Leaving work

Two days ago, your office had been packed with the Snetterton Collection. Boxes of artifacts carefully arranged by you. But the university had come and collected all that, leaving only your books and few personal possessions. You’d packed them in boxes as well, all ready to be loaded into your car. Two trips for you and Pete was all that it required. Then it’s off to the farewell drinks.

You don’t stay long. Enforced enthusiasm and insincere apologies are not your cup of tea. You listen as your now ex-colleagues paint excuses for the reasons they were chosen to stay. Lies. The truth is obvious. The university valued them more than you. Those leaving want to talk about their new posts, as if their new posts are exciting and not just the same as their old ones, just in a different university.

You feel numb. Nothing. Even when you drive away from the department for the last time.

Your empty flat is no pick-me-up. A single bedroom, half the cabinets empty since Samantha left. The bed a mess. The bathroom a dark hole with no natural lighting, no longer smelling of her. The kitchen just an alcove off the living room. The living room dominated by sofa and TV. You slump on the sofa and switch on the TV, open a beer and just mindlessly watch. At some stage you fall asleep.

You wake long enough to crawl into bed without getting undressed. Your sleep is full of fears.

The ringing phone wakes you. It’s some woman from St Perpetua’s. They really must be **** to phone on Saturday morning. A quick, blurry conversation and you agree an interview Wednesday 2pm. You give them your email address so they can send confirmation. Then you roll back to bed.

But not for long. You’re awake now and you can’t return to sleep. So you take a shower, brew coffee and face the day.

First act of the day is to remove the boxes from the car. You hadn’t bothered the previous night. You hadn’t wanted to face it. That’s when you notice it. There are four boxes in the boot. As far as you remember you only packed three. You take all four into the flat, place them on a table and only when they’re all there do you open them.

Two boxes of books. One box of photos, stationary and other personal stuff. One box of artifacts from the Snetterton Collection.

What? No. The university had picked up all the boxes from the Snetterton Collection a few days ago. You’d signed they’d taken everything. They had countersigned. All the boxes taken. Yet here, unmistakably, is part of the Snetterton Collection. How?

It’s a mistake, and a mistake the university won’t accept. You should tell the university. You should tell Pete. They’ll want this box back.