Page 56 of Mayfly

I don’t like it here.

People actually look at you in the face, and make eye contact.

When I can’t avoid it anymore, it doesn’t take me long to find them. There’s almost nothing at this station. Just gray concrete and tiles. A self serve ticket booth. Two toilets, and a bank of lockers.

A digital keypad sits in the middle of the small block.

First row, first locker on the left.

1A.

When I select it on the screen, I’m prompted to enter a seven letter code.

R — E — P — O — O — R — T.

“Access denied.”

Maybe my fingertips are too fat.

“Access denied.”

“What the fuck, Issak?”

Like a fool, I systematically enter the code for each of the eighteen lockers.

“Fuck,” I yell, and slam my fist into the closest locker. The metallic clang echoes off all the concrete, but I don’t look aroundto see if anyone heard. That would be more suspicious than some random guy getting frustrated with a computer.

With one more attempt on locker 1A before I’m locked out, I do the most logical thing I can think of and type the code backwards.

The automatic lock turns, and the door pops open.

Then I take notice of the passcode for the first time.

T — R — O — O — P — E — R.

My eyes widen, then lose focus.

My heart pounds.

My stomach drops.

It feels like all my organs are fighting to see which will be the first to shoot up my esophagus and out my mouth.

Rubbing my eyes with one hand, I support myself as best I can with the other.

It’s a struggle to not hyperventilate.

How does he know?

What has he done?

Three forced and dizzying steps take me to the locker.

I open it the whole way. But it’s empty, bar a small wooden box and a note.

Back pressed against a bare concrete wall, I pop out the chamber of the revolver to make sure it’s full of bullets like an invisible man might have taken them out since I last checked.

For jobs like this, I really should have a pistol with a silencer.

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