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–'

My brow crinkles. 'When's this? We had fish 'n' chips when I were a lass.'

'What?'

'The big'uns brought a great big battered fish down fer us, once. Just had a big tunnel collapse, see, an' they all got out alive.'

'Thanks to you?'

'We knocked like the devil, gwas.'

'Right.' I sees him trying to pick up the train of his thoughts. I appreciates the effort, even though he don't quite grasp the gravity.

I speaks with the weight of cold experience. 'There was worse than hurrying minecarts, gwas. And not just the dark to make a dwtty cry. There were starvin' an' there were losin' family to the cruel fates of the mine – and to the fates above it too, what wi' sickness an' poverty in their stars. But worst, gwas, worst was when I saw kiddies huddled in the dark as if it were better than home. Better than being in their home. Them's were the ones that were always runnin', even if they was sitting right still. Runnin' from the back of a hand and a mouth full o' hard words.'

'I get the feeling these ones would prefer to go home.'

'Aye. Ye might be right on that.'

Hansard shunts his seat back a bit and wraps his coat about him. 'We'll do what we can for them, Ang. Best sleep, now.'

'Aye.'

He huffs and squirms a bit, trying to get comfy. He'd usually be in the back. Me, I'm right comfortable in my usual seat. I stows me flat cap away and bids the bluecap dim her light. When I glance up at Hansard I see he's staring at the ceiling with his thinking face on.

There's a soft whimper from the back, and quiet rustling as the two children shift positions. They dream fitfully.

I close my eyes to memories of hunted eyes and scared animals.

* * *

It's angry voices what wake me.

The night is black outside the car. No fizzing electric lamps by this abandoned aqueduct. So it shows up right nice, the white bar of light flashing to and fro over the ground. Held by a shadow cursing nastily, and answered with equal venom by another dark spectre. There's malicious growls too, like of dogs chafing at the bit for blood.

I jumps – only slightly – when Hansard puts his hand out to me. Noticed I'm awake, he did. Looks like he ain't slept, but right now that's for the better, as he turns an eye back on the goings on outside. 'Let's hope they pass,' he says, so quiet I nearly misses it.

I strain my ears to make out what the voices are saying.

'–swore we'd fucking find them!'

'Shut your bloody gob and let me work. How're they supposed to hear anything with you yakking on?'

'They should be fucking smelling for them, you piss-stain.'

'Give 'em a fucking minute and they'll pick up a scent, all right?'

'Hurry it up.'

'What do you want me to do? Get down on the floor and sniff with 'em? You fucking–'

They ain't even trying to hide their voices. Damn near shouting at the top of their lungs at each other. It's a miracle the kiddies are sleeping through it.

I hears rustling behind me.

Ah.

I turns to whisper, 'Easy now, ye'll be safe wi'–'

'It's them,' Sable hisses over me. Buck's frightened expression says it all.

'Be calm, be calm,' I repeats as urgently and gently as I dare. They're tensed right up, on the very verge of flight. Hansard's still fixed on the window. Doesn't seem we've been noticed yet.

'I didn't see a car pull up,' he mutters. 'They've walked here. So they won't be able to catch us up. You kids better get strapped in.'

'What?' Sable snaps. She hasn't taken in the words. Her eyes are too busy darting around for an escape route.

The torch lights flash across the window.

'Oi, look at this . . .'

Buck squeals. Sable pounces over him to open the door and they both tumble out into the night.

'Wait!' I cries in horror.

'You get them!' Hansard shouts. 'I'll distract these oafs.'

The men are shouting, the dogs baying. I spares a prayer for Hansard as his voice cuts in behind me ('Good evening, gentlemen . . .') then I'm leaping into the dark on the trail of the kiddies.