Shadow of the Templar: Cuckoo's Egg, Extended Edition: Chapter Thirteen

On timeline: early to mid-1990s, ten to fifteen years before the events of the books
Spoilers for: not much, honestly
Warnings: in this section someone breaks the law—ooh, look out

13.

      All the lights in the kitchen were on, the yellowish glare turning the room into a vast yet cosy bubble that pressed outwards against the flat black of the October night outside. A humming Claude bustled around, doing this, doing that, tending to a dinner that Bran wouldn't get to eat—although of course Claude had been pestering him with offers of food all day, offers which Bran hadn't felt up to taking him up on. His stomach was crawling. It had started before he woke this morning and it hadn't given over all day.

      Ethan was at the table, mostly ignoring a glass of wine. He looked calm—Ethan always looked calm—but his eyes were always on Bran, and always worried. "There's nothing else you need, then?"

      Bran shifted uncomfortably. "Nah, I got it, me." No, he wasn't going to admit to Ethan that he'd got all the way to this morning without ever once considering what he should wear to do the job. Hadn't he kicked himself enough for that?

      "You're sure."

      Bran's temper flared, his heart jumping against his ribs like a startled rat. "Aye! Aye, I'm sure, enough already." Just as quickly as it had come, it went, and Bran ducked his head. "Sorry."

      "No, no, I understand." Ethan remembered his wine and had a bit. "I'll stop being such a nervous nelly now, I promise."

      Bran made a small acknowledging noise and looked down at his shoes. His rucksack slumped between his feet, mostly empty. After a frantic morning's rustle through his closet he'd settled on a working outfit that he thought would do: a light grey t-shirt over a pair of plain black trousers, black trainers of the most ordinary sort, and over all, a fancy hooded macintosh that reversed from red to black. With the jacket open and worn red side out, he'd look normal enough if stopped—with the jacket turned to black and zipped up to the throat, with the hood up, he'd be invisible in the dark.

      He was trying not to think about the fact that Ethan had brought the mac home a month ago and given it to him with only the most casual of words.

      Bran glanced at the clock, then, a moment later, glanced at it again. All of a sudden it was too much to ask of him that he sit around and wait. He pushed off the counter and hooked his rucksack off the floor. "Going now," he said. "I'll be back—" he fumbled "—soon as I can."

      The quality of the silence that followed this announcement made the whole world seem airless. Ethan broke it with a short, sharp, nervous laugh like nothing Bran had ever heard out of him before. "Best of luck," Ethan said. "I assure you that I'll be sitting here until you come home—won't be able to do any different." His eyes strayed towards the phone on the wall, then away.

      "I won't call," Bran said.

      Ethan nodded. "Good." He reached for his wine glass, nearly knocked it over, and caught it before it could spill. "If you absolutely require the cavalry, call Liam. He's prepared."

      "Aye." Bran cleared his throat. "I know. I will."

      "I'd wish you luck, but I know you'll be fine," Claude said affably from his position by the sink. "Take an apple. Take one of the oat bars from the pantry. Take something."

      Ethan cleared his throat. It took him two tries. "And remember... well, just remember that there's no shame in picking up and walking away if something doesn't feel right. Better to put things off than to push on and get caught."

      Bran shook his head dumbly and let himself into the garage. The door closed behind him with a hollow, echoing sound and suddenly everything was dark to his dazzled eyes. He stepped down and the wing of the blue sedan nudged at his thigh; Bran put a hand on its bonnet and eased himself around, groping his way towards the silver car in the middle spot. Faint light from outside filtered in through the garage's small, high windows, eventually giving Bran enough light by which to see the edges of things.

      The little shifting sound made Bran's heart jump back into his throat, and the little laugh that followed made it stay there. Jeremy unfolded his legs and slid down off the bonnet of the silver car, landing lightly on his feet by the front tyre. "You're off, then," he said, pitching his voice low.

      Bran rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. "Aye," he said. "What're you doing out here in the dark, then?"

      Jeremy's brilliant little smile was just a splash of reflected light in the gloom. "Waiting for you," he said, lightly enough. "Wanted to wish you luck and all."

      "Aye. Well. Cheers."

      Jeremy held up one hand to catch the moonlight. The leather bracelet hung on his wrist, much closer to fitting him properly than it had been when Bran first brought it home. "I thought about telling you to wear it for luck," Jeremy said, shaking his hand and making the bracelet rattle about. "But you wouldn't want some bit of leather tat getting in your way, so I'll wear it to bring you luck. How's that?"

      "Do as you like, I'm sure." Bran rocked forward and then back again, unwilling to slide past Jeremy to get into the car.

      Jeremy went quiet, although the smile was still there, still visible; Bran couldn't see Jeremy's eyes but he thought that he could feel them burning into the side of his face. The silence stretched out between them forever before Jeremy reached out and caught the door-handle, popping open the driver's side door and splashing them both with the sick yellowish light from the car's interior. "Luck," he said, still wearing that smile. "Wish I was going with you."

      Bran rolled his eyes. "Ooh, ta for the chauffeur act, very posh." With the door between them it was easy to step past Jeremy now, to toss his rucksack into the passenger seat and slide into the car.

      "You're welcome," said Jeremy. He shut the car's door with a ridiculous little flourish, which Bran ignored.

