Graft by Matt Hill Page A

face.
    â€œYou alright mate?”
    Sol steps forward. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”
    The stranger takes note of Sol’s awkward stance: feet inwardly turned, one hand concealed. He reads it as a sign, a vulnerability, and steps inside. “Hiya,” he says. The workshop lights pick out channels in his clean-shaven head. “What’s a big lad like you doing being timid around me? Put it down, eh? We’re all friends here.”
    Sol’s grip tightens around the spanner.
    â€œGot a reputation, this place,” the stranger tells him.
    Sol laughs nervously. “I dread to think.”
    â€œHard to find, mind. Wouldn’t know you were here, all the holo-boards you’ve got plastered on the fence.”
    â€œThey pay the bills,” Sol says. “We rent out the ad space.”
    The stranger smiles with a fraction of his mouth. “Can’t pay you that much, though, can they? The LEDs are knackered on two of them.” He motions to a chunky powerpack in the corner. Its thick cable runs the whole length of the far wall, then disappears through it. A shoddy hack job if the stranger knows better. He smiles again. “If you pay your bills at all.”
    Sol walks over and holds out a hand. “What you after?”
    The stranger leaves Sol hanging. “We’ve got a vehicle swinging by for mods. Two or three days. Did my boss call ahead?”
    Sol racks his brains, eyes rolled upwards as if to petition some god of memory. The problem is that Sol works with so many bosses, has met so many of these lackeys.
    â€œWho’s your boss?”
    â€œDoesn’t matter,” the stranger says. But something about his response nudges Sol’s primal tripwires.
    â€œNo,” Sol says back. “I guess it doesn’t.”
    The stranger sits down on a pedestal of part-worn tyres. He picks at a pricing sticker near his crotch. “Work must be nice and steady for men of your talents.”
    Sol wobbles his head. “Not too bad if you know where to look. Listen, though. Not being funny but I want to get off home soon. What’s the project?”
    The stranger doesn’t skip a beat. “Security.”
    Sol looks at his free palm, thoughtful. “Attack or defence?”
    â€œBit of both.”
    â€œWe don’t build tanks, Mr–”
    â€œNo names!” the stranger snaps. “All you need to know is that my client’s got a cross-country journey to finish in one piece. A to B on some less-than-pleasant roads.”
    â€œSoutherner, then? Isn’t he better off flying?”
    The stranger doesn’t respond.
    â€œMaybe you don’t get it,” Sol tells him. “Ballistic glass isn’t cheap – or even easy to come by. Pete’s waited two months for secondhand stuff before now. Then there’s sheet composite for linings… bespoke mouldings… Unless you’ve got an industrial printer and CNC you’re gonna be at the mercy of your suppliers. And they’re shipping most of this heavy gear overseas anyway.”
    The stranger rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “All about this, though, innit? Wouldn’t be right if we didn’t put our boys first. But seriously, it’s worth your while. And we’ve got some guys abroad who like dabbling in a bit of supply and demand – a nice networking opportunity for you.”
    Sol looks outside. Sky the colour of a wet scab. He can feel himself wavering – a feeling deep-set in his shoulders. His mouth’s dry. Then he grins. A sensation comes over him like the rush of relapse. It’s not like he needs an excuse to stay at work, anyway – to avoid the lonely flat, his attempts at living a wholesome life there. “You want to come through, then? I’ll stick a brew on–”
    The stranger shakes his head. “Very kind, but I’ve got more errands to run.”
    â€œRight,” Sol says.
    The