Chapter 7 of A Net Too Wide To Break His Fall, by Matt Boothman
I wrote this story chapter by chapter, without outlining first. It was an experiment in writing consistently, producing a chapter once a month, without fail, for the Foggy Outline newsletter. So don’t expect something polished or finished; but what it does have is momentum, and a fluidity that came from wanting to change things up enough to keep myself interested enough to write more.
If you’d be interested in a properly edited, fleshed out, finished version of this story, let me know!
Dickory prowled up and down the production line. The workers chipped chalk off the block, ground it and mixed it with the product, funnelled the powder into red and yellow capsules, and sorted the capsules into baggies of ten, no more, no less.
Dickory was shorter than most of them. To check their work, he had to come close, craning round to get a good look at what their hands were doing. When his shoe soles slapped the concrete behind them, when the bare bulbs cast his thick shadow over their workspaces, when he thrust his dozer-blade face at their fingers, most of them cringed away. Sometimes he tried to quieten his steps, to make them cringe harder and farther. The fear was important.
Back at home, his wife was spending another night alone. She’d started asking about the business, a topic she’d always treated as obscene. Asking why Dickory was spending so many nights at work lately. Well, if he went home, there’d be no one to keep the night workers sharp. And they all had to stay sharp. He’d lost too much of the market to Vivian Hithercombe over the past year. Too many security failures that sent good customers running into her delicate, welcoming arms. Too many workers skipping out, despite the threat Dickory posed them, leaving whispers in their wake about something that threatened them worse. About things that happened on the production line when Dickory wasn’t there to keep an eye on things.
“What’s this?”
Dickory snatched a baggie out of the open cardboard box at the top of the stack. All along the production line, pills ticked on the workbenches, on the concrete floor.
He shoved his other hand deep into the box and scooped out a handful more baggies. All of them, the same. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“I don’t,” stuttered the bagger, backing away. “I didn’t, it wasn’t, I didn’t see anything.”
Dickory worried the baggie open. Pills rattled out, leaving a slip of paper behind inside. It crumpled as he fished it out. It was the size of a fortune cookie fortune. The message on it was handwritten.
maybe call your wife :)
A fistful of baggies, each containing the same regulation ten pills and same contraband message, scattered across the bench, sending up puffs of powder. The undisciplined reaction from the workers would ordinarily have upset Dickory, but his reality had narrowed to the phone in his hand and the privacy that awaited beyond the door of his office. He unlocked the phone and immediately, violently fumbled it, some tremor jolting both his wrists. The shock almost seemed to originate outside his body, even though he’d moved out of reach of any of the other people in the room. The phone hit the concrete screen down and, like a prank C note yanked away by a fishing line, skated under the rows of benches and hit the wall across the room.
By the time Dickory had banged his way past boxes, benches and workers, he’d lost sight of the phone. He stood a moment looking down at the patch of floor where it had fetched up. His boxy shoulders rose and fell twice.
“Which one of you,” Dickory started without turning round.
Callum turned away from Dickory and scrolled through the unlocked phone. Nothing in the call log, nothing in the messages. Nothing to suggest Dickory was coordinating a hit tonight. Clearly the man had enough on his plate.
A net cinched tight around Lisaveta. She coughed out the strangled remains of a scream. She was drowning, the pressure ringing her ears like a gong. The room was on fire, the alarm cheeping hysterically. That was her cue and she didn’t know the lines. That was the bell and she hadn’t done the homework.
The door buzzer sounded again.
Lisaveta thrashed free of the sheets. All the nightmare possibilities collapsed to one: the boss was here and Lisaveta didn’t know why. She slithered out of bed and into yesterday’s top and jeans, still puddled on the floor by the bed.
Once Lisaveta would have stayed hidden in bed from a midnight buzz at the door. Maybe called someone if it had gone on. Once, going and answering it would have been the absolute last course of action on her mind. A visitor at this time couldn’t be anything good. Now at least she could be fairly certain who it was, though not exactly what she wanted. Vivian Hithercombe kept an esoteric schedule and expected her lieutenants to meet her there. Just one of many reasons Lisaveta had one foot out the door of the organisation.
She surfaced fully from sleep as she approached her front door, breaking into wakefulness and slingshotting quickly into a state of high alert. The aluminium softball bat was where it always was, across the top of the shoe rack, so the handle would be in reach as she opened the door.
Vivian Hithercombe knew Lisaveta wanted out. She’d been meticulous about who she discussed her plans with and where, but just two weeks ago the CD had appeared on her desk; on it, six mp3 files, each one a recording of one of those covert conversations. Lisaveta had heard recordings from bugs before, and these were cleaner, warmer, the kind you could usually only get with a microphone held right up to your lips. She hadn’t been sleeping well since then.
The buzzer sounded again.
With the bat behind her back, Lisaveta opened up.
There was no one there.
Lisaveta took a heavy step back from the empty doorframe. Like the absence there had shoved her shoulder, rocked her off balance.
Callum gave each room of Lisaveta’s flat a quick once-over, confirming that her exit plan hadn’t advanced. The fridge was full. There were no packed bags. Nothing to suggest tonight was the night she expected to take out the ace from Vivian Hithercombe’s sleeve and disappear in the aftermath. He let himself back out and headed to the next place on the list.
Lisaveta didn’t get back to sleep.
“Are we secure?”
Autumn Wray Benjamin flipped the phone’s encryption on. “We’re secure.”
“It’s not good news. The target evaded us.”
The phone’s plastic casing creaked in Autumn’s grip. “So there was someone there.”
“Neither operator got eyes on, but it looks like someone smashed their way out a window. We’re still watching the place. No one’s been back. So good news, your target’s lost their nest. Bad news, we don’t know where they’ve flown.”
“We’ll never make a dent in the Hithercombe operation while whoever was in that room is still in play.” Autumn’s heel hammered the floor. Their voice didn’t waver. “It’s all right. I’ve been lucky up to this point. Something was bound to give sooner or later. I’ll work out a new angle.”
“Better make it quick. We’ve shown our hand now.”