      The silver car smelt like dust and rotting plastic. Bran pushed the seat back, then wriggled one hand into his jeans pocket to winkle out the keys. He'd almost got them when Jeremy tapped on the glass, startling him. Bran rolled down the window. "What?"

      Jeremy dropped into a crouch, crossing his arms on the open window and resting his chin on them. "Sure you don't need a hand?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "Never know when you'll need a lookout or a proper distraction."

      Bran choked on his incredulous laugh and coughed, twice. "Aaw, God, Ethan would fuckin' well kill me, for one, and for another, I've already got a plan that doesn't involve babysitting you."

      "I suppose that's true," Jeremy said, equably enough. He watched Bran for a moment longer, in silence. Bran was just about to tell him to step off when Jeremy's face split into a grin and he wriggled head and shoulders into the car, lunging straight for Bran, who lurched back in shock and surprise and tangled himself up in the safety belt—Jeremy lurched back as well, as if he'd startled himself almost as badly. They both hesitated, then Jeremy reached out and caught Bran's shoulder in a surprisingly strong grip, pinning him to the seat. "Wish I was you so bad right now," Jeremy said, squeezing. He sounded sincere, which was probably the worst of it. "I can't wait to see what you bring back."

      Bran cleared his throat. "Won't bring back anything if you won't let me go," he pointed out.

      Jeremy blinked, then laughed. He patted Bran's shoulder, twice, hard. "You're right at that," he said, and he ducked his head and wriggled back out of the car, drifting back a few steps.

      Bran punched the button to raise the garage door and started the car. The twin circles of the headlamps caught Jeremy and stretched his shadow against the back wall of the garage; raising a hand to shade his eyes, Jeremy watched Bran go.

      Three hours later Bran was walking up and down the aisles of a corner store, pretending to look at things, all too aware of the girl at the counter keeping a leery eye on him.

      It had barely gone eight. Bran had left the silver car parked at the train station and come on in to the city that way, then taken the bus to a different part of Marylebone, then walked half a hundred miles to get to the general area of the shop—it had all seemed like such a good plan, but now that he was here, it was starting to wear at the seams, a bit. He was out and about, on his own, a kid maybe young enough to still be in school, this late on a weeknight. It wasn't wrong, exactly, but it was unusual, and the last thing Bran wanted right now was to be noted as 'unusual'. He'd settled on moving from corner store to corner store, trying to look like a dutiful son on a quick errand... but the rucksack made him look like a shoplifter. It was awful. He was about to have a heart episode.

      To make things worse, the night was largely clear. At least it was dark—at least he had that—but the lowering clouds had given way to little fluffy ones, scudding across the sky. The moon was waning, at least, but Bran was kicking himself for not even thinking about the moon: what if it had been full? He'd been counting on the clouds and rain to hide both it and him... well, if the moon had been full and the weather had been weirdly nice, he'd have called the whole thing off and come back in two weeks, that was all. Bran nodded to himself, absently knuckled his chest over his heart, and picked up a bottle of aspirin. Wouldn't hurt to reinforce the 'errand' thing.

      Putting the bottle into his rucksack Bran went back out into the night. He checked his watch. Ten after eight. He didn't even want to begin the job until after nine, but he hadn't anything else to do, and would be too noticeable anywhere else he went. If he was a little older, or (he hated to even think it) out with a 'friend', he'd be fine—Bran shook his head sharply. Now he was just being bloody paranoid. No one was going to think anything of it. A chip shop or a Macca's would do him fine (but not that Macca's, obviously). But... what if it didn't? So much of this job was foolishness and luck, Ethan always said. Foolishness, luck, preparation, and paranoia...

      Bran wound up hunkered down in an alley half a mile from the jewellery shop, macintosh on black side out and its hood up. He felt like a right idiot, but he was too nervous to do much else. A chip shop would do him fine, but he was afraid to be seen out hunting for one. Some criminal he was. Some bloody thief!

      Five minutes before nine by Bran's watch, finally. He rose to his feet, wincing, and put his rucksack at his feet long enough to turn his mac red side out again. It was still clear out, damn the luck.

      Bran's stomach ached. He was stiff with fear, his heart rabbiting along in his chest, his eyes so wide that they stung and made him blink. For a moment he quailed, longing to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this—Bran snarled under his breath and slapped his jaw, hard enough to sting. A moment later he stepped out of the alley, ambling towards the end of the street with a casualness he was almost feeling.

      Bran was so occupied with making himself look casual that he barely noticed the streets slipping by. He pulled up with a hitch when a familiar corner loomed up ahead of him. All Bran could think was Oh, God, it's happening, I'm doing it now—he kicked his left foot out in a short, brisk arc. His shoelace snapped about and got itself pinned under the toe of his other foot, and the next step untied his shoe.

      Dropping to one knee at the corner, Bran re-tied his shoe. He looked left and right, not trying to be stealthy about it—trying to be stealthy was a good way to not be stealthy, Ethan always said. The shop was dark and shuttered, just as it should be. No one staying late at the shop: perfect. A couple of girls walking towards him, down the street where he was about to go: not so perfect. Bran stayed on one knee as long as he could, dithering with his shoelace and casting about desperately for the right thing to do. If they would just get past the mouth of the alley before he reached it... Bran rose slowly to his feet, shrugged off his rucksack, and made a great show of rummaging around in the front pocket. "Come on," he muttered under his breath. "Come on, move, honestly..."

