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

On timeline: early to mid-1990s, ten to fifteen years before the events of the books
Spoilers for: the usual
Warnings: same as ever

9.

      Bran woke the next morning already exhausted. The lack of sleep left his brain clotted like old cream, too stupid to think about much of anything. By the time he'd dragged himself in and out of the bath everything seemed so normal in the grey morning light that Bran entertained hopes that he'd misread the whole thing and it had just been Jeremiah being a prat as usual. It was a relief to get back to business. Bran tromped down to breakfast turning the layout of the shop over and over in his mind, poking at it.

      Jeremiah wasn't at table when Bran sat down. Ethan was, but as was usual he was communing with his teacup, his eyes firmly closed against the day. Claude was fussing over a saucepan at the stove, trying to do so quietly in deference to Ethan's wishes; a minute later he slid a lovely omelet onto a plate and delivered it to Bran.

      "Cheers," said Bran, cringing as it came out too loudly.

      Claude's answer was a bare murmur, accompanied by a semi-amused glance at Ethan, who wasn't quite wincing. Not quite. "You're welcome, and good morning."

      Bran mumbled a distracted "Morning" around a mouthful of egg and scallions, paying more attention to the basket of bread in the centre of the table than to his answer. He was half done with his breakfast by the time Jeremiah turned up, still all damp from his bath, his hair hanging into his face in wet strings. He barely spared Bran a glance before tucking into his own omelet. Bran's heart buoyed a trifle at being ignored, and he was able to turn his mind back to the problem of the shop without worry.

      It wasn't until Bran was done eating and had his hands buried in a sink full of dirty dishes that he broached his conclusion. "I'm going back," he said, his voice abrupt.

      Ethan lowered his cup a bit and fixed Bran with a bleary early-morning look. "Are you," he said.

      "Aye," Bran said, as firmly as he could. "Not into the shop, mind. I only want to have a look at it when it's closed for the day." He caught his breath, put another plate in the dishwasher, and went on. "If they've a bloody grille over the back section, they might have one over the whole front of the shop, too. Also I can pop back into the alley and see what sort of lock and such they've got on the back door—don't know why I didn't think of that before."

      "Well, part of the reason you're doing this now is to learn what to do and when," Ethan said, finally putting his cup down. "I fully expect you to make several small mistakes—God knows my first job was a right botch in as many ways as possible. As long as you take steps to rectify them, it's all to the good." He watched Bran load the dishwasher for a few seconds, lips pursed in a thoughtful moue. "When will you go, do you think?"

      "Sunday next, after mass," Bran said. "They'll close early then, and I wouldn't be expected to be in class, either."

      Ethan relaxed the slightest bit. "Well thought."

      "Aye, I thought so." Bran slotted the last pan into the lower rack and kicked the dishwasher shut, thumbing it on. "Need me to hang about for anything?"

      "Not at the moment," said Ethan, picking up his cup again.

      Bran dried his hands on his trousers and left, writing a list in his mind as he headed for the exercise room. He'd take a look at the shop when it was closed, as he'd said, and sit about at the McDonalds for a bit and count police cars, and he'd slip off up that alley once things were quiet—Bran added weight to the leg press and settled in—so he'd best bring a torch. And there might be a keypad, so he'd borrow some of Ethan's things. Course, it wouldn't do to get caught with them, so he'd have to be specially careful, but he didn't think he'd be in much danger. He'd like to actually test their defences, of course, but he couldn't risk getting caught at it... Bran ran through his morning exercises, letting his mind run back and forth while he worked—

      —the idea burst upon him like a fat man sicking up on his head from a second-story window. It was the worst idea in the world, and Bran couldn't believe that he'd thought it up, and it baffled Bran so badly that he let the leg weights fall with an almighty gonging noise and threw himself off the bench to pace back and forth instead.

