The Locksmith – Part 1: Locked Out

It took four seconds.

Rory stood in the cold on the stairwell of an Old Town tenement, in his socks, and watched the locksmith open the door of his flat. Callum had knelt, slid two thin picks into the lock, turned them gently, and listened. Click. The door swung inward. The whole thing was over before Rory had finished apologising.

"That's it?" said Rory.

"That's it."

"I've been out here forty minutes."

"You should've called sooner."

He was thirty-four, a locksmith, tall and lean, with a tangle of dark hair, a rough Scottish voice and eyes like grey slate. A leather tool roll hung from his belt. Rory was thirty-one, a junior doctor, exhausted, in a dressing gown he had put on over his scrubs.

"What do I owe you?"

"Eighty pounds. Midnight rate."

"Eighty!" Rory sagged. Then he saw Callum's face, and the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're joking."

"Forty."

"Forty is still a joke."

"Cup of tea?"

"Is that included?"

"It's the only thing that is."

They drank tea in Rory's tiny kitchen, wedged at the counter, steam rising in the light of a bare bulb. The flat was a tangle of medical journals and unwashed mugs. Callum glanced around approvingly. "You don't have a deadbolt."

"I've never needed one."

"You need one."

"Is that a sales pitch?"

"It's a recommendation."

Rory laughed. Callum smiled into his mug, shy and surprised. At one in the morning, he stood, picked up his roll, and went to the door.

"Call if you're locked out again."

"I will."

"I mean it."

"So do I," said Rory, a beat too quickly. He felt his ears go pink.

"Can I ask you something?" said Callum, at the threshold.

"Yes."

"Will you lock yourself out on Friday?"

"Green?" said Rory, a key, a light.

"Green," said Callum, grinning. "Very green. Friday, then."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Deadbolt.