The papers call him the Night Locksmith, because that is all anyone knows for sure. He answers late-night lockout calls, he turns up faster than any honest tradie, and the people who climb into his van are never booked in anywhere again. What the papers have not worked out is the man under the overalls: the Undertaker, trying on a new face.
He is careful in small ways. He works only after dark, keeps a police scanner tuned on his dashboard, and has unbolted every inside handle from the cargo doors. He does not need to lock anyone in. He simply took away the way out.
Behind the cab, a pegboard holds rows of keys, each one hanging from a numbered paper tag. Cable ties sit in a coil on the floor. Through the grille you can see his road map, folded open on the passenger seat, with circles drawn on it in red marker and some of them crossed out.
The drive to wherever he is taking you lasts about an hour. That is your clock. Every bump, every slowing at an intersection, every crackle of the scanner tells you how close the van is to stopping for good.
And there is the floor. Groups of tally marks have been gouged into the steel by someone who sat exactly where you are sitting. They are not counting days. Whoever left them was trying to tell the next passenger something, and it might be the only reason anyone ever walks away from this van.
He never locks anyone in. He just took the handles off.