The Jack Hansard Series: Season One

Episode 18: Stone Bridge

I awoke on Peggy's sofa to find her standing over me dressed in full battle gear. A no-nonsense stud in her nose in place of the usual silver elephant; a distinct lack of chunky beads and dangly earrings; greyscale clothes instead of a rainbow. Her plain jeans were topped with a grey t-shirt that loudly declared her affinity with the works of Tolkien. (At least, she assured me that's what 'I Last Longer Than Boromir' meant.) It was all very militant, for Peggy. Even her hair was gelled to attention.

"Tea, Jack?" she inquired, briskly.

"Please." I rubbed my eyes, stared at the clock, and groaned. "It's seven A.M." I complained. "Why are you up so early?" I rolled over and buried my head in the cushions.

She whipped away my blankets. "Don't be a baby. We've got work to do."

"Aye," yawned Ang, rising from the armchair. "Coblynau be up two hours b'fore dawn to work in the pit, gwas. This ain't nuthin'." She tried to stifle another yawn. Too long on the road with me had eroded her early-bird tendencies.

Tea and bacon sandwiches fixed our moods, and before long we were discussing our game plan for the day. Peggy solemnly handed us each a notebook and pen, as if she were handing out rifles.

Ang wrinkled her nose. "What's this fer?"

"We're not going to interrogate the phoenix," I remarked.

Peggy straightened her notes. "Honestly, Jack, you're never prepared. You never know when you might need something as simple as a pen and paper."

"I'm prepared in different ways," I said, patting the protective paper charms in my pockets.

"Jack, when have your charms ever actually worked?"

"They all work!" I said, indignantly. This, at least, was true. I don't often lie to my customers (that's a lie, part of me pointed out), it's just that I sometimes omit important information. I will give a lifetime guarantee, on my word and my honour as a tradesman, that every one of my protective omamori charms are in fine working order. What I can't guarantee, however, is what they protect you against.

I've learned over time, and through an array of consumer complaints, that my stock of oriental paper charms can variously protect against finding moles in the garden, slight breezes, rains of fish, tripping over on a Sunday, burning your tongue on hot tea, sneezing in alleyways, and success – one charm so counter-intuitive that I could've sold it as a revenge curse if only I'd known what it did at the time.

I can't read Japanese, you see. I just had to hope one of the omamori about my person deflected sharp things or guarded against bad luck. But it was a Sunday, so I'd settle for not tripping over anything if the opportunity arose.

"Them charms're better used as firelighters," said Ang, sucking up the rest of her tea. She nudged Peggy. "But it makes 'im feel useful, don't it."

"You can lose that tone," I said. "Are you ready to go, or not?"

We all have our own ways of squaring up to danger. We conjure a thin veneer of defence that gives us the confidence to go into the dark unknown. For me it's a trench coat full of charms and cheap tricks. For Peggy it's a severe change of wardrobe. And for Ang it's the way she straightens her shirt, buttons her waistcoat, and glares at the world.

The coblyn tied her bluecap lantern to her belt so her hands were free, and the blue flame dimmed as if it sensed our collective forbidding mood.

We exchanged nods. We're ready, and we set off.