The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 1.2

'Dunno. Seems like cheatin'.'

'Nonsense. We're just making the most of our resources.'

'Aye. It were too easy though, is what I'm sayin'.'

'You shouldn't complain about things going smoothly, for once.'

She arched an eyebrow. 'Ye sayin' that getting caught an' tied up was things goin' smooth?'

'It's smooth for us.' I felt for the little USB stick that Ang's bluecap had deposited in my pocket and held it up under the light of an orange streetlamp. 'Probably a tidy profit on this.'

'So we stealin' now as well?' Ang continued sourly.

'You might say Steve deserved it. He did try to sell us off.'

'Aye. And I s'pose ye didn't know he would do that. Did ye.' Ang's tone told me that it wasn't really a question. Her eyes bored upwards into my chin. I expected her to give another sharp remark, but instead she sighed. 'Look, gwas. We're partners now, ain't we? I should get more've a say in how we're doin' business. I've gone along wi' this'un, but I gotta say that outright stealin' don't feel right to me.'

I stopped in my tracks. 'Didn't I explain this all to you?'

'No.' She tilted her head. 'I have noticed, gwas, that ye tends to make long and fancy plans in yer head, an' oftentimes fails to enlighten me of 'em. Sometimes I thinks ye have whole conversations just wi' yerself.'

I mulled this over, well aware of the look on her face as I internally scrutinised the words. It's a lonely lifestyle, driving up and down the country hauling unlawful goods (unlawful only because there are no laws to govern them) to sell to various elements of underground – and also sometimes overground and betweenground – society, most of whom are too shifty to be trusted even as distant business associates, let alone as friends.

But Ang, despite being Welsh, and a coblyn, and a devourer of pastries, had proven herself to be just that – a friend. And she was right. I had promised we'd be partners in this business. And I hadn't been upholding my end of the deal very well at all.

'Gwas,' she said flatly.

'Right, right, I was just thinking. Sorry, is what I mean. Let's get to the car, and then I'll fill you in. How about that?'

'Stop right there!'

I whirled round. Steve emerged from the shadow of an alley, huffing and panting. His lankiness was deceptive: he was not a fit bloke.

'Careful Steve, remember your heart,' I said urgently. 'Don't go giving–' I grasped quickly for his wife's name, '–Catherine another fright like that.'

Steve doubled over in front of us, hands on his knees. 'Hansard, you bastard. You just needed to stay put.'

'Sorry. I didn't want to.' I ignored the logical compulsion to flee and prodded the question at the forefront of my mind. 'How did you catch up to us? We were long gone.'

Steve wiped sweat from his brow with one hand and waved the other which was holding onto a silver smartphone. It cast a brazen white glow over the murky brickwork.

'Scrying spell, motherfucker,' he said.

'What, on your phone?' I was incredulous, yet fascinated. 'You have an app for that?'

'Nah. The spell's embedded in the hardware. Actual silver casing, right. Crushed quartz grafted into the SIM card. And a spot of code written by yours truly. It's a beaut.' He held up the screen proudly, where a simple circle of blue pixels pointed right at me, as though I were true north on a compass.