Andrew had been a nervous child. He had grown into a tense and nervous young man with persecutory delusions. His therapist had diagnosed Paranoia and they had controlled it with medication, anti psychotics. Andrew had forgotten to take his meds for almost two weeks now. It wasn’t his fault. He had been distracted by Mr. Parsons, the postman. Mr. Parsons had been almost two hours late with the post that first day. It had been Andrew’s birthday and he had hoped to receive a card with a gift from Olivia, who lived in Hampstead.
He and Olivia were in a relationship. They had met on-line. They had never seen each other because they lived so far apart and neither of them drove but she had promised to send him a photo of herself for his birthday. When that bastard, Parsons had finally gotten to the house there was no card from Olivia. It must be delayed in the post, he thought, tomorrow – it’ll be here tomorrow, he told himself.
Andrew fretted and forgot to take his meds.
There was no card from Hampstead the next day, or the day after. Parsons was coming later and later each day and Andrew continued to neglect his medication. At some point Andrew decided Mr. Parsons had taken the photo of Olivia for himself. Parsons wanted to steal his girlfriend. After two weeks Andrew had waited long enough. He still had no photo of his beloved and she had stopped coming to the chat room. He missed her and blamed the postman; when Mr. Parsons bent down to push the mail through the slot in Andrew’s door that day. Andrew had been waiting. He yanked open the door, suddenly. One heavy blow with a claw hammer to the back of Parson’s head was all it took. Andrew dragged the lifeless postman into the foyer and closed the front door so the neighbors need not be concerned. He went through Parson’s mail bag but there was still no card from Olivia. No doubt the bastard had the photo tacked up on the wall at his house. Andrew decided to go to the postman’s house to retrieve the card and photo. He didn’t know where the man lived, however, so he grabbed a drill with a long wide bit and made his way to the post office, he was going to find out.
When he arrived, he entered through the back door and saw them there, taped to the dirty plastered wall. Four photos of different women in swimsuits. The photos looked old, the ink faded, the hairstyles just a little dated. He wondered which of them was Olivia. Something snapped inside his head, the photos of Olivia and the other women faded from sight and everything turned red.
There was a line of bicycles against the wall. There was a man, whom Andrew did not recognize, minding a large mail sorting machine. He knew that the machine could sort thousands of letters an hour. Why do they spend millions of Pounds for these machines and then give the post to an old man with a bicycle for delivery? It seemed inefficient to him and it fueled his anger. He hated old man Parsons. He hated the post office. He hated the machine. He hated the man tending the machine. That man never heard or saw Andrew. He had his headphones on and was listening to George Michaels singing some old song. There were only three other employees in the building. The letter carriers were undoubtedly out on their bikes. Those other three, spread through the building as they were, had been easy prey. He returned to the back of the building and carefully removed the photos of the women from the wall. He knew one of them was Olivia. He folded them carefully and placed them in his jacket pocket, then he went back out the front door of the Post office and turned north on High street, heading for home.
Andrew had been arrested on his way from the post office. He had fooled them. They always spoke about how it was the postal staff that went postal but Andrew had gone postal on the postal workers themselves and, he had used a hammer and a drill. A drill was a much more effective weapon than he had imagined. He hadn’t really thought he would survive this ordeal, and was surprised when he had walked out of the building alive. He was less surprised to see Old Bill waiting at the corner of High Street and Paddock.
“I’m gonna hafta take ya in Andy.” The cop said.
Andrew recognized him. It was Trevor Holmes. Trevor had been friends with Andrew’s father.
“Don’t call me Andy,” Andrew pointed the gore encrusted drill at the officer. “M’ names Andrew. If I were meant to be called Andy I wunna be named Andrew would I?”
“Ya might ha’ a point there Andrew, whyn’t ya put down the drill. Don’t make this hard on yerself.”