      The girls, talking and laughing, drifted down the street. Eventually constantly rummaging around in his backpack looked even more suspicious than just standing about and glaring, so Bran slung it back over his shoulder and ambled down the street towards the alley, at a pace that was so ludicrously slow that he was amazed that no one was staring at him. He drew abreast of the girls just as they passed the mouth of the alley. Bran shut his eyes, breathed a prayer, and turned in, the skin on the back of his neck prickling.

      No one shouted after him or even paused to look, as far as Bran could see. Sweating now despite the chill Bran headed deeper on into the alley, one hand ostentatiously fumbling at the front of his trousers. He checked over his shoulder. No one. His heart twitched and settled.

      Bran pulled up next to the door to the jewellery shop and held his breath. He heard... not silence, but what passed for it in the city. Still, Bran canted his hips towards the wall and left his hand tented across his fly, waiting to see what would happen. Nothing. Time to begin. Oh, God.

      Dropping his rucksack to the ground, Bran dropped into a crouch. He dithered for two seconds over whether to reverse his mac or not, then shoved the question aside and stuck his hand into his pocket. It was trembling when it came out. Bran was forced to waste precious seconds breathing deeply and calming himself before he touched the compass to the door and ran it slowly along the edge.

      The glowing needle on the compass deflected slightly at a point halfway along the bottom of the door: reacting to an electric current, one of the contacts for the alarms. Bran ran the compass back and forth just to be sure that he'd seen that; he had. Just like in practise. Bran rose to his feet, drawing the compass upwards as he went. Two contacts, one at the top, one at the bottom, absolutely standard—and if they were using a standard alarm setup, then it was likely that there wouldn't be any other nasty surprises.

      Bran tucked away the compass, grabbed for his rucksack, and stopped with a groan that hurt his throat. He'd forgot to wear his gloves—gasping under his breath Bran hauled up the tail of his shirt and scrubbed frantically at the door. He didn't think he'd touched it, but still, fingerprints? Fingerprints? Ethan would have an episode! Jeremy would never stop laughing—Bran fished a pair of dark grey rubber gloves from his pocket and stretched them on. He waited another few seconds for his heart to stop thundering along.

      Bran yanked open his rucksack and pulled out the old black jumper that he'd thrown on top, dumping it onto the ground. Everything else in the rucksack was either illegal, highly suspicious, or just plain odd, and only some of it could be camouflaged. For example (Bran dug in a side pocket) why in God's name would anyone carry a rubber doorstop around? In case they—Bran wedged it in between the door and its frame, near the top—needed to stop a suddenly-unlatched door from opening?

      Two thermos flasks were nestled square in the centre of the pack, swaddled in plain canvas sacks. Bran gingerly slid the first one free. He swallowed, then dumped the flask into his gloved palm; ice water splattered on the ground and he was left holding two thin cards mummified in cling-film. He dropped them onto his knee, getting his trousers wet and not even caring. God, even touching the cards was bad enough—Bran dug in a side pocket and pulled out one of the thin metal cases. One card went in one metal pocket, one card went in the other, and then Bran rose shakily to his feet, bearing the opened card case like the world's most valuable and fragile book. Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, Bran slammed the case shut around the spiky centre insert and gave the whole thing a twist.

      It felt like opening a shaken bottle of soda. The case shivered slightly in his fingers, then a little harder, then Bran jammed it into the door just over the lock mechanism. He could already smell it. It smelt like a preview of hell. Quickly Bran tossed everything back into his rucksack and trotted down the alley, pulling off the grey gloves as he went.

      Ten minutes. He didn't dare stay.

      Bran rounded the block, head down, hood up, fists in his pockets. Everyone was staring at him, or at least, it felt that way. He could feel the guilt on him like a clinging, oily miasma—how could they not see it?

      He'd intended to keep moving until his ten minutes were up, but he'd barely gone two before he ducked into a different alley, too frightened to stay out in the open a moment longer. There was a massive green bin halfway along and Bran hunkered down in its shadow, as close to its side as he could get without actually touching it. Every nerve in his body was straining to hear the first sound of a shout, or an alarm, or a police car; Bran was certain that these sounds were not a matter of 'if', but rather, of 'when'.

      The knee of his trousers was damp, the skin underneath cold and clammy. Bran smoothed the wet fabric with one shaking hand, riveted by the sight of his disembodied shifting hand, pale enough to glow even in this slight light. The lump in his throat was keeping him from whimpering, but he was having trouble breathing properly. He was going to pass out.

      Somehow, through some miracle, ten minutes passed without any sirens screaming. Another two minutes passed before Bran made himself slither out of the alley, hood up to hide the guilt all over his face, starting on a long and convoluted journey that would eventually take him back to the shop, the last place he wanted to go.

      There were still no lights on in the shop. No new cars outside, no police. Bran went all the way around the block, just in case, and slipped into the alley from the opposite direction, picking his way past trash bins and random disgusting alley splatter. He smelt the results of his labours first, but when he finally saw them, he stopped dead: there was a hole easily the size of his fist eaten into both the door and the frame next to it. Bubbles still frothed lazily around the edges of the pit, widening it a millimetre at a time. The lock itself was a shrivelled, melting horror; the knob below was starting to list drunkenly downwards under its own weight.

