The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 6.2

I was enveloped by cold. When I opened my eyes I was shivering.

'First time?' said the bald man. 'Can get you like that, stepping through something unreal. Body don't know how to take it. Come on, let's get you a drink before your soul buggers orf.'

I was certainly lightheaded. I felt as though I could simply float away.

I let him lead me further into the room which was quiet, library-like, like an echo of the museum space I'd just come from. Tall bookcases – so high I couldn't see where they ended – lined the walls. There was a vaulted ceiling overhead, maybe, but it was too distant to pick out the details.

He pushed me into a wingback armchair and handed me a glass of amber liquid. It swam in front of my eyes.

'Wha's thiss?' I slurred.

'Whiskey. Drink up.'

He disappeared from my field of vision, which was just fine because I was having trouble focusing on him anyway. I gulped down a measure of hot spirits and suddenly plummeted back to earth.

Voices behind my head appeared to be arguing.

'Why'd you let this shithead in? I don't know him, Arnold!'

'He said he was with you!'

'And you believed him?'

Angry footsteps reached me, heralding the appearance of a skinny goth girl with a bird's nest of dark hair and heavy eye make-up. She slammed both hands onto the arms of my chair and thrust her face right into mine.

'Right, mister! Who are you, and why are you following me?' she demanded.

'Um.' My thoughts were still putting themselves back into the right order, and the first thing they came up with for this situation was: 'Why do you smell like oranges?'

She twitched. I think maybe some colour flowed into her cheeks. 'You're imagining it.'

Behind her, the bald chappie smirked. 'Told you so, didn't I? Don't use too much, isn't that what I said?'

'Shut up, Arnold,' she hissed.

'How's your skin feeling? Any peel yet?'

'I'm not going to turn into a fucking orange!'

'Hmm. Well, it hasn't made you any sweeter, that's for sure.'

She strangled a curse into a half-scream in her throat, then rounded back on me. 'You think you're funny, shit-head? How about I turn you into an orange? Tell me who you are now or I'll . . . I'll do something drastic!'

I shrank as far back as the chair would allow. 'I'm Jack. Please don't do something drastic.'

'Why are you here, Jack? Are you a Vagrant? Did Seven send you? I told him I'd pay back the debt next week! He knows I'm good for it. Or is it the Shamanic mob? I'm done doing runs for them–'

'I'm not anyone!' I blurted. 'I'm just Jack! I'm a student here! I study Classics!'

The following silence was heavily punctuated by the scrape of an oak drawer, and the metallic clunk of a metal rod being placed on a table.

'Don't mind me,' said Arnold, polishing what looked like a sharp iron poker. 'But be warned that I'm not keen on liars.'

I scrambled out of the chair and pressed my back to a bookcase. I couldn't tell where I'd entered the room from. There were no doors. No way out.

'Obviously I'm somewhere I shouldn't be,' I stammered. 'They should put a sign up, you know? 'Private: Incorporeal Wall', something like that. Um. Didn't mean to disturb you, so I'll be going . . .'