The Parcel for Flat 404

Zoya had delivered four thousand, one hundred and twelve parcels since she started riding for Zippy Express, and not one of them had ever frightened her.

The 4,113th was a small brown box, taped twice around the middle, addressed to Flat 404, Lakeview Heights. It was 11:20 at night and raining. She parked her scooter under the gate canopy and checked the app again.

"Customer unreachable," it said. Then, as she watched: "Customer calling."

She picked up. "Zippy Express, I am at your gate. Which tower, madam?"

The voice on the line was a man's, low and fast, and nothing like a madam. "Do you have the parcel in your hand?"

"Yes, sir. But your address says Flat 404. This building has only three floors."

A pause. "Listen to me. Do not give it to anyone. Especially not the man in the security booth. If he asks, say the customer is coming down."

Zoya glanced at the booth. Behind its small window sat Mr Bhatt, the night guard, a broad man with a broad smile, who had waved at her a dozen times and once given her a cup of tea during a downpour. He was watching her now. He raised a hand and began walking toward the gate.

"Sir, what is in this parcel?"

"Please. You have no reason to trust me. But there is a reason there is no Flat 404, and it is in that box."

The line went dead.

"Delivery?" Mr Bhatt called, still smiling. He had reached the gate. "For which flat? Give it here, I will send it up."

Zoya's thumb tightened on the box. Four thousand parcels had taught her one thing above all: the person who said "give it here" was almost never the person who needed it.

"It is for a customer who is coming down to sign," she said, in her brightest voice. "App rules. Only the customer can sign."

Something moved behind Mr Bhatt's smile. It was small, a flicker, like a lamp being shaded. "Of course," he said. "Of course. I will wait with you."

He did not move. Rain ran off the canopy in silver ropes. Zoya made a show of checking the phone, and in the glow she saw the edge of a notification: the customer had sent a message.

GO LEFT. BEHIND THE GENERATOR ROOM. THERE IS A SERVICE DOOR.

She pretended to scroll. "Oh," she said, with a little gasp, "the customer says he will take the side entrance. Tower C? Let me just..."

"Wait," said Mr Bhatt.

She did not wait. She dashed along the left wall, dodged the rain, ducked past a row of parked cars and slid around the generator room with her heart drumming in her ears. Behind her she heard the thud of footsteps, heavy and quick. The smile, it turned out, had been running on batteries.

The service door was ajar. She tumbled through, pushed it shut and found herself in a concrete corridor lit by a single bulb. At the far end stood a door marked with a faded 4 and two scratched zeros. A building with three floors, and a flat with a number it should never have had.

It opened before she could knock.

A thin man in a crumpled shirt stood there, grey with tiredness. A laptop glowed behind him on a folding table.

"Come in," he said. "Quickly. I am Nikhil. I am the society accountant. Or I was."

Zoya shut the door and leaned on it. Outside, the footsteps stopped, and there was a long, pointed silence.

"Why does this flat exist?" she managed.

"It does not. That is the point." He took the box from her shaking hands. "For two years someone has been taking a little from the building's maintenance fund each month. Not much. Just enough that nobody notices. He invented a flat, on paper, to receive the payments. Flat 404. When I found it, I copied every record onto a flash drive and had it couriered to the one address nobody would ever look for me: the flat that does not exist."

"Mr Bhatt?" Zoya said, incredulous.

"The guard? No." Nikhil shook his head. "He works for the man who runs the society. But Bhatt checks every delivery that comes through the gate. Tonight he knew something was arriving. He just did not know it would arrive on a scooter."

The door handle rattled.

"Zippy Express!" came Mr Bhatt's voice, jovial as ever, though now it had an edge like a blade in a velvet glove. "Madam, you are making a mistake! The customer is not well! Open up, let us talk!"

Nikhil lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a small flash drive and a folded sheet of paper. He pressed both into Zoya's hand.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" she whispered.

"What you do best," he said, with a thin, tired smile. "Deliver."

Zoya looked at the door and then at the narrow window above the folding table. Then she looked at the parcel tape on the table, and at the packet of biscuits he had left half open beside the laptop. She grinned, a small, wolfish grin that Mr Bhatt would have found very worrying.

She wrapped the biscuits in the old cardboard and re-taped the lid. Nikhil caught on instantly. He slid the window open, and she pushed the flash drive into her boot.

"Now open the door and give him a box," she said. "Tell him I escaped through the window."

Four minutes later, Mr Bhatt, panting, tore the brown box open on the wet concrete and found, in the beam of his torch, a very ordinary packet of glucose biscuits.

By then Zoya was two kilometres away, scooter engine roaring, the flash drive pressed against her ankle. She came to a stop outside Shivaji Nagar Police Station at 11:51 p.m. and walked straight up to the desk.

"Delivery," she said. "For the inspector. Signature required."

The next morning the newspaper called it the Lakeview Heights Maintenance Fund Case. Nobody mentioned the delivery rider by name. Zoya preferred it that way.

On her scooter app, though, a line had appeared under parcel number 4,113.

Status: Delivered.

Rating: 5 stars.