      It stopped him. It floored him. Bran stood bang in the middle of the alley, where anyone up to and including God might look down and see him there, and all of a sudden he forgot to be frightened. In fact, he was forced to clap a hand over his mouth to keep a bark of laughter from popping out. He'd done that—he'd done that, and no one had noticed. Thirty-some-odd people lived in this building and not a one had had the brains to notice! Bloody sheep, the lot of them, just as Ethan said!

      Caution—and only caution, proper caution, such as any thief ought to have—nudged him back into a safer shadow, away from the door. Bran shrugged out of the mac and reversed it, zipping the black side up to his chin. He pulled on a black knit cap and pulled the hood over it, then put the grey gloves back on. Dropping his rucksack onto the ground again Bran fetched out the second thermos and unscrewed the lid. The sharp smell of isopropyl drove away both the terrible reek of the acid and the more ordinary pong of the alleyway; Bran threw cupful after cupful of alcohol onto the door, washing away what remained of the fizzing stuff.

      Five minutes later the door was attached to its frame by garish rainbow loops of ribbon wire, and Bran was, if not actually frightened, a little nervous once more. The alarm hadn't gone off yet, somehow. Bran threw a quick prayer heavenward and hooked a gloved finger gingerly over the slumping remains of the doorknob. He caught a brief whiff of isopropyl and then the door bumped open, slowly clearing the frame to show him a slim stripe of pitch blackness. The alarm still failed to go off. Bran couldn't decide if he was more amazed or enthused by this development. Either way, he eased the door open and slipped into the darkness.

      He pulled the door shut behind himself, wincing a bit—what if he knocked a wire askew? The alarms would go off like the wrath of God, that was what. Still, he couldn't just leave the door gaping open, because that would be visible from the street; not like the dangling wires and the giant hole in the door wouldn't alarm an inquisitive person, but they were a damn sight less obvious than an open God-damned door. Awkwardly, wrong-handedly, Bran wedged the doorstop underneath the door. Bran took his fingers off the doorknob one at a time, ready to grab for the door if it started to ease open. It didn't.

      Bran huffed out a breath and turned around. He was already feeling the pressure of time on the back of his neck, like Ethan was prodding at him to hurry before he was caught. Bran fumbled in one of the side pockets of his rucksack, his fingers closing around a fat cylinder of a thing. Ethan had offered him the fancy goggles, but had been nervous about Bran actually using them—Bran had seen that clearly enough—so Bran had taken an ordinary night vision scope, instead. Fancy stuff, that, military tech, but nothing too memorable. Nothing to bring it back to Ethan.

      Bran flicked on the scope and brought it up to his eye, a small circle of the darkened shop springing into a sort of dirty green life in front of him. Already feeling like a right prat for looking at the shop through a telescope, Bran swung the scope back and forth.

      The shop looked nothing like in the photographs, even though everything in it was familiar. The metal anti-theft grilles were both down, for one thing, turning the shop into a prison for cheap tat. And even if the grilles hadn't been down... something about being behind the counter made everything look wrong, backwards, like Bran had broken into the mirror-world version of the shop by mistake. The racks of worthless junk sat in their quiet, dusty rows, weirdly immovable, like columns. The glass cases along the wrong wall were empty, glittering in the faint moonlight that filtered in past the grilles. Outside, the street. Light spilled out from the McDonald's across the way, nearly overloading the scope.

      Bran hunkered down, losing himself behind the counter. No one would see him in here without a good torch and an awful lot of perseverance, but still, better safe than sorry, as Ethan would doubtless say. The counter's shelves were overloaded with nonsense: scales for weighing gold, assorted tools, receipt books, piles and piles of worthless paper, someone's discarded mug, and other things that hadn't any other home. But they weren't interesting. What was interesting was the niche to his right, and the monstrous, blocky safe that squatted inside it like a troll in its den. Bran crab-walked up to it, then put the scope away.

      It was even larger than Ethan's old bastard of a safe, and much newer. Not new enough to have a numerical keypad, at least, but the dial was the size of Bran's palm and the handle was one of those big spidery wheels. A wheel instead of a push-down handle meant that the door was bolted to the body of the safe by multiple bolts in all directions. No burning through this one. At least, not with the tools he had on hand. Bran fetched out the stethoscope.

      The wail of sirens in the distance nearly jerked him to his feet. Heart booming in his chest Bran scrambled for the door on all fours, stopping just inside. Gloved fingers trembling on the doorknob Bran twitched the door open a terrified inch at a time, preparing to run. The alley outside was dark and silent, at least...

      Bran's breath hitched in and out in little panicky huffs, at least until he noticed and forced himself to stop. The sirens howled on and he couldn't tell if they were getting louder or not. Surely they were, they must be, they sounded louder, but did they really—he was still desperately questioning his hearing when the sirens faded to nothing. The rush of relief nearly made him faint.

      He spared a handful of seconds to strain after the sound, just in case it should return. When it didn't, Bran crawled back to the safe, his eyes once again burningly wide in his face. He reached for the dial... then stopped, his grey-clad fingers twitching away. The dial sat exactly at 74, the notches perfectly aligned. The ghost of Ethan prodded him—

      No.

      It couldn't be that easy. No one was that stupid. Bran's hand dropped from the dial to the wheel below, and he gave it an experimental twist.

      The wheel turned under his hand and the safe door popped open with a muted chunking sound.

      Bran rocked back on his heels, his fingers going white-knuckle tight on the useless wheel and jerking the safe halfway open. "Jesus fuck," he said, too startled even to mute himself. Liam's tones echoed through the shop—Jaysis fook—and Bran winced away from them, then threw himself around the door. The stethoscope went back in the bag and the canvas sacks came out. Bran shook one open and snatched up the first tray.