      It wouldn't have been so bad, only he kept having the idea, and hating it, and finding all the things wrong with it, and finding all the things right with it, and banishing the whole thing in a fury, only to have the idea all over again an hour later and still hate it. He went on like that for days, then a week, and finally he flung the whole thing to the winds and blurted it straight out at dinner in front of God and everyone. "I want to bring Jeremiah along when I go!" Bran said, nearly shouting the hated idea in his rush to get it out.

      The entire world went very still. Jeremiah looked like someone had hit him over the head. After a moment Ethan cleared his throat to break the deadlock. "It's Jeremy, I think you'll find," he said, mildly enough.

      "Right, Jeremy," said Bran, brushing that away with a choppy gesture. "Anyway, I want him along." Saying it made him feel sick to his stomach. He swallowed and plunged on. "He can go into the shop all right, he hasn't been before and won't go again, and he can check for the grille in back while he's in, and he can stand watch while I go in the alley, and anyway I won't stand out so much if I'm with someone else."

      They were all looking at Ethan now, who looked about as unsettled as he ever did. "I'll admit that the idea has some merit," Ethan finally said.

      "Fucking brilliant," Jeremiah breathed, making everyone look at him instead.

      Ethan cleared his throat and reclaimed their attention. "I'll admit that I have some reservations about the idea as well," he said. "You're not to do anything that's even the least bit questionable. I won't have either of you getting into trouble."

      "Course not!" Bran said, resisting the childish urge to cross his fingers under the table. "It'll just be an ordinary visit to the city, only I'll have to nip off down one specific alley to piss or some such."

      "I'll be good as anything," Jeremiah said, slapping the table. "Won't draw a bit of attention."

      Ethan pinched his lips tightly together, in what might have been exasperation or amusement. Bran had never been able to tell. "I sense that I'm outnumbered," Ethan said, proving it to have been amusement. "Very well, then. I'm certain that it goes without saying that I expect you to look out for each other, and to curb each other's enthusiasm, should it come to that."

      "Course," said Bran, nodding.

      "Course," Jeremiah echoed. Ethan looked at him until he coughed, grinned, and amended himself to "Of course."

      Ethan glanced back and forth, studying them both. "Bran, you'll be taking the Paul Greaves ID set, I assume?"

      "Well, aye, I'd thought—"

      "Good. Jeremy, we'll outfit you with a proper school ID before you go."

      "Wicked!" Jeremiah glanced at Bran, open speculation in his gaze. "When do we go, then?"

      "Sunday, just after lunch," Bran said. "Expect we'll be back by ten, even with the train."

      Ethan cleared his throat. "If I might make a suggestion...?" Both boys quieted. Ethan looked at Bran. "Make a very clear list of all the things you expect Jeremy to look for while he's inside. This is—or it ought to be—your last chance. You shouldn't go in again, and Jeremy should only go in the once."

      "Right," Bran said.

      "You sound as if you're only humouring me."

      "No! I mean, no, I'm not, I mean to. Do that. Make a list. What you said." Too late Bran caught the amused glint in Ethan's eyes and subsided into a self-conscious silence.

      "Then it's settled," Ethan said. "I'm sure the both of you will make me proud. You generally do, you know."

      Bran kicked his chair back and stood up, unable to bear the embarrassment a moment longer. "May I be excused," he said, running the words together into a single unintelligible sound, and without waiting for Ethan's answer he snatched up his plate and dumped it in the sink.

      It surprised Bran not at all when someone knocked on his door half an hour later. "Aye?"

      The door creaked open and Jeremiah stuck his head in, abashed. When Bran didn't order him back out, the rest of Jeremiah slid round the edge of the door, insinuating itself into Bran's room. For once he didn't have anything flippant to say, only stood there rocked onto the edges of his feet, looking as if he wanted to chew on his lip but was stopping himself.

      Bran gave him a few seconds, then sighed. "What d'you want?"

      "Wanted to say ta for bringing me along on a real job," Jeremiah said. "Thought you were mad at me, like."

      "Aye, well, I was." Bran's stomach hitched. "I still am, a bit. You were being a right prat and I don't mind saying so."

