I Picked The Lock

1: Something Wicked

Vienna Castanoza. October 31st. Crossley High Street.

Tonight is the most important night since the start of Year Twelve, and I might as well not be alive. Streets away, somebody is clearing everything that their parents hold dear out of their living-room, replacing novelty vases with stacks of plastic cups. In that one off-licence on the way to the party, the guy behind the till is marking up the price of every condom variety they have because the student body has not yet forgotten the pregnancy scares of the summer. And here I am, standing in an alleyway off the High Street and ignoring the incessant buzzing of my phone against my thigh as my mates discuss what they're wearing tonight.

I lean a shoulder against the wall of Hail Mary's, the dessert parlour where I've been washing dishes since I was twelve, and tap the ash off the end of my fag. My shift at Vincentive started five minutes ago. The warm lights of the sickeningly-named bookstore wink at me from across the street as if they know something that I don't. With a final, self-indulgent scowl, I crush what's left of my smoke into the nearest ashtray-topped bin and cross the street for my second shift of the day.

"Stupid conscience," I grumble into the collar of my jacket as I pick my way through sputtering cars and whizzing motorbikes. "Stupid paycheque."

And then, suddenly, I am toppling onto the pavement as my eardrums rupture.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, doing a cursory sweep of the area as the enraged car horn cuts off abruptly. The pavement is empty, save for a pigeon pecking at a withered lavender bush, but a silver van parked a few spaces down flashes its headlights at me. I lift an eyebrow as I lock eyes with the driver, a weathered George Clooney type in a zipped-up leather jacket who is currently beckoning me over with a crooked finger.

"As if, mate," I scoff. As quickly as it stopped, the sound of his horn picks up again, sending the pigeons gathered by his taillights into the air with a screech. I whirl around and throw my hands up into the air, storming over to the car window as it sinks down into the door.

"What?" I snap, having encountered enough men in cars to house a degree of trepidation about the whole affair.

He smiles lazily and flicks an envelope towards me with a gloved hand.

I cock an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?" I say sceptically, the remorse dripping from my voice.

He sighs, popping his collar to hide his amusement. "I'm late for an appointment, and I'd appreciate it if you could give this to your co-worker."

"Right." I eye the envelope and don't bother to ask how he knows I work here.  "Which one?"

"Brazen," he says, glancing surreptitiously at his rear-view mirror.

"Yeah, well, you're not particularly shy yourself," I quip.

He scrapes a hand down his face frustratedly. He's obviously never heard that one before. "I need you to give this to Brazen."

I repress the surge of embarrassment flooding my chest and furrow my eyebrows. Tough crowd. "Sorry, who are you again?"

"Late," he says briskly, turning the key in the ignition. I step back involuntarily as the van sputters to life. "Sergei will have my ass if I miss this appointment again."

"Wait, you know Sergei? As in, Sergei Mains?"

He stares at me in disbelief. "You know Sergei?"

"Of course I know Sergei," I say dismissively. "That's mad, so you're getting your car done?"

"Er, yeah," he says hurriedly, putting the van into first. "So, anyway, if you could just give this to Brazen-"