      He poured the bits of jewellery into the sack in a clattering, whispering waterfall. A few pieces missed the mouth of the sack and went bouncing away, little flashes of reflected light marking their paths. Bran ignored them, just grabbed another tray. He'd go scraping around after errant pieces after he'd finished with the trays.

      The trays piled up beside him in an untidy stack. The sack bellied out at his feet. Bran couldn't even see what he was stealing, only that it was made of metal and probably valuable enough to be locked up in an unlocked God-damned safe. Fucking idiots deserved to be robbed blind—Bran stuffed the full sack into his rucksack and popped open another.

      He had four sacks full by the time he ran out of trays to empty. He'd been in too long, but all the same he made one quick, scrambling pass over the floor, coming back with a double handful of pieces that he'd dropped and one of the receipt books from the shelf. On his knees behind the counter Bran stripped off his mac and reversed it back to red, then yanked off the cap and dropped it on top of the sacks. Time to go, time to go—the rucksack was a lead weight on his shoulder, a stitch popping along a strap as he hauled it up. Bran lugged it to the door, peeked out, and then slid out into the alley, breathing a bit hard.

      No one shouted. No blinding lights went on. Bran dropped the receipt book onto the threshold and closed the door on it, the paper ripping and crumpling as the door wedged itself shut. Bracing himself Bran grabbed the lower wire and whipped it free of the door with a single, convulsive jerk. The alarm didn't go off. Bran yanked out the topmost wire. The alarm still didn't go off. Bran stuffed the discarded wires into a pocket and ripped off the grey gloves, then gulped in a breath and set off down the alley at a sedate pace, even though it hurt him to do it. He ducked his head under his hood and trudged on. "Don't run," he breathed, staring down at his toes. "Don't you even run..."

      An eternity later he'd gone a block. An eternity after that, another. He kept having to hitch the rucksack up—another stitch had popped, but the rest seemed to be holding. It had to look odd, though. Anyone would wonder what sort of load he was carrying, to make a rucksack so fat and so round. If it were any warmer out he'd take off the mac and use it to disguise the bag in... some way or another.

      Even despite the constant worry of the overfull bag Bran was aware of an amazed and rising joy deep in his heart. He'd done it. He'd got away with it. All he had to do was get safely home to Ethan's with his spoils and he'd be a success—

      —how was he going to do that?

      Bran's steps slowed. He'd never actually thought this far. He'd thought out the job right enough, over and over until he'd wanted to scream, but the thoughts had always stopped along with the job. He was seventeen and out late, later every second, and if he boarded a bus this close to the shop with a bulging rucksack, surely someone would notice. Or not surely, but possibly, and that was bad enough. He didn't dare call for a cab, of course, that would be worse. And it was nearly ten, and when did the trains stop running? He'd never been out this late before—he'd never thought to check.

      He wound up hunkered down in yet another alley. Bran's mind spun as he wrestled with the problem. He could call Liam—no, he wasn't going to call Liam. He was going to do this himself. The first thing... the first thing was to get rid of everything in his rucksack that was disposable. A piece at a time, so that no one would put it all together. Accordingly Bran fished out the black jumper and dropped it into the bin next to him.

      If he went north and angled west from here, he'd be headed away from the shop and in the direction of the train station. He'd drop things into bins as he went. Worst came to worst he could walk the entire way and find somewhere to hide until morning—Ethan had done worse in his time, right? Right. Bran steeled himself and headed around to the back of the block. Two blocks later he dropped one of the empty thermoses into another bin.

      Bran had just managed to pry the fire escape ladder from its housing when a window above his head slammed open with alacrity. "Hi! You lot get down from there right now!" an old woman screeched.

      Bran choked on a shriek and let go of the ladder, which rebounded on its springs with a stunning clang of metal against metal. Above his head the old woman was still screaming, on and on, incoherent things about 'nasty little thugs' and 'get what's coming to you' and 'called the police'—this last sent him bolting out of the alleyway with his rucksack hugged to his chest.

      Safe (for the moment) in another alley a prudent few blocks away, Bran spared a moment to glance at his watch. Half past eleven, or a bare fifteen minutes since the last time he'd checked. Bran groaned. Barely two hours on the streets and he was already exhausted from it.

      The streets were infested with drunken punters stumbling away from last orders at the pubs—not enough of a crowd for Bran to get lost in, but enough for Bran to feel threatened by. Every shout made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Still, Bran thought, the march of the drunkards would cover him if he wanted to travel at speed, at least for another half an hour or so; his rucksack would look odd, but not entirely out of place, and his Paul Greaves ID stated flatly that he was eighteen and therefore old enough for pub-crawling. Bran ground his teeth and slid back out of the alley, ambling along, every muscle tensed against interference. Put as much space between himself and... everything... as he could, before the crowds thinned again.

      He'd never seen so much vomit in his life.

      What with dodging drunks and police cars and well-lit areas, Bran only managed to get about a mile before his clanging need to get out of sight reasserted itself. Where to hide, though, that was the problem... a shadow caught his eyes and he gratefully slid into it, finding himself pressed up against the side of a church just behind a flowerbed. His watch told him that it had just gone midnight. Bran shut his eyes. He couldn't do this.