      "Sorry," Jeremiah said, faintly. "So... d'you want to talk about it? The job?"

      Bran hurriedly waved that away with a glance towards the still-open door. "Nah, nah. We'll talk later, like. Plenty of time on the way there and all."

      Jeremiah also glanced towards the open door, then back at Bran, most of the hesitancy burnt off his face. "It's like that, then."

      "Like what?" Bran said, nettled.

      "Never mind."

      "All right, I won't." Bran gritted his teeth a little. "Don't precisely want you along," he said. "But I need a bit of help, like, and you're the best I've got. You mind your p's and q's and we'll do all right for a few hours."

      Jeremiah's little laugh was short and bitter and it seemed to startle them both. "A bit of help, too right! Bit of help you don't want Ethan to know about!"

      "Will you shush?!" Bran hissed, agonised. "Walls only have bloody ears about here, you know that!"

      "Not saying I won't," Jeremiah went on, implacable. "Not saying that at all. Just saying that I'm not stupid and you'd do best to remember that."

      Bran eyed Jeremiah, his upper lip lifting into a sneer that he didn't bother to stop. "Not stupid," he repeated, in a voice full of scorn. "You're a bloody muppet and no mistake, but I've got no alternative. You still want to come?"

      "Yes."

      "Fine, then. Piss off."

      Jeremiah stood just where he was for a few seconds more, his eyes hot on Bran's face, just to prove his point—then he turned about and left without another word. Bran only caught the tail end of that odd little smile as Jeremiah went.

      Bran reproached himself for the idiotic decision any number of times over the rest of the week, but—having asked—he didn't dare call it off. If he tried to back out now, Jeremiah would pitch a fit, and hadn't Ethan always said that he despised working with wafflers most of all?

      As if to test Bran's resolve Jeremiah immediately became an absolute arse. Not in the usual way, at least. No, now he was strutting about looking as if he knew everything and wasn't sharing. When he spoke to Bran it was out of the side of his mouth—the side of his smile—like a quickly-hissed secret between them. Bran wanted to wallop him and tell him to stop putting on airs, but it would only make things worse, so instead he ignored Jeremiah as best he was able. At least Ethan didn't appear to have noticed. Bran hoped Ethan hadn't noticed. If Ethan had noticed, then he'd start to wonder about the real reason that Bran wanted Jeremiah along, and that was a conversation that Bran was anxious never to have.

      By the time that Sunday dawned Bran thought he'd gone half-mad from the whirl of worries in his head. His side of the Sunday-morning conversation with Liam and Paula was limited to a few grunts, and mass itself flew past in a choral blur—sooner than Bran could have imagined it was done, only the dusty-floury taste of the host on his tongue left to remind him of it. A dull cramp had taken up residence in his gut by the time that Liam pulled back into the drive and found Jeremiah waiting on the front stoop, Bran's overstuffed rucksack slumping at his feet.

      "That's him, then," Liam said neutrally, watching Jeremiah pick up the rucksack and come trotting down the steps towards the car.

      "Aye," said Bran, slumping further into his seat. All of a sudden he was aware of how Jeremiah must look to Liam: a fox-faced brat on the small side, nearly lost in a puffy down-filled jacket (in a horrible shade of burnt orange) and worn denim trousers out at both knees. Nothing of any account at all—certainly nothing to get worked up about, like Bran had, for most of a year now.

      Jeremiah bounced off the side of the car, snatched open the other back door, and slid in, Bran's rucksack nestled in his lap. He cut his eyes at Bran; the swift and mocking glance made Bran pull into himself like a snail in its shell. That done, Jeremiah leaned forward to rest one arm on the back of the front seat. "Hallo," Jeremiah said, sounding a good deal less uncertain than Bran might have liked. "I'm Jeremy, pleased to meet you."

      "Aye, hello t' you too," Liam said. He put the car back into gear and sent them trundling back down the drive. "I'm Liam an' this is Paula."

