Benedict Pendleton was a man who lived in quiet, terrified harmony with the universe. He was thirty-four years old, but he looked much older. He worked as a middle-management logistics auditor in Surrey, and spent his weekends meticulously ironing his sock collection. Benedict did not care for surprises. He certainly did not care for sudden revelations.
It was a drizzly Tuesday afternoon when it happened. Benedict was sitting in his customary armchair with a mug of builder’s tea and a lukewarm crumpet, staring out at his neatly manicured back garden. A fat bumblebee buzzed lazily against the double-glazed windowpane.
Suddenly, his jaw slackened. The tea mug froze halfway to his lips. A thought had just entered Benedict’s brain, arriving with all the force of an unannounced brick through a conservatory window. It was not a grand thought about the meaning of existence or the mysteries of the cosmos. It was far more localized, far more catastrophic.
Did I lock the garden shed before we went to Cornwall in 2018?
The memory hit him with horrifying clarity. It was August. The weather had been dreadful. His wife, Brenda, had been shouting from the passenger seat of the Nissan Qashqai about the traffic on the A30. Benedict had rushed out to fetch the beach umbrellas from the shed, shoved the door shut, and run back to the car.
I had not turned the key! I had definitely not turned the key.
A cold sweat broke out across Benedict’s forehead. For eight long years, his lawnmower, three cans of half-used weatherproofing paint, and an expensive set of brass garden shears had been sitting behind an unlocked wooden door.
He gripped the armrests of his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped pigeon. Eight years. Four hundred and sixteen weekends. Thousands of opportunistic passers-by, local scallywags and rogue squirrels had possessed free, unhindered access to his prized Flymo.
‘Benedict, dear?’ Brenda called out from the kitchen, the clinking of spoons against teacups echoing down the hallway. ‘Did you remember to take the recycling bins out?’
Benedict could not speak. His throat had constricted to the width of a drinking straw. He stared wildly out of the window at the weathered green shed standing in the corner of the garden. It looked innocent enough, nestled beneath the overgrown hydrangeas, but Benedict knew the truth. It was a monument to his own reckless incompetence. It was an open buffet for the criminal underworld.
‘Benedict?’ Brenda appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She paused, frowning at his rigid posture and wide, unblinking eyes. ‘Goodness me, what’s wrong with your face? You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp.’
‘The shed,’ Benedict squeaked, his voice two octaves higher than normal.
‘What about the shed?’
‘Cornwall,’ Benedict gasped, clutching his chest. ‘Eight years ago. The brass shears. The padlock, Brenda. The padlock was never engaged.’
Brenda blinked slowly. She looked at Benedict, then looked out at the shed, and then looked back at Benedict.
‘Benedict, we sold the Flymo in 2020,’ she said calmly. ‘And the shed was knocked down three years ago to make room for your patio.’
Benedict blinked. He looked out the window again. The bumblebee had moved away from the glass. Beyond it sat a smooth, immaculate grey stone patio. There was no green shed. There were no brass shears. There was only a solitary, slightly rusted watering can sitting next to a potted geranium.
He sat in silence for a long moment. The pulse pounding in his ears gradually slowed from a frantic gallop to a gentle trot. He took a slow, rattling breath and lowered his mug back to its coaster.
‘Right,’ Benedict muttered, adjusting his cardigan. ‘Well. It’s the principle of the thing.’
Brenda sighed, shook her head with a faint smile, and walked back toward the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on again, shall I?’
‘Please,’ Benedict replied, staring intensely at the patio. He was quite sure he had left the watering can unturned, and if it rained overnight, the stagnant water would undoubtedly attract midges. A fresh wave of mild panic began its familiar, comforting creep up the back of his neck.
