The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 2.4

Author's Note

Hnnnngh. I really need to sleep, guys.

This section turned out way longer than I expected, and I've struggled to reach the very end on time this week. There are only a couple hundred words left to write. So here's the deal: rather than rush through the ending, I'ma finish it tomorrow instead. Which means you get half of this wonderful lump of prose now, and the other half will follow hot on its heels tomorrow evening.

Now, to pick a suitable cliff-hanger . . .

* * *

'Can we . . .?' Sable breathes, eyes still glued to the map. Then she's all decisive. 'Yes. Take us there.'

I glance at Hansard and he nods. 'In the morning,' he agrees. 'Best you get some shut-eye now, though.'

She's all tense still; you can see the excitement jumping in her bones. She seems the type to live like a taut bowstring, always on the edge of either snapping or letting loose something fierce. But as she accepts our proposal the bowstring slackens and, finally, for the first time we sees her relax as I rustles out a blanket for her. She curls up, head down on the seat resting against Buck's leg, and closes her eyes.

We turns the lights off and sit in silence for a fair while.

Only when there's evidence of gentle snoring does Hansard incline his head to me. 'What's your take on them?'

'That they be wayward children in needs of help,' I says, disinclined to give much detail.

'Don't be obtuse with me, Ang. I know you think there's something . . . uncanny . . . about them, too. Do you think they're really children?'

'Aye,' I says, too fast. 'Oh, don't look at me so. Look at the dwtty boy, there. Ye can't claim he be anything less than innocence.'

'And what about the girl?'

'She's a sharp one,' I yields, 'but I doubts she means harm, if that's what's worryin' ye.'

'So you don't think she's dangerous?'

'Din't say that, gwas. Jus' that she probably don't intend to be.' I shoots him a quick glare for good measure. 'Ye best not be thinkin' of leavin' 'em, gwas. D'you really think they'd hurt ye?'

'No,' he says softly, 'but I do prefer to know what species my passengers are. Saves on complications later.' He chews his cheek for a minute, thinking in that dawdling way of his. 'You said they were running from something.'

'Aye. Would bet me bluecap on it.'

'What made you think so?' He glances meaningfully at the map. 'I get the impression they're a long way from home.'

'I seen hunted eyes like hers before. Them kiddies in the dark–' I stops.

He's gotten good at telling when not to push me, I'll give him that. He lets the silence tick by again. Then he speaks in this far away voice, like he's remembering some story from his Mam.

'I visited this museum, once. I think it was with school, learning about the Victorians or something like that. Anyway, they took us into this fake coal mine. You could tell it was fake. If you knocked on the walls they sounded hollow. Lots of electric lights everywhere. And these really ghastly plastic mannequins with pickaxes and lanterns. One of them was a child in a harness, pulling a minecart. I remember thinking, what an awful job, being a cart-puller–'

'A hurrier,' I cuts in.

'Right. Being one of them and having to live in Victorian times. With no fish and chips, or anything, and–'