      Paula glanced back at Jeremiah, her eyes all squinted up with the force of her Paula-smile. "Hallo, dear."

      "I remember you from Christmas, but I hardly had a moment to speak to anyone," Jeremiah said, rubbing his face against his sleeve with a plasticky whispering sound. The car bounced out onto the main road and Jeremiah abruptly sat back, crashing into the seat beside Bran. "So it's good to say a proper hello," Jeremiah said, looking stupidly pleased.

      Paula clapped her hands. "Eee, and wasn't it grand," she said. "Of course, it's always such a do—" and that was it, she was off—Paula would talk the birds down from the sky if she had no one else to talk to—so Bran tuned her out and stared resolutely out the window instead. The overcast sky was a dull brickish white today instead of its usual dull grey. It looked unfinished, like God had made the world and forgot to put the roof on. Bran found it ominous, but, he had to admit, he might find anything to be ominous on a day like this.

      A burst of laughter startled him back to himself. Jeremiah was smirking like he'd been clever and Paula was giggling helplessly, as she did—even Liam was chuckling a bit, although his eyes still darted back and forth, watching the road. Bran wondered just what Jeremiah had said, then gave it up as a stupid question and went back to staring out the window.

      It was an endless ten minutes later that Liam dropped them off in front of the train station. "Thanks ever so for the lift," Jeremiah said, hopping out of the car with alacrity, Bran's rucksack still dangling from one hand.

      "Thanks ever so," Bran mimicked, following him out. He coughed and dropped back into his usual register. "Aye, cheers, Liam. See you Sunday next, then."

      "Aye," Liam said. "Th' two of you take care." He put the car into gear and headed out, Paula waving from the passenger seat.

      Bran turned his sneer on Jeremiah as soon as they were gone. "What's this 'thanks ever so' shite? Makes you sound a right ponce."

      "Thought it would be good practise is all," Jeremiah said, refusing to be baited. "I thought, here, why not, I'll talk like Ethan until I'm out of the car next."

      "Ethan does not either sound like that!"

      Jeremiah snickered. "Keep on telling yourself that, if you like." He swung Bran's rucksack around in a tight arc, thumping it off Bran's chest. "Here's that for you."

      Coughing from the impact Bran caught the missile in a two-armed hug, then shifted it to hang off his shoulder instead. "So what's got into you today? Ethan give you a pep talk?"

      "Only looking forward to going back to town for a bit," Jeremiah said, glancing at the station. "Are we going to stand here all day, then?"

      "Aye, I thought we might!" Bran said, but all the same he turned and headed into the station, Jeremiah nearly treading on his heels.

      The platform was crowded with people all doing the same as Bran and going into the city after church was done. Bran and Jeremiah glanced at each other, then closed ranks, turning in towards each other to shut out the rest of the passengers. Bran looked down at his shoes. Jeremiah glanced over Bran's shoulder, then towards the tracks, then over his own shoulder. For no real reason that Bran could determine, Jeremiah laughed under his breath. Bran hunched his shoulders and prayed that the train would come soonest.

      The five minutes that it took felt more like an hour, but eventually the train pulled in with a screech of brakes. Passengers poured out of the huffing train and sifted through the crowds, forcing Jeremiah to shift closer to Bran, until they were almost breathing each other's air. Bran firmly memorised his shoes and tried not to listen to the sounds of Jeremiah existing until the tide turned and people started flowing onto the train instead of off. Bran stifled a groan of relief and let the crowd carry him aboard, leaving Jeremiah to follow him or not, as he would.

      Weaving through the slow-moving crowds Bran snatched a vacant window seat toward the back of the car. Jeremiah fell into the aisle seat beside him, jostling him with a misplaced shoulder and rocking him up against the side of the train. "Sorry!" Jeremiah said cheerily.

      "Watch yourself," said Bran. His rucksack was too fat to put between his legs, so he ended up with it in his lap instead. Passengers were still pushing back and forth in the aisles, some of them with huge bags, and Jeremiah nearly had to join the rucksack to keep from being thrown up against Bran's side. It didn't seem to bother him all that much.

