1

The face in the pillar seems to be smirking at me. I’d punch the damn thing in the nose, except I’d bruise my fingers.

I’m in Seven Dials, in London. There’s a tall pillar at the centre of the small roundabout where seven streets meet, with half a dozen sundials near its top. I often hear people puzzling over why there are six dials, rather than seven.

I stopped caring about the dials a long time ago. All I focus on these days is the lock in a panel at the pillar’s base. It’s styled like a person’s face. It’s old, regal-looking, strangely beautiful.

And it’s driving me mad.

I first spotted the lock a few months ago. I was wandering the streets, killing time, when it caught my eye. Locks are an obsession of mine and I’m always on the lookout for them. I’m not talking about normal locks, but locks on boreholes that lead to another universe called the Merge. The Born – Earth – is where humans start out, while the Merge is where the souls of murdered people wind up.

I entered the Merge last year when I followed a girl called Inez. I had a series of wonderful, terrifying, life-changing adventures. I sailed on a river of blood. I faced killers and hell jackals. I mingled with royals and helped save a realm from falling into the hands of ruthless tyrants.

And then I came home.

It wasn’t easy, settling back into regular life. In the Merge I was Archibald Lox, a young but highly talented locksmith, treated as an equal by adults. In the Born I’m plain Archie, and I had to deal with school and homework. Not to mention foster parents.

I had a tricky time trying to explain to George and Rachel where I’d been and what I’d been doing. I can’t even remember exactly what I told them, along with all the others who wanted to know, but in the end I managed to spin enough stories to satisfy carers, the police, teachers, friends, everyone. The dust settled and I slipped back into my old routines. There was no place for the Merge in my everyday life, so I tried not to think about it.

Sometimes I’d get all the way up to three or four minutes.

But even when I could briefly push memories of giant vines, overlaps and grop from my thoughts, there was no ignoring the boreholes that I’d spot at least a handful of times every day. Most of them were locked, but as a locksmith, that wouldn’t be a problem. I was tempted to stop and pick one, to open a borehole and return to that sphere of wonders for a few minutes, to breathe the pollutant-free air and take off my shoes and feel springy mushrooms beneath my feet.

The trouble was, I knew I’d want to push on, to travel from zone to zone as I had before. I might end up going AWOL for days, or weeks, and since I didn’t want to put my foster parents through that again, I chose to ignore the call of the Merge.

I was managing pretty well until I saw the lock in Seven Dials.

I instantly knew it was special, and stopped in my tracks. I stood there, staring at the face in the middle of the inactive borehole for at least ten minutes. The lock sang to me like a siren. I guess it was like a violinist spotting a Stradivarius sitting on a shelf. How could he walk on without stopping to pluck its strings?

Eventually I tore my gaze away and looked up at one of the dials near the top of the pillar. “Trouble o’clock,” I muttered.

Then I sighed, edged up close to the lock, and surrendered.

The lock is the shape of a woman’s elongated face. Her eyes are wide open, larger than they would be in real life, and her lips are closed. Her nose has been flattened by the elongation, and the nostrils are mere pinpricks above her upper lip. Only the outlines of her earlobes are visible.

That first time, I sat in front of the face for a couple of hours, just staring at it. I knew I’d have to start with the eyes – I could see a glint of levers behind the irises – but left without touching them. The lock disturbed me. There was something eerie about the woman’s expression.

It was nearly a week before I returned. I’d hoped the lure of the lock would fade if I stayed away, but it had sunk its hooks into me and I was even dreaming about it when I slept. I had to go back and grapple with it.

My hands were trembling when I sat down beside the face and reached towards it. I brushed my fingertips across its cheeks, its lips, then the eyes, which widened at the contact — many Merged locks expand when a locksmith touches them.

With a gulp, I began to push a finger into the right eye.

Then I stopped.

Master locks are dangerous. I might get so caught up that I’d forget everything else, lose track of time, not pause to eat or drink, and die while working on it.

Reaching into the pocket of my school jacket, I dug out a mobile phone that I’d picked up during the week. I checked the time, set an alarm to go off after an hour, then laid the phone by my knee and set to work.

All these months later, I haven’t made much progress. I’m still stuck on the eyes. They’re a swamp of levers and tumblers, so they’d be difficult to pick no matter what, but at some point somebody went in and tore things up, ripped pieces out of place, mashed sections together. It’s not damage that a thug with a screwdriver could have caused. This was the work of a skilled Lox who wanted to ensure the lock could never be opened again.

Unfortunately for the vandal, it’s hard to completely destroy a Merged lock, and I’ve a feeling I can repair the worst of the damage. That feeling lures me back three or four times a week, to slide my fingers into the eyes and fiddle with the levers.

The alarm on my phone goes off and I withdraw. I turn and sit against the panel at the base of the pillar, squinting at the sky, frustrated. I still set an alarm whenever I work on the lock, but I’ve gradually allowed myself longer and longer between breaks, and now go three hours at a time.

Nobody’s ever stolen the phone, even though I always leave it on the stone bench. That’s because nobody sees me. The lock’s part of the Merge, and when I work on it, I become part of that sphere, invisible to people in the Born.

I swivel my head to look at the lock again. I feel like it’s mocking me.

“You won’t be grinning when I crack you,” I growl. “And I will crack you.”

The lips don’t move. The eyes don’t blink.

I sigh and stretch, then look around. A couple of tourists are sitting next to me, munching sandwiches from a neatly stacked pile, discussing what to do next.

“Pardon me,” I murmur, taking a sandwich from the top of the pile. I don’t like stealing, but I’m hungry and need to keep my strength up. I should have brought a snack from home, but forgot.

“Hey, did you eat the other half of my pastrami?” the man asks.

“No,” the woman says. “I don’t like pastrami.”

“Someone must have taken it,” the man says. I don’t flinch as his gaze washes over me. I’ve done this too many times to be fazed by it now.

“Sure,” the woman drawls. “Pastrami sandwiches are like gold over here.”

“But then where...?” the man persists.

The woman laughs. “You must have eaten it.”

“I didn’t,” he says.

She prods his stomach. “Are you certain?” she sings teasingly.

“Of course,” the man says hotly, then deflates. “At least, I think there was half left...”

I smile and finish off the sandwich. I consider returning the crust, but that would be cruel.

“Right,” I say, unlocking the phone to reset the alarm. “I can squeeze in another few hours. Maybe this time...”

I’m turning towards the face, but when I see those blank eyes, I stop. I can’t endure any more. My knees are already sore, and my back aches too. I’ve had enough for today, and there’s no rush. It will still be here tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. And...

I wince and push away thoughts of defeat. I’ll crack this lock in the end. I will.

But in the meantime, I decide to go where I went that day after I first failed to open the lock. I head for the Houses of Parliament and the tower clock known all around the world as Big Ben. Or, as I prefer to call it — Winston’s place.