The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 3.2

'What makes you say that?'

'He's askin' us for help, gwas.'

I scrutinised my razor. 'What kind? We're not really in the business of helping people.'

'He don't say.'

'Well, unless he's after a batch of faulty curses, I doubt we can be much use.'

Ang didn't argue immediately, which put me on alert. She looked like she was carefully composing something in her head – and it occurred to me that, despite their apparently friendly correspondence, Ang was brought up by her fellow coblynau to believe that knockers were nasty, dirty, horrid creatures (despite being practically cousins, if not entirely the same species) and so perhaps it was with some reluctance that she was contemplating an offer of assistance.

Eventually, she seemed to settle on a permissible line of reasoning.

'Knockers might have wares to trade, gwas,' she said confidently. 'Our stock be lacking right now. Ye'd like some magic tinware, aye?'

I pretended to give it thought. As if I wasn't already dead set on leveraging Ang's friendship with Goron to fiddle the knockers out of as much enchanted metal as I possibly could. 'It's true, we could use a fresh acquisition to spice up our display, and there's a slight possibility your knocker friend will own some interesting trinkets. Might not be worth the risk, is my concern.'

I held up a hand to halt her reprisal. 'Tell you what, Ang. We've been official business partners for a couple of months now, but it strikes me that you've not yet had a go at actually steering the business, as such. So, this one's yours, eh? Your very first trade operation. Proper contribution to the biz. If you think this is good business, then I'm in.'

She looked stunned for a moment, but recovered immediately with a sour comment. 'Oh? So them bluecaps I first traded you all that time ago don't be worth anythin' now? Not enough of a contribution?'

'We weren't partners back then,' I reminded her. 'And besides, you traded my bluecaps to that bloody knocker!'

'Knew he'd take care of 'em,' she grumbled. 'All right. I sez this be good business, gwas. Let's see what nasty knockers has to offer. And if it be good, then y'are to stop bringin' up the thing about the bluecaps.'

I grinned. 'Deal done.'

'Good.'

I stepped out for some housekeeping. My coat was crumpled and in need of a good shake from where it had acted as my blanket overnight: it was warm and comfortingly heavy with the pockets weighed down by Black Market goods. Although you wouldn't want to roll the wrong way in the night and accidentally get pricked by a spindle of everlasting sleep, or inadvertently crush the vial of hot air (no one wants to be carried off into the sky by their own head . . .) or, god forbid, release the swarm of incandescent screeching beetles from their cocoon.

After giving it a good (and careful) flap outside the car, I climbed into the front next to Ang. 'So. Where are we headed?'

She held up the oily letter. She was already halfway through the pasty, I noted. 'Looks like it sez . . . Menantol. But the 'e' has a little hat o'er it.'

I peered at where her grubby finger pointed to the words written in a surprisingly neat hand. It read: Find us at Mên-an-Tol, that what be the Crick Stone in men's tongue. It be right holey. Ye can't miss it.

'A holy place? Like in a church?' I said, puzzled. Didn't sound quite right, although my knowledge of knockers was admittedly limited. 'Good of him to not give directions or anything. Right. Get the map.'