      Eventually the crowds sorted themselves out and stopped knocking Jeremiah about. The train gasped, heaved underneath Bran, and dragged out of the station, grimly picking up speed (and volume) as it pulled itself southward. Once they were well underway and the roar of the wheels on the tracks was so loud as to be a physical thing, Jeremiah glanced at Bran sidelong, then sat up long enough to check out the people around them, then fell back into his seat. "May as well tell me now," he said, leaning in and pitching his voice low. "We've got little enough to do for the next bit."

      "Aye, may as well," Bran said reluctantly. "Brought this on myself, I did." The two of them put their heads together—Jeremiah now demonstrably warm as well as annoying, smug, and smelly—and Bran glanced over Jeremiah's shoulder, flung a small but heartfelt prayer in the general direction of God, and plunged into it.

      The sky in London was the same dull white as it had been in the north, but here, at least, the buildings were tall enough to block some of it out. Jeremiah waited for Bran on the platform, balanced neatly on the balls of his feet with his hands shoved into his pockets, seeming very blase' about it all; Bran shouldered his rucksack and finally managed to skirt the clot of old ladies that had got in between them, joining Jeremiah where he stood. Jeremiah shrugged, his parka whispering against itself again. "Right, then," he said, glancing about. "Where to?"

      "Bus," Bran said, pushing past. The knot of fear in his belly was in it for the long haul—had been since Jeremiah had met the stammerings of his plan with an offhand acceptance—and all in all Bran would prefer to avoid conversation for a while yet, or possibly forever.

      Accepting this, Jeremiah trailed Bran to the bus stop in cool quiet. He'd developed a sort of walking swagger that Bran didn't recognise and that didn't suit him at all, particularly not bundled up in that horrible parka as he was. The smirk was gone, replaced by something that seemed more akin to boredom or disdain. Still, he stuck close enough, like a burr, and whenever his eyes ran across Bran's they narrowed in some private amusement, which Bran hated but still preferred to the cool bored look, whatever that nonsense was. They joined a handful of others at the bus stop and settled in for the long, damp wait; Bran stared at his shoes and firmly paid attention to nothing at all.

      The bus was the same dank and smelly mess that it had been on Bran's last two visits, although fewer passengers meant less steam, at least. Bran tumbled toward the back, Jeremiah on his heels. The two of them fell into a bench seat as the bus trundled away. Bran turned his attention to the window, watching the city go by, and occasionally watching Jeremiah's reflection in the foggy glass: looking down, looking forward, glancing at Bran, smiling at nothing, looking back down. Jeremiah shifted again, settling in for the ride, his chin vanishing into his jacket collar. The terrible orange parka made that terrible whispering sound again; the hairs on the back of Bran's neck rose.

      By the time the bus arrived at their destination Bran was a stone, or at least so he told himself. The knot in his gut was as hard as rock—he'd tried to harden himself to match it, forcing himself not to ignore Jeremiah but to treat him as nothing but an inconvenience, or an afterthought. Bran strode off the bus with every outward appearance of confidence (he was fairly certain, anyway) and turned to Jeremiah as the bus trundled off again. "It's not but a block or two from here," Bran said. "We'll go 'round the back and find the alley first off, pretend to have a piss-up while we have a look around."

      "Might not be all pretence, you want to know the truth," Jeremiah said, with a sudden flash of grin. He shifted a little, pressing his denim-clad legs together.

      Bran made a face and stifled it in the same breath. "Oh, that's lovely, aye," he said, turning to look off down the street.

      "Crowning touch, then." Jeremiah clapped Bran on the shoulder. Bran half leapt out of his prickling skin. Not noticing (or ignoring it) Jeremiah brushed on past, ambling in the vague direction of the shop. Bran scowled and followed.

