The Lock Tickler

The prestigious Bearing and Whitworth Building was silent except for the incessant chatter of the starlings roosting behind its tenth-floor fascia. The law firm’s employees had fled their Wormwood Street offices for the weekend, leaving the commercial district empty but for the occasional bellow from distant river traffic and the dissonant howl of a patrol car’s siren. However by mid-evening the scuttle of feral paws and the yelp of an urban fox added to the stark ensemble as members of the local wild life appeared from their dark burrows to go about their business.

#

At eight o’clock, Barry McBride emerged from the ninth-floor janitor’s closet and peered up and down the dimly lit corridor. Illuminated by the acid green fire-exit signs, it looked longer than he recalled and much darker than expected. Barry edged his way down the endless line of locked doors, placing every step with care to minimise the sound of his footfalls on the polished stone floor.

#

Barry had gained entry to 5 Wormwood Street late Friday afternoon, as the firm was winding down business for the week. He’d waded through a shoal of worsted-wool suits exiting the building, sidled behind a guard signing a courier’s receipt book, and marched up to the front desk, as if he was expected. The distracted receptionist wafted a free hand at the visitor’s book and continued organising her social agenda. Barry smiled to himself as she gossiped on her phone and scribbled an illegible signature where required. The young woman jabbed a glistening red fingernail toward the lift and he strolled across the lofty foyer, slipping between the brushed-steel doors before they clanged shut. 

#

Every security system has its flaws, and every lock has its faults. Both are a question of precision, understanding physical limitations and applying a certain amount of jiggery-pokery. Barry couldn’t afford to be complacent, despite planning his movements around the change of security personnel downstairs. Their handover at eight o’clock would cause enough of a distraction for him to proceed with his work undetected. By eight fifteen, the night shift would start in earnest. There wasn’t much time and no room for error on his part. They’d resume their duties with immediate patrols on all floors.

#

Barry paused as he passed the stairwell and peeped over its handrail into the yawning abyss. Nine floors of descending marble steps disappeared into the darkness as if they were the stairway to a subterranean kingdom. He strained to hear any telltale movements or voices beyond his limited vision, but all was quiet apart from the steady beat of his own pulse throbbing in his ears. 

#

Barry was aware he’d not get another chance to find his client’s paperwork and remove the evidence necessary to prosecute him. The case was due in court next week and without it, he’d evade a conviction, escaping a certain five-year sentence. Of course, once the authorities guessed what had occurred, the building manager would review the security recordings and Barry would be red-flagged. This was a one-shot job and no excuses. 

#

Barry paused outside room ninety-seven and his finger tips traced the embossed door number, confirming he’d arrived at the correct office. Barry kneeled down on the pitted marble, unfurled his trusty tool roll, and glanced up to examine his quarry. 

“A Platinum 3 Star Euro Cylinder,” he muttered to himself. “Someone’s not messing about here.”

Barry chose an old faithful pick; his Peterson Reach. Useful for most locks and ideal tonight. Its curved shank was perfect for pivoting round pin stacks without bumping them. It also had a rounded tip which makes finding and lifting pins feel buttery smooth. It wasn’t the perfect choice for everyone. Its thin construction made it vulnerable and prone to breaking. Heavy-handed amateurs often snap the little fella’s neck. However, Barry was aware of its fatal flaw and he was no beginner.  

He inserted his pick to the back of the lock and pressed up, pausing for a moment before drawing the tool out and counting the clicks. 

“Six pins,” he whispered, rolling his lip over his lower teeth. Placing the pick between his teeth, he lifted his tool roll again and felt for his tensioning tools, pulling out a straight wrench. Its rigid shaft would maximise the all-important feedback vibrations. A sensitive touch is essential for lock-picking and feedback is everything. Barry wanted to feel every pothole, speed bump, and crack in the road as he drove his Peterson pick up and down the pins within the lock’s cylinder.

#

The seconds melted away as Barry wrestled with the pick to find the binding pin. He felt the gentle vibration of its movement across the shear line at the same time as the sharp little click punctuated the silence.

“Yes,” he said, clicking his tongue like a stick on a hollow log. “Gotcha.” 

It would be easier now. Barry tapped his pick below the other five pins, lifting the second one into position. Each successive click would take him nearer to his goal, but also closer to the guard’s patrol. 

“Plenty of time,” he said, drawing a blast of air into his nostrils. The luminous hands on his wrist-watch told another story, one he tried to ignore.

#

The shear-line clicked a third time as he raised another pin into position. This was supposed to be straight forward. Barry suspected somebody had tampered with the lock or modified the pins. He traded his Peterson Reach for his Batarang pick. Its sharp cut angles could throw the pins over the shear line with sudden violence, like a car juddering over a rutted country road. The Batarang’s twin peaks would give him two chances to set each pin per rake. 

“Three down and three to go,” he said, checking his watch again.

The sharp clump of a guard’s heavy boot heel echoed up the stairwell and along the silent hallway. Barry glanced over his shoulder to see fleeting shadows dance on the ceiling above the void. They’re warning signs caused by the flickering of a flashlight a few floors below. 

Barry bit his lip and flared his nostrils, feeling the first rush of adrenaline course through his veins. He knew he had seconds before his hands got the shakes. He’d lose his touch and have to stop, unable to continue. 

“Plenty of time,” he assured himself, counting to ten under his breath.

Click! 

“Two to go,” he said, inhaling a harsh breath as his ears ached with the rapid pounding of his heart beats.

The sound of the guard’s boots striking the steps and echoing in the stairwell sounded like the transient crashes of an approaching thunderstorm. 

Click!  

The flashlight’s reflections illuminated increasing amounts of the hallway with each fleeting tick of his watch’s second hand. Every scrape of the guard’s boots reminded Barry what it would mean to be caught here. Barry had done enough time behind bars to appreciate his freedom. He shook his head to perish the thoughts and banish the images from his mind’s eye. He took another deep lungful of air and pursed his lips. 

Click!  

That’s it! He’d nudged all six pins across the shear line. 

The central plug of the lock was free to move. 

Clack!

The bolt retracted from the door jamb as soon as Barry had rotated the core. 

With no time to waste, he scooped up his tools and rolled forward through the doorway as the flashlight beam swooped up the hall.

Holding his breath, Barry pressed his ear against the door, half expecting to hear excited R.T. chatter or charging feet.

“Top floor is clear, over!” said the guard, pausing outside room ninety-seven.

“Don’t hang about, mate,” said the R.T. voice. “I’ll put the kettle on!” 

“Mine one’s white with four sugars.”

“Right you are, mate!”

The rhythmic tapping of boots on the marble floor receded into the distance.

Barry exhaled a long quivering breath between his clenched teeth. 

The toughest part of the job was getting into the office. 

Barry knew he was in for a long night searching for documents.

Tomorrow morning, he’d slip out through a fire exit at the change of shift. 

#

Isn’t it funny how often things don’t go according to plan? 

Barry heard his car honking for Britain before he saw it. 

He turned the corner from New Street into Rose Alley. 

In front of him was a low-loader with a power hoist. 

Barry’s vehicle was dangling six feet off the ground.

“Oi!” said Barry, approaching his disabled car. “You can’t do that, mate.”

“No parking after eight A.M.,” said the driver.

“Give me a break, pal.”

“Not my problem, sir.” 

“It’s only a few minutes after.”

“More than my job’s worth, sir.”

“God damn it.”

THE END