twice weekly training meetings. He'd been limbering up on the back 
straight when she caught sight of him. She sprinted across the arena 
and slapped a hand on his shoulder, ‘Nice one Darren – you had to 
prolong your little joke didn't you? She poked her finger in his ribs, 
‘Well the humour's gone – now back off.' 

He screwed his face, gave her an absurd look like she wasn't on the
planet, ‘What are you talking about Ann – sun getting to you?' 

She felt like seating him on his nice new running shorts – as if he
didn't know, ‘The parcel of sand you sent, it exploded all over my 
carpet.' 

‘What sand?' Darren stretched out his hand, palm up, he must have seen
she was squaring for a fight, ‘Hey look, calm down, I haven't sent you 
anything.' 

‘Well you certainly saw the joke when I fell in the sand pit,' she said
testily. 

‘Oh come on, that was weeks back...' for once he sounded serious,
convincing...'I don't know who your little sandman is, but it's 
certainly not me.' 

‘He'd been troubled by her accusation and she'd marked him down as
genuine. Back to the drawing board, she thought ruefully. Still it 
wasn't worth falling out with all and sundry over a stupid sand parcel. 


So she'd left it, gone home feeling like she'd acted like a brat, and
kept the sand issue from Carl, when perhaps she should have raised it. 
Well, any distraction from police monotony would have been a bonus. 

The following morning Jack the postman arrived with a square package and
one look at the nondescript printing on the label provoked rising anger 
in Annabel. 

So what had the twisted idiot sent this time? She resisted the
temptation to bin it straight away, curiosity got the better of her, 
that and the possibility towards the identity of the moron who'd sent 
it. 

It felt solid and heavy compared with the floppy contents of the
previous day. At least there would be no mess to cope with, although 
for a ridiculous moment she considered whether it might be booby 
trapped. 

Annabel slit the package open. Cushioned by paper and encased in
cardboard she drew out a china castle, its pinnacle glistening in the 
sunlight flooding the room. 

She held it in the palm of her hand, the brand name and minute detail of
the model suggested it must have cost a pretty penny. 

But why go to the trouble? 

The plain truth was that the exquisite detail of the miniature castle
seated on its plaque contrasted starkly with the reality of the 
situation. Pretty it might be, but it had to be part of a mind game 
waged by some sick creep who'd be in pieces by the time she'd... 

And then she saw the note lying amidst the paper she'd ripped from the
package. To go with the sand Anna, hope you kept it – hope you'll 
return soon – ten long lost years. Adam. 

Adam, how could she forget? In truth she hadn't, not ever; memories
flowed like sweet wine warming her mind, misting her eyes – eighteen 
year olds playing at making sandcastles – how she'd laughed at him – 
how he'd laughed at her – how it had developed from a chance meeting on 
the beach to an affair that had strengthened to grip the strings of her 
heart – until her mounting guilt had caused her to tear away. Betrayal 
of her partner overruled her emotions, guilt had won in the end. But 
she'd kept his memory safe as if it were secured in a bank's deepest 
vault. 

She'd stayed with Carl, hadn't been able to tear herself away from him
in the end and so poor Adam had been the main casualty. 

But she'd never seen him again, he'd seemed to have disappeared right
off the face of the planet; well, she could understand that. 

Ten long years ago; but now she had a chance to right the wrong. Her
guilt factor had dissolved into ashes. Yes, the ashes of her and Carl's 
relationship. Her existence with Carl was stale, non-existent in fact. 

Annabel looked at the letter again, return soon, the words burned into
her brain and from somewhere the glow was rekindling. 

She wanted to do it, more than anything she wanted to do it. Without
realising she'd even moved Anna found herself in front of the mirror, 
fingering her long golden hair. She'd a spotless complexion, she'd kept 
in shape, had a powerful body that drew attention. She deserved some 
reward, oh yes, she did. 

Return soon. But how would she know when to return - he'd given no hint.


She ran downstairs, rummaged through the remains of the package and
there she discovered it, lying in the bottom of the box... 

July 5th – ‘the day we met,' an ageing clip from a diary that Adam must
have kept. How she'd missed it before she hadn't a clue, but right 
before her eyes was the answer. 

Three short days, but Carl would be off. No matter, she could deal with
that, there could be a hastily arranged athletics meeting for all he 
knew. 

She destroyed the package but kept the castle, holding it close to her
chest before slipping it into a drawer beneath her bed, then wondered 
how Adam had weathered the years, whether he'd kept his physique as 
strong as hers. She pictured his hair, the colour of sand, began 
counting down the hours, minutes, seconds. 

July 5th couldn't come soon enough, Carl had been his usual
uncommunicative self and her sense of guilt hadn't even raised its 
head. To cap it all Carl had an errand for a friend that would keep him 
out for most of the day, so her athletic meeting ruse had been accepted 
with little more than a raised eyebrow. 

And so here she was on the beach, heart beating a little quicker than
normal, but looking magnificently bronzed she thought in vest and 
shorts. Surely Adam couldn't fail to be impressed by her stature. Years 
of dedication to physical excellence had achieved this. 

She looked around, it was warm and sunny, hardly anybody about on this
remote stretch of beach, just as it was then – nothing seemed to have 
changed and it was easy to picture him the way he was, how he might be 
now – tanned, fit, just like her. 

The approaching figure was easy to spot, he wore a hat, its brim pulled
low across his eyes. His gait was familiar. 

‘Waiting for someone Ann?' He raised the hat, watched her jaw clench,
‘Thought you'd fooled me didn't you Ann?' He loosened his balled fist, 
let the sand slither through it, run between his fingers. 

‘Contrary to popular belief Ann, but then you of all people have now
learned – You can't fool a copper.' 


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