The dynamite

Most of the day the dynamite sat on the doormat. In the morning it sat in a rectangle of sun, but that had shifted by early afternoon. At some point in the morning the cat sat on it, mid-afternoon the paper was pushed through the letterbox and fell on it, a false cover advertising a firm of glaziers with a caveat telling me that my usual champion lay inside. I read it to keep me up to date with the news on the murder that had happened up the road.
As it turned out a man who was something big in property had had his head stoved in with a length of pipe. They only found out when dogs started trying to get into a shed on his allotment and the door was forced to a bloated cloud of flies. Gripping stuff, and I read it intently, munching toast.
I suppose I must have tidied the dynamite away at some point, stacked it nice and neat with her appointment cards and my offers of loans with zero percent interest for six months (none of which answered my question which was this: what the fuck would I do with twenty grand?). I have never been much of a one for post, to the annoyance of my family, who are fine ones to talk.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I opened it and the contents blew up in my face. It was four lines long, and baldly written. I went upstairs and started putting her things into boxes.