      He didn't have to do this... Bran's eyes came open again. The thought didn't make him happy, but at the same time, Ethan had always said that Bran should use every tool at his disposal. If he was going to do it, he should do it now, before it got much later—the longer he waited, the worse everything would become. Bran's head fell back, banging off the church's unforgiving stone wall. "Aow, God," he muttered, clutching at his head. It decided him, though. Bran jumped to his feet and went in search of a pay phone.

      Liam's voice was a rich growl, full of worry, the best thing that Bran had heard all day. "Aye, I'll accept," he told the operator impatiently, and then they both huffed into the phone and waited until she'd clicked off. "Good t' hear from you, lad," Liam said, cautiously enough.

      "Sorry to call so late and all," said Bran, closing his eyes in relief. "Only I'm down at the Marylebone station and I need a ride."

      "Do you, now."

      "Aye." Bran cleared his throat. "Can you come?"

      Liam turned away from the phone and rumbled something that Bran didn't catch. "Course I can," he said when he came back. "I'll be there soon as I can, lad."

      "Cheers," said Bran, and he rang off without further ado. It would take Liam an hour or so to get to the station, assuming he was duly careful and didn't drive too fast (which he wouldn't, as he was careful and also Ethan would have a heart attack if he didn't). Bran would have to hurry if he wanted to get there both safely and in time.

      Stepping away from the phone Bran heaved his rucksack back onto his shoulder. Even emptied of everything that he could safely get rid of, it seemed to weigh five thousand pounds. He'd be glad to stuff it into the boot of Liam's car. Or under a seat or in a secret compartment or wherever Liam wanted to carry it—had Liam caught Ethan's 'secret compartment' disease? Bran wasn't actually certain. He'd never asked.

      A faint breeze lifted Bran's wilting hair away from his forehead. Bran looked up at the thickening clouds hurrying across the sky. Oh, were they going to have rain now? Wouldn't that be just his luck—"Oi!" someone bellowed from behind Bran, far too close, making Bran nearly leap out of his skin. "You!"

      The arse sounded drunk as fuck, which was awful but better than some of the oi you alternatives—Bran skittered a step or two back before turning around, clutching at the strap of his rucksack with both hands. "What?"

      Mr. Oi You weaved towards Bran, hands flexing, shaved head bobbing like he was sniffing the air. His tiny piggy eyes were bloodshot, unfocussed, full of rage. Behind him, on the corner, a small crowd of other Mr. Oi Yous staggered around in a circle, some of them watching Bran's Mr. Oi You, the others watching a different fellow being sick in the street. "You got th' time?" Mr. Oi You asked, fixing Bran with a bleary, suspicious stare.

      Bran glanced at his watch, trying to keep at least half an eye on the drunk. "Fifteen after."

      Mr. Oi You rocked in place, rising onto the balls of his feet, then dropping onto his heels again with a thud that made him stagger. His voice, when it came, was a belligerent and suspicious bark. "After what?"

      "... midnight." Bran's heart was going like sixty; he eased back another half a step.

      The cords burst out on Mr. Oi You's neck as his jaw jutted. "Fuck!" he shouted at Bran, as if this were somehow Bran's fault. "Fucking midnight?"

      Freeing one hand from the strap of his rucksack Bran held it up placatingly. "Hey..."

      "Hey? Hey?! Hey, fuck you," Mr. Oi You said, stabbing a finger at Bran's face.

      Bran fell back another step, heart pounding in terror. Jesus Christ, what should he do—one of the other Yous shouted something completely unintelligible in his direction. Mr. Oi You tried to glance back over his shoulder and ended up twisting halfway around in a staggering circle. As soon as his eyes ripped away from Bran's, Bran bolted. An outraged bellow of "... YEAH, FUCK YOU!" followed him down the street.

      He ran two blocks flat out, cutting through an alley and nearly wiping out when his foot came down in a puddle of something nasty. He only stopped when he became aware that he was sobbing out loud with rage, his face contorted into a fang-baring snarl that was surely, at the least, earning him a bit of unwanted attention from the occasional passerby. Bran lurched back into a shadow and wrenched the expression from his face. He managed to stop snarling "Fuck, fuck, fucking... fuck" under his breath shortly thereafter.

      It was just... "Fuck!" Bran cried, and then clamped his jaws shut, wincing at the echo. If he hadn't had the bag—all right, and if Mr. Oi You hadn't had six or ten equally-drunk skinhead friends—Bran could have flat-out kicked his arse. Bran had been training his whole life for just that sort of thing. All right, not exactly that sort of thing, but wouldn't it have been fine, wouldn't it have been a wonder to hand Mr. Oi You his arse despite Mr. Oi You's stringy muscles and curb-stomping boots? But no, Bran had to protect his swag. He couldn't risk being picked up in a God-damned street brawl.

      Red about the ears with embarrassment, Bran got his bearings and began angling westward once more.

      Forty-five minutes later and the train station was mercifully in sight. Liam's car, however, wasn't.

      Nearly hysterical with exhaustion and stress, Bran leaned ever-so-casually against an inconspicuous bit of wrought-iron railing and thought about it. A few taxis huddled under the monstrous steel-and-glass portico, the drivers gathered at the front of the row to have a natter and a quick smoke; a few people were out and about, but not as many as Bran would have liked. The gates of the station were firmly shut—of course they were—and no one had thought to provide benches for people caught out late. If he went up to the station proper Bran could lean against a different bit of iron railing, or he could lean against a blue-painted bollard. Neither one sounded all that enticing.

