The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  He nearly dropped the pane when it came loose. That brought the sweat out and he roundly cursed himself under his breath. He stowed the large sheet of glass out of the way between two empty crates. That was fine. From the lane it would take an observant person to note that there was no glass in the window. The putty scrapings were lost in the packed gravel surface of the yard. Hollis pulled himself inside and crouched unmoving for over a minute.

  Silence.

  He was in a small office, secretarial by the look of it. Outside there was a small hallway and Hollis explored it on his hands and knees, careful to keep his head below window height. Several identical doors led to toilets, a tiny kitchen with a butane gas stove, two stock rooms and another office. Both the larger of the stock rooms and the office had windows to the front.

  Hollis chose the store room because it offered much better cover among the miscellaneous boxes, wallpaper and tins of paint. It took five minutes to open the door far enough to crawl through. The human eye is attracted by movement, the ancient reflex of the hunter: movement means prey, and prey means food, survival for another day. Hollis opened the door imperceptibly millimetre by millimetre. The door was in sight of the security guards across the road and they must not notice any movement. The window, through which Hollis intended to observe them, would also allow the two guards to see Mike Hollis. If he let them.

  Another three minutes to insinuate himself behind some cardboard boxes supporting stacked rolls of wallpaper, where he could sight through a variety of gaps between loose rolls. Hollis rested his back gingerly against the plywood packing case behind him. It didn't move. He released a long silent breath. It was ten minutes after eight pm.

  Stage one.

  At nine o'clock there was activity from the portacabin alongside NorthTek's front door. The steel and wire mesh gate itself was closed with a simple padlock. All that was needed with two security guards less than ten metres away. At nine on the dot one of the pair left the portacabin and walked across to the factory's entrance door, opened it and walked through into the dimly-lit foyer.

  Mike Hollis sat up straighter and muttered, 'Fuckin' hell!', staring intently through one of his view-holes. It was inevitable that the guards would check round the place at intervals, but he hadn't expected them to leave the factory door unlocked!

  That act alone answered his question about whether the guards were well-trained professionals or part-time amateurs. On reflection he supposed it was understandable. Their cabin was right alongside the door, and the compound was well lit. There was no possibility of someone getting to that doorway unseen. And of course the big steel entrance gate in the fence was padlocked.

  Eight minutes and the guard appeared again, closing the door behind him and disappearing up one side of the double factory unit. Two minutes until he appeared back down the far side, having circumnavigated the premises.

  Ten o'clock and there was no movement. Eight minutes past ten and the Portacabin door opened and the other guard took a walk down the short path and into the building. This one put the main lights on in the foyer, and other lights showed at intervals from windows as he did the rounds of the offices and workshops. The first man must have relied on his torch, if indeed he patrolled the building at all. The guard was inside for twelve minutes and when he emerged also went for a two-minute stroll around the site before retiring back into the cabin.

  Three minutes before eleven pm and the pattern was clearly established. Guard number one took his turn and no lights showed anywhere, except the permanent dim light in the foyer. Hollis carefully watched the other windows and once thought he saw a dim glow. Presume torchlight then. Every hour on the hour, more or less, the guards would check the building and the external environs. In between they apparently ignored everything, staying in the cabin from where they could clearly see the main gate.

  Hollis leaned back against the packing-case and closed his eyes. Deliberately relaxing his muscles in sequence from the neck down. Finally he sighed quietly and settled down to think up some plan of action.

  Midnight.

  Hollis was crouched behind his pile of wallpaper, carefully watching the guard hut. Seven minutes past the hour and the wooden door opened to emit a single man who yawned and stretched mightily before sauntering off to start his rounds. 'Bastard's been asleep,' muttered Hollis very quietly to himself. He waited patiently until the guard returned and the cabin door closed. Same pattern, same approximate timings.

  Very well, then

  Gently Hollis crawled back out into the corridor and into the second store room following what his sense of smell had told him when he peeked round the door several hours ago. One thing you were never going to be short of in a painters & decorators’ was solvents! He collected a two-litre-sized plastic container. From the kitchen he took a box of matches. Both items went into the duffle bag.

  Hollis exited through the empty window frame and stood motionless against the wall, listening. All was quiet. The sky was still deeply overcast, masking the ethereal light from the sun glowing over the north polar regions. It was as dark now as it was going to get. Hollis moved silently but rapidly down the lane to the factory unit at the far end.

  In the interests of hygiene, and mechanised collection, each industrial unit on the small estate was issued with a large metal refuse bin with a sliding lid. The containers were far too heavy to lift manually, relying instead on grabs fitted to the front of the custom-designed vehicles, not unlike an oversize fork-lift truck. The bin is then scooped up right over the cab and the contents dumped into the rear. For emptying, the truck tips in the normal manner. In each back yard the bin occupied the identical location––to one side of the rear loading bay.

  Hollis intended to start a fire as a diversion. But he had no wish to burn down anyone's livelihood. The steel containers were therefore ideal. The workshop at the end was occupied by a light-engineering firm, and their refuse bin held little that would burn. But there was no shortage of wooden pallets to be seen, some virtually new and others badly splintered. Dumped haphazardly between the refuse bin and the workshop wall, they were reasonably sheltered from the weather and in consequence were dry enough to burn easily. There was even the remains of an old newspaper blown into the corner by the wind.

