Suzie briefly considered taking off her boot to examine her injuries. Looking around at the filth splattered interior of the skip made up her mind for her. Cursing for the umpteenth time the mantrap that had almost took her foot she winced to her feet, braced, eased up the lid and slipped over the edge and out. Fingers narrowly missing being crushed by the crusted edge as the lid slammed. The noise, loud in the hollow space of the dock, frightened her. She waited crouched between the dumpster and the cement block wall.. Nothing. Pimples was gone or noises were common. She waited some more. No Security, so probably no audio pickups. Good so far.
In a limping crouch she eased along the wall feeling exposed. At least the cameras did not seem to be dirigible. Neither had turned at the sounds she had made. This part of the dock had been hidden by the lid when she had taken her brief look. Skirting a large pile of prolapsed cartons destined no doubt for her recent refuge Suzie came to a door. Scared with careless utility, a grubby sign and a push bar handle indicated an exit. No good. She wanted in.
What she most wanted was a plan. Actually, what she most wanted was a shower, a ploughman’s lunch and a long sleep. What she most needed was a plan. She had, as always, acted on impulse. The current series of impulses had lead her farther and farther from her familiar ersatz demi monde to the sharp edges of trouble and death. Impulse had got her from the inside of the outside to the outside of the in. Now what?
In answer, from out a doorway, further along the wall, hidden by an RSJ, sounded, then appeared, a rattling clothes rack crowded with garments. Its motive force emerged last. A young thing, skinny in a blue work smock. An out-of-a-bottle black razor cut framed her sharp cheekbones, pink with effort. She was too preoccupied with steering and pushing to notice Suzie, frozen, crouched in the shadow of the boxes.
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