      A quick glance at his watch told Bran that it was firmly after one in the morning. The moon had vanished behind a scree of clouds, and the breeze smelt wet. If the rain started up then he'd have little choice but to go and shelter under the glass ceiling—it'd look odd, otherwise, choosing to stand out in the wet when there was a perfectly good bit of shelter so close by.

      Bran forced himself to swing his rucksack off his stiffening shoulder. (Had he thought it weighed five thousand pounds? A million, at least!) The bag dropped to the pavement between his feet with a metallic crash that sounded just exactly like an immense amount of stolen jewellery clattering against itself as it hit the ground. The sound, so utterly clear, made Bran wince and... very carefully not look around like a guilty schoolboy, lest someone notice. It was paranoia, and he knew it was paranoia, but it was so hard not to succumb to it this close to the promise of safety and extraction. It seemed to own his soul, now. And Ethan, well, Ethan had always said that paranoia was a useful tool in the hands of a thief—of course, he generally went on to say except when it's his worst enemy, but Bran didn't think that was his problem. At least, not now. Or not yet, anyway.

      Rubbing his shoulder—why did it ache so, when Bran was in such brilliant shape?—Bran straightened up and looked about. Surely Liam wouldn't be much longer. Bran had made better time than he expected, even after slinking down alleys and waiting for the streets to empty before he crossed, but it had still taken him ages to arrive. If he could have cut through the park he might have made it quicker, but he'd never been in the park before now and didn't know anything about what it was like inside... he'd decided not to take the chance. For all he knew it was full of lost Mr. Oi Yous. Or police. Lost police. Bran ducked his head to hide a laugh. Aw, God, but he was tired.

      His exhausted hilarity was cut short, straight across, by the appearance of Liam's monstrous old brown car nosing around past the front of the station. Bran had never been so happy to see that ugly thing in his life—shouldering the infinitely-heavy rucksack he ran for it, under the portico and out again, nodding to the taxi-drivers in passing, getting hit in the face with a single stray raindrop. The joy of simply moving at speed, with the promise of his worries at an end, blew away his exhaustion. Bran pulled the passenger-side door open.

      "Yeh can put that bag in the boot, if yeh like," said Liam, leaning over to offer Bran a grin. The boot popped open with a chunking sound. Bran couldn't possibly mistake Liam's real meaning, so he ran around and opened the boot, discovering a Godalmighty mess of trash and a single perfectly clear bag-sized spot, halfway behind the spare tire. A blanket was tossed off to one side. Bran choked on a laugh and plopped his rucksack into its space, nudging it back into the offered spot before flicking the blanket over it. Slamming the boot felt like a tremendous weight falling off his shoulders—literally, Bran thought wildly, and he giggled like an idiot all the way back around the car.

      He'd no sooner shut the door behind himself than Liam took off, driving at a measured pace, eyes flicking back and forth. The sudden loss of pressure was astonishing. Odd how just a car could make him feel so safe and so cleanly out of sight. Bran melted into the seat, eventually flopping one limp hand over and managing, with some effort, to buckle up. "Cheers for the ride," he said, startled at how weak and sick he suddenly sounded.

      "Aye," Liam said, barely glancing at him. "Did yeh get everything yeh needed, then?"

      "Aye," said Bran. Some measure of tension left Liam's shoulders. Bran smiled and let his eyes unfocus. "Don't know why, but I never did think about getting home after... feel like a right idiot, you want to know the truth."

      Liam let go of the steering wheel long enough to make some vague pacifying gesture in Bran's direction. "Aye, well, it's amazing, the things yeh never manage to think of when yeh're trying to think of everything at once. When I think of some of the things I've mucked up..." He trailed off there, stared pensively at the windscreen, then chuckled and came back to himself. "Anyroad, if yeh managed to get in and come out wi' the goods and no' get nicked by the filth, then yeh're miles ahead of my first job. Yer da..." Still chuckling, Liam subsided again.

      Bran chewed that over for what felt like forever, but was likely only a quarter of an hour or so. London was petering out around the sides of the M1 by the time he cleared his throat and scrabbled at his seat, sitting up again. "Here," Bran said. "About my da."

      "Aye?" Liam finally said, after a brief and startled silence.

      "Could you... tell me a bit more about him, like?" Bran squirmed but forced himself on. "Only Ethan won't ever tell me anything straight out, and... and I'm old enough to pull a real job, like, I ought to be old enough to hear about my da!"

      The silence this time was much longer. Bran risked a glance to his right. In the intermittent light Liam's face was screwed up like he'd tasted something nasty, his big hands deathly still on the wheel. "Aye, well," Liam started, then fell silent again. "Aye. Yer da... he... Lindsey was a good lad to have on yer side, and no mistake. Abso-bloody-lutely fearless. Always had yer back, no matter the odds against yeh. Sooner cut his own throat than let yeh down."

      Bran could almost force himself to be comforted by this. Almost. At any rate it was embarrassing to have even asked. He might have let the whole thing go... only Liam sighed at the windscreen and added, "Awful hard to have against yeh, though."

      After a long moment, Bran made an enquiring noise.