  Hollis spent several minutes transferring all the broken pieces of wood into the bin, careful to avoid making any noise. These metal containers would ring like a bell given an unwary knock with anything solid.

  Not enough.

  He added one of the complete pallets on top of the untidy pile of debris. That was more difficult and he was sweating freely hefting the unwieldy load. Managing to smack a corner against the curved top of the bin and painfully nipping his hand in the process. He froze, hissing curses, unwilling to let go and make even more noise. Finally he got the thing inside and lowered it slowly down, ignoring the pain in the small of his back as large amounts of strain were applied to little-used muscles.

  Thank Christ for that.

  He sank down in the shadow of the bin to get his breath back and listen for signs of disturbance. Nothing moved anywhere within his hearing.

  When most of the two litres of highly combustible solvent were evenly distributed over the prospective bonfire Hollis checked that he had the matches in his hand and everything else tucked away in the duffle bag over his shoulder. This was no time to leave something vital behind. Then he balanced the nearly empty container on top of the soaked pallet, rolled up a couple of sheets of the stained and crumpled newspaper into a makeshift cylinder and shoved it down inside, leaving a couple of centimetres showing above the open top. As a time-delay it was crude in the extreme. But when the highly-inflammable vapour ignited aggressively above the small quantity of solvent remaining in the bottom of the container, the plastic would melt and disintegrate in a half-second, flooding viciously burning solvent over the primed wood below.

  Taking a deep breath, Hollis lit the dry paper, waited just long enough to ensure that it had cau
ght and then ran back the way he had come. He flattened himself against the side wall of the painters & decorators, just out of sight of the NorthTek portacabin on the opposite side of the road.

  Nothing to do now but wait.

  The human mind plays tricks with time.

  Time, indeed, has no meaning outside the human brain, it is simply a convenient construct to permit that organic computer to divide up the natural cycle of night and day, light and dark, winter and summer. But it’s an interesting philosophical fact that time appears to pass at different rates in different situations. Why does the kettle seemingly take longer to boil the thirstier you are? How many would deny that time passes quicker when you are enjoying yourself, than when bored out of your mind?

  Mike Hollis started cursing after ten minutes. And then thought to check his watch, to find that only two minutes and five seconds had actually passed.

  Ludicrously, he was startled when a sharp voice called out from across the street. The words were unintelligible but a peep round the corner showed both security guards standing against the main gate, hands hooked in the wire mesh, staring along the street at where smoke had begun to billow in the evening air.

  The men's voices carried faintly, becoming even more indistinct as the crackling of burning wood made itself heard. Flickers of flame began showing above the low rooftops.

  Shouts now. And an odd clanging, followed by hasty rattling overlaid with an impatient curse. Hollis peeked round the corner again in time to see the two men swing the big steel gate wide and emerge at the run, one lagging behind, awkwardly carrying a fire extinguisher. Hollis waited until they had both sprinted round the end of the row of buildings towards the source of the blaze, then he took one final deep breath and ran, the duffle bag bouncing on his back.

  Hollis thought his feet seemed to make a fearful noise, despite his shoes having rubber soles. Imagination. Yes, ignore. Still, all the way he expected to hear a challenging shout. Reaching the end of the slab path he hauled at the door, looking round to see what was happening at the end of the street.

  The door wouldn't budge.

  'Shit!’

  Hollis was appalled. He tugged furiously at the double-glazed aluminium door, cursing. Then reason prevailed, aided by the memory of the guards entering and leaving the building each hour. Push it you bloody fool! Push it! The door swung open with a minor squeak of the rubber draught excluder and Hollis slipped through into the foyer, making straight across the carpeted floor for the deep shadow offered by the single corridor leading into the depths of the factory.

  Once there he paused to get his breathing under control and to check out his surroundings. He spread himself flat on the floor, hidden in the darkness against the corridor wall, heart pounding.

  The large foyer contained a single L-shaped split-level reception desk. A small angle-poise lamp with a low-wattage bulb had been placed on it, giving the only illumination. Four expensive-looking chairs for visitors stood in a line under the window. One wall was totally given over to a potted history of the company and its achievements, liberally sprinkled with photographs and charts. A couple of landscape paintings, presumably Orkney, and...

  ... and a familiar raised plinth somewhat off-centre in the otherwise empty room. Hollis smiled, feeling the tension leach out of him. Unless he was badly mistaken it was the very same one that had graced the company's stand in the SECC in Glasgow. On it's highly-polished top the original filter unit gleamed dully in the dim light.

  Voices.

  Hollis backed off even further into the shadows and watched the two guards return to their cabin, hearing the clank of the extinguisher against some unseen metal surface. Obviously they had dealt successfully with the fire, because they made no attempt to use the telephone. One unavoidable risk had been that whatever passed for a local fire brigade would be called out and the whole thing degenerate into a circus. Hollis knew it wouldn't have been a big problem as long as he was safely inside beforehand. But under the circumstances any sort of major fuss was undesirable in the extreme.