      The streets were half-empty despite it being a Sunday. Most people were none too eager to be out in the weather like this, unless they were forced to be (what that said about Bran, he didn't like to think). No one paid the two of them any attention at all as they trailed along, heads ducked down against the constant dulling rain. Bran watched the brick wall go past with half an eye, waiting for the alley. It'd be along any minute. "Ethan says that alleys are some of our best mates," he ventured, after a furtive glance around.

      "I can imagine, like," said Jeremiah, glancing at Bran. His smile flickered, on then off. Rain beaded on his short hair. "Can't be prancing about in front of God and everyone with someone else's jewellery, can you?"

      Bran was saved by having to answer by the appearance of the alley. It was fairly broad as these things went, the cracked asphalt slumping toward the drains in the centre. Bins huddled against the blank brick walls in little clusters, flanking equally blank metal doors covered in peeling paint. "Right," Bran said, hefting the rucksack. "I'll just nip in here for a bit. You hang about. Cough if you see anyone coming."

      "Right," said Jeremiah, finding a place to lean. He unzipped his parka and stuck his hand inside. "Take your time."

      Bran nodded, a bit jerkily, and headed off down the alley. It wasn't any wetter than the rest of the city, but it felt like it was; it wasn't all that much darker than the street proper, but it seemed to be. And, of course, the smell was foul. Ethan had indeed said that alleys were a thief's best friend, except when they weren't; he usually followed up that little homily with a lamentation that his mate should always stink like five-day-old potato peels and sick. How do you break that sort of news to a friend, Ethan would say, and then he and whoever was listening would generally laugh, and the conversation would move on to something else, such as the price of rubies in Myanmar. Bran wrinkled his nose at the stink and picked his way down.

      The door wasn't hard to find. First on his right, five metres in, made of steel. No keypad—not that Bran had been expecting one—but more than just a door-knob lock: the handle was a thumb-lever affair with a serious-looking dead-bolt attached. Bran eased closer. No, not that serious, he decided. And there were old pry-marks, although to Bran's practised eye they looked to have been unsuccessful.

      Belatedly remembering his supposed reason for being down here, Bran shifted his weight and put one hand on the front of his trousers. He wasn't in any hurry to whip anything out, but it was probably best to look the part from the street. So. It wouldn't be a doddle, not like a house would be, but still it would only be six or seven minutes' work with a saw, or fifteen to twenty with the picks. If he hunkered down, the bins would mostly hide him; if it was raining most of the tenants would have their windows shut. Nine in the evening, Bran decided. Late enough that people would have gone home, but early enough that they'd still be up and watching their shows. Early enough to give him the jitters, mind, but waiting until later wouldn't help and would probably hurt.

      Abandoning his pretence of pissing against the wall Bran walked the length of the alley and peered out the other end. It opened onto a side street much like the one where he'd left Jeremiah, no surprise there. No surprises anywhere, in fact. Best way. Bran headed back the way he'd come, relief and nerves warring in his gut.

      He smelt the smoke before he reached the end of the alley. Just a thin thread of it, suspended in the wet of the afternoon like a wrong note in a chord. Half in disbelief Bran popped out of the alley, his eyes already wide; Jeremiah looked at him, huffed out a mouthful of white smoke, and stuck the half-burnt cigarette back in his mouth. "You done, then," he said.

      "That'll do wonders for your wind, I'm sure," said Bran. It was the first thing that came to mind that wasn't an idiotic exclamation of what in hell do you think you're about?!.

      "Might, if I were doing it properly," Jeremiah said, the cigarette rolling from one side of his mouth to the other. "Claude says there's nothing like a fag if you've call to be loitering about, 'cause it gives you a reason to be hanging about outside that people understand, like."

      Bran half wanted one. "Get rid of the damn thing!"

      Shrugging, Jeremiah snapped the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it. It hissed against the wet pavement for a second before Jeremiah stepped on it and ground it out. "Gone," he said. "What now?"

      "You ought to go on in before they close up," Bran said, hefting the rucksack. "I'll be, I'll be, ah..." He cast a half-wild glance over his shoulder. "I'll be in that corner store there. Come and find me when you're done."

