Episodul 217 · What Holds It Up

Three months after leaving Vineward, Soles stood at the factory gate while the former maintenance foreman tried to find the key.

Beyond the gate, a loading apron led to the main hall. The factory yard lay on the far side of that hall, visible through its open loading door. Something pale kept catching the light in the yard, even under the low, rain-filled sky.

The agency driver waited on the road. He had brought Soles, a bag of equipment and a form that required somebody to declare the place safe afterward.

The foreman found the key.

— They told me ten.

— It’s ten.

— They told me you’d bring people.

Soles glanced at the car.

— He brought me.

— I meant people who’d go in.

The foreman opened the gate. His old work jacket still carried a pen in the breast pocket and a pale rectangle where his badge had been.

— Eighty-six people worked here, he said. Three shifts.

The name had been taken off the building. Soles could see where the letters had protected the brick from weather. Whoever had removed them had left the notice beside the loading door.

DO NOT FORCE.

A smaller sheet beneath it said the maintenance was complete.

— They fixed it? Soles asked.

— They put that up.

— Thorough.

He set his bag on the apron while the foreman pulled the loading door along its track. It opened far enough for a person to pass. Soles tested it before stepping through, then wedged it against the floor with the foreman’s wooden doorstop.

The main hall was almost empty. An idle press occupied its left side; a clear strip of floor led straight to the far door and the yard beyond. Soles could see the whole route from where he stood.

He intended to keep it that way.

— When were you last in the yard?

— Yesterday. I went to check the drain. Couldn’t remember what I’d come for until I was back out here.

— Did you touch the light?

The foreman kept his hand on the door.

— I’m not entirely stupid.

Soles took his flashlight and left the bag within reach of the entrance. He asked the man to wait on the apron, where he could see him, and crossed the hall.

A few weeks earlier, he would have hurried toward the light. There had always been somebody waiting for an answer, and sooner or later he had begun treating their impatience as part of the danger. The woman at training had broken that habit with a padded stick. Every time he rushed, she found the hand he had forgotten to protect.

He reached the far door with both hands free.

A chain held it open by less than a foot. Through the gap, he could see the factory yard: bare concrete enclosed by a wall, with rain collecting along a drain. The breach hovered near the middle, clear of the wall and the doorway.

It was still thin. Its edges kept coming apart, leaving ordinary air between them before the light drew together again.

The opening in the prison had filled the space around it. This one could scarcely hold its own shape.

That gave him a chance to reach it before it grew.

Soles put the flashlight on the floor and examined the chain. It passed through a latch bolted to the doorframe. The padlock was old, and the frame had bowed enough to trap the links against the door.

— Is there a key for this one? he called.

The foreman came as far as the entrance.

— Same ring. Small brass one.

— Stay there. I’ll collect it.

His agency phone vibrated before he had crossed half the hall. The office wanted an estimate.

— The rear door’s chained. I can see the opening from here.

— Can you reach it?

— When I open the door.

— You’ve done larger ones.

He stopped beside the bag. There was a clean shirt in it, his own phone and the wrapped blade. Maxim had sent a photograph that morning: Mina asleep against Lucky’s back while Lucky endured the arrangement with his eyes open.

Under it, Maxim had asked when he was coming home.

— Call you when it’s closed, Soles said.

He put the agency phone away and held out his hand for the keys.

The foreman followed him with his eyes.

— You could break the chain.

Soles probably could. He had carried heavier things in training and learned how much easier it was to start a movement than to stop it.

— I’d rather open it.

At the far door, he fitted the brass key and turned it. The padlock released, but the chain remained trapped. He tried easing the door toward him. Grit fell from the concrete above the frame.

He stopped pulling.

The foreman had reached the near end of the hall.

— Give it your shoulder. That’s how we used to—

— Wait.

Soles shone the flashlight up. A crack followed the top of the frame. He could put his shoulder through the door and bring a strip of concrete down on himself for the satisfaction of getting outside quickly.

He took a step back and tried the agency number.

This time the voice asked whether the opening was still contained.

— For now.

— Then proceed while it is.

The call ended. Through the gap, the light gathered again above the wet concrete. A narrow ring of water shivered beneath it, then settled.

Soles crouched by the latch. Its bolts were accessible from his side. Removing those would release the chain without forcing the frame.

He would need a wrench.

For a moment he stayed there, hearing the rain beyond the door. Three months had made him stronger, fitter, harder to knock down. They had also taught him how readily an office could mistake those things for permission to send him alone.

He could still ask for another person. He could tell them he would wait.

Then he pictured the date written on his release sheet.

Tomorrow.

He stood and turned toward the entrance.

— Have you got a tool bag?

The foreman was already turning toward the entrance.

— In the car.

— A wrench will do.

The man hesitated.

— Are you sure the frame will hold?

Soles glanced back at the crack above the door.

— That’s what I’m checking before I put my head under it.