  Satisfied that the two men had settled down, Hollis checked his watch and got slowly to his feet. He walked carefully down the corridor, pausing at one point to let his eyes adapt to the darkness. It was twenty minutes before one o'clock and he needed to conceal himself while the guard did his rounds. This time it should the lazy one––the man who didn't bother with the lights.

  A stairway appeared on his right and Hollis went up it rapidly. He recalled from the interactive video display at the SECC that the upper floor was entirely given over to administration. At the rear of the building Hollis found a toilet and washroom block, and beyond it an open area with chairs and tables. It was edged on one side with a pine-rail balcony, looking down over a large machine shop. From here there was another stairway down to the ground floor and also access into the adjacent half of the double factory at both levels.

  Time was up. Hollis crouched down alongside the wall where it met the balcony and waited. Sure enough very shortly he heard the faint sounds of someone coming in through the main door. A couple of minutes and the guard appeared in the machine-shop below. He flashed his torch around, checking mainly the doors and windows and then disappeared back the way he had come.

  Hollis instantly moved across to the stairway at the opposite end of the balcony and made his way down among the lathes and jig-borers in the workshop. He crouched uncomfortably under a heavy steel table piled with unidentifiable artifacts and waited.

  In due course the guard appeared at the balcony rail and stood gazing down into the silent room. Hollis was unsighted, but he heard the quiet footsteps on the carpeted floor above. When he heard them fade back along the upper corridor he released a long breath and relaxed. The muffled click of the outer door followed soon after. Then silence. Thank God for lazy bastards.

  Hollis gave it five minutes by his watch, listening intently, but all was quiet. All right, then. He had fifty minutes to make the switch and find some deep cover where he could spend the rest of the night.

  Ducking out from under the table, he moved across to the door where the guard had first appeared. As expected, it opened into the original corridor which led back to the foyer. Moving carefully in the gloom, Hollis made his way back to the staircase He unshipped the duffle bag from across his back and removed the duplicate filter unit. The bag he left sitting on the first step. Back in the foyer he resumed his position on the corridor floor against the wall.

  There was no danger unless one of the guards came in here for some reason. Hollis didn't know whether the portacabin boasted a toilet. It probably did, but if not the guards would use the facilities in the factory. That thought increased his heart rate somewhat, it hadn't occurred to him before! Nothing to be done now, anyway, except bear it in mind.

  He crossed the floor to the plinth on his hands and knees, pushing the fake filter unit in front of him over the tight-pile carpet tiles. Finally squatting right up against the plinth, keeping its bulk between him and the windows. Before he touched anything, he studied the original for fully a minute: it had to look the same after the switch as it did right now. Reaching up, he lifted the presentation filter off its mountings, looked it over quickly and laid it to one side. It appeared to be identical to his replacement in all respects, including weight. But then so it should, considering that it had been manufactured from the original specs. Hollis gently eased the duplicate up on to the mounts, adjusting it twice before he was happy that it sat exactly as the real one had.

  Once he had returned to the comparative safety of the corridor Hollis allowed himself a grim smile. Potentially, the worst was now over. But he still needed somewhere secure to spend the rest of the night. It wasn't on to keep avoiding the security guards in here, especially as the next man was fond of putting on all the lights. But fortunately the economics of modern interior design had already suggested a suitable place.

  Upstairs again, Hollis stood outside the washroom/toilets, staring at the ceilin
g in the light of his small torch. Between his feet NorthTek's prize exhibit was tucked safely inside the duffle bag. It would have to be hidden away out of sight somewhere, at least until after tomorrow. However, with luck that wouldn't present much of a challenge.

  Suspended ceilings are a pain, at least to the craftsmen who have to construct them. But to the owner of the premises in question they represent a neat, practical and economic solution to providing a comfortable working environment. For example they automatically provide the means of invisibly routing miscellaneous wiring, cabling, central heating pipes and so on. Above the fragile suspended ceiling would be the real plasterboard ceiling, and above that the trusses of the roof structure.

  The patterned and textured lightweight tiles were laid in a supporting grid of anodised aluminium strips, themselves attached securely to the joists of the roof itself. Safe enough normally but under no circumstances would they support the weight of even a child. Hollis squinted at them in the narrow beam of light and then opened the door marked Men and walked in. Five seconds later he emerged, pushed open the door bearing the legend Women and walked into the female washroom.

  None of us are born with inhibitions, they have to be learned, partly as a result of parental example and partly due to formal teaching. As do the general behaviour, customs and values that make up civilized society. Hollis knew that few men would knowingly enter a female toilet, even in an empty factory. It just wasn't done. He still had it in mind that the portacabin might have no sanitary facilities.

  Besides. There was no guarantee that he could do what needed to be done inside the next thirty two minutes. Before that bloody man started lighting the place up like a demented Christmas tree.

  The washrooms did not enjoy the dubious privilege of being connected to an external wall: they were completely enclosed within the structure of the building. And therefore had no windows. Hollis smiled at what he regarded as an unexpected piece of luck. It meant he could use the lights in here without it showing outside. All right then.