      Liam wet his lips with his tongue. The lights from outside ran in and raced over his squinched-up face, one after the other, flick-flick-flick like the ticks of a clock. All of a sudden Liam looked less like a man who'd tasted something sour and more like a baby about to cry. It looked ridiculous on the massive, red-furred Liam, and Bran found that he was happy to see it, to see someone else getting the worst of it, for once. Liam cleared his throat. His knuckles creaked on the wheel. "Shouldn't speak ill of the dead, lad," he said.

      The laugh that juddered out of Bran sounded like someone punching a piano with both fists. "Why not?" he said, sitting up. "No one's going to know, are they? Just the two of us now—here..." Bran dropped his elbow onto the arm-rest between them and held up his hand, splaying his fingers in front of his face. A sort of savage joy bubbled up out of his guts. "Think of it as a confessional, aye? Won't go a bit further than this. Just you and me—and God, if he'd like. Think he'd like?"

      Liam hunched his shoulders, sweating guilt. "Aye, well. Thought the world of yer da when we were young, I did," Liam said, fumbling his way slowly through it. "But I'm not so young any more, am I, and also I've got Paula now, and..."

      Bran rolled his eyes at his palm. "And what?"

      "And yer da was a right bastard, yeh want to know the truth," Liam said. He looked calm now, like Bran had shoved him through the worst of it.

      Bran waited. When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, he slumped back down in his seat, letting his 'confessional' hand drop again. "That's a bit like what Ethan said."

      "Aye, well, Ethan and yer da never got along so well," said Liam. Another car trundled past them, slowly overtaking and then pulling away.

      "Because my da thought Ethan was a coward and Ethan thought my da was a psychopath."

      "... well, aye."

      Bran shut his eyes. "God, it all makes me so fuckin' tired. What about that is so hard to say?"

      "Well..." Liam coughed. "Not the sort of thing you want to say to a man's son, is it."

      "I don't care." Bran left his eyes shut; there was nothing out there that he wanted to see. "Take me to the station, if you would. Car's there."

      It was nearly three in the morning by the time Bran turned the silver car into the drive. He'd stolen a nap in Liam's car, which had helped, but even so he was so tired that his skin hurt. The rain was misting down, now, finally. Not much of it, just enough to make the world all fuzzy around the edges. Or maybe that was Bran's exhaustion. He couldn't quite tell.

      He'd never realised that the drive was so long. Long, yes, but now it felt eternal, like he'd died and gone to Hell and been sentenced to drive, exhausted, towards his goal for all eternity, never arriving, never getting his desperately-wanted rest—Bran's feverish musings died away as he pulled the car around the back of the house and saw the light. Ragged squares of vivid yellow stretched across the drive, nearly blinding against the too-dark night; the kitchen window was like a portal into another world, snug and bright. Bran saw a bit of movement as he trundled past. So Ethan had waited up for him, just as he'd said he would; Bran couldn't decide if that felt nice, or like a hand clamping down on his shoulder. A bit of both, he finally decided, thumbing the button to raise the garage door. A bit of both. As if he were loved, but too much, too hard, too closely.

      The garage door closed behind him. Bran shut off the engine. All was quiet. For a moment longer he sat there, hands on the wheel, eyes on his hands, ostensibly listening for any sounds of pursuit but, really, sinking into the quiet knowledge that he was here, home free. He'd done it. He'd come home in triumph. More or less. Bran shook off the weird stillness and made himself get out of the car, rounding the back to fetch his heavy rucksack out of the boot.

      Ethan was staring towards the door as Bran let himself into the kitchen. Not to put too fine a point on it, Ethan looked like hell: twitchy and drawn, a day unshaven, with rings under his eyes that even sixty-some-odd years of existence couldn't explain. His shirt was rumpled and looked sweaty. His eyes were exhausted and somehow disbelieving.

      Jeremy, on the other hand, looked unassembled. He was tumbled into his chair, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only an old pair of fleece trousers and, Bran saw, the leather bracelet; Jeremy's hair was all in a flattened tumble, as if he'd tried to sleep on it and failed, and then scraped his fingers through to put it back to rights.

      The expectant look on Jeremy's face was half awe and a bit of greed to boot. It made Bran hitch and then swell with pride. "Aye, well, that was loads of fun," he said, kicking the door shut behind him. "Have to do it again some time."

      "Did you get it, then?" Jeremy asked, sitting bolt upright in his chair. "Can I see? I want to hear all about it!"

      Ethan took a breath so deep that he deflated after, like a dying balloon. Bran wondered if Ethan had breathed at all while he was gone. "I'd rather like to hear the story myself." The cup in his hands clattered against the table as he finally put it down. "Of course, you must be tired... I can certainly wait."

      "Aaw," Jeremy said, cheerfully enough.

      Bran dropped the rucksack onto his chair with that same unmistakably-jewellery crash. It sounded only like music, now. "I'm nearly all in, you want the truth," he said, keeping his voice casual as he fetched out bulging sack after bulging sack, dropping them onto the kitchen table like offerings. He could see them reacting to his story, hanging on his every word—"But I can spare ten minutes, I expect."

      "Well, then." Ethan smiled. "Pull up a chair, and let's have it."

      "Aye," said Bran. He evicted the rucksack and dropped into the chair himself, catching a glimpse of the three of them reflected in the window, warm and safe in the light; he told them the story. Jeremy's eyes devoured his face jealously, and Ethan unbent enough to laugh at the unlocked safe, and for a few minutes, just a few, everything in Bran's life was perfect.