      "Right." Jeremiah kicked the dead butt into the gutter. "I'll be fifteen minutes or so."

      Bran took a step back. "Try not to do anything too stupid."

      "Right," Jeremiah said again, his mouth twisting into that strange little smile.

      Bran spent a few hundred years wandering the aisles of the store, carrying about a bottle of aspirin and trying to look like a lad on an errand. His mind was alive with horror stories, each more ridiculous than the last—Jeremiah had done something stupid and was being dragged off by the police, Jeremiah had decided to ditch him and go have a bit of fun on his own, Jeremiah had got on the bus to go back to Ethan's and let Bran shift for himself—and every time Bran checked his watch, he was amazed to learn that only a minute or so had gone by.

      To make matters worse, it was close on to twenty minutes by the time Bran spotted the orange flash of Jeremiah's parka shifting through the aisles. Bran had nearly had a heart attack—he'd almost gone so far as to kick himself for throwing that last gibe at Jeremiah, figuring it to have been the straw that finally broke the camel's back—and the corresponding relief made him flush an angry burning pink before he could tamp it back down. A few seconds later Jeremiah blew past him, barely giving Bran a glance before snatching a can of Coke from the cooler and sashaying back up to the front. Bran abandoned the aspirin on the nearest shelf and pushed on out the front to wait for Jeremiah in a less public place.

      Jeremiah caught up with him a minute or so later, pulling eagerly at his Coke as if he were afraid someone were going to take it away from him. "No problem," he reported, when he could tear himself away from his drink. "There's a roll-down shutter over the counter, right enough, and another over the front."

      "Right," Bran said.

      "Don't know what Ethan was on about, all those little trays of jewellery look pretty ripe to me. Maybe not what he's used to, but he's had loads of years to get all posh about it." Jeremiah crumpled the empty can in his fist and pitched it into the bin. "I bet in five years you'll be all posh too."

      Bran snorted. "I'd best be, if I want to make enough money to survive at this. Can't make your nut with just little stores like that one."

      "Suppose that's true, if you want a big fancy place like Ethan's." Jeremiah put his hands in his pockets and looked up and down the streets. "So, now what?"

      "Now we wait."

      The next few hours passed in a dream-like ecstasy of annoyance for Bran. There was something about knocking about town with someone who looked like a friend that felt so nice that he almost didn't mind that it was Jeremiah he was knocking about with; Jeremiah still had that sneery quiet personality on, and once Bran had got used to it he had to admit that he almost liked it. Liked it better than Jeremiah's usual snickering-puppy routine, in any case.

      They wandered about looking in the windows of shops and eventually found a cinema, which seemed like the easiest way to kill a few hours. It was and it wasn't: Bran was saved the annoyance of having to talk to Jeremiah but instead found himself wedged in shoulder to shoulder with him, staring at some film he wasn't interested in and could barely bring himself to see. The puffy orange parka meant that Jeremiah nearly overflowed his seat and poured into Bran's; every time Bran breathed too deep, it set the parka rustling, and there Bran was, losing the thread of the film again.

      The film exploded to its close eventually and Bran stood up, dumping his rucksack into Jeremiah's lap. "May as well do it here," he said. "No one gives a toss."

      "Right." Jeremiah rustled to his feet as well, the pack dangling from one hand. "Meet you outside in ten or fifteen."

      It was more like twenty, to Bran's growing irritation. He was debating the merits of going in after Jeremiah so fiercely that he didn't hear the footsteps until they were almost on him—in a panic, he spun round. Jeremiah's face split into a grin that was only a little disappointed. "Aaw, thought for sure I'd been quiet," he said.

      "Quiet as an elephant falling down the stairs," Bran shot back. The skin on the back of his neck was still prickling.

      Jeremiah only snickered and held out Bran's rucksack, even fatter than it had been. Instead of the puffy orange parka he now wore a cheap dark blue anorak, layered over a black polo-neck jumper for the warmth of it. A bulge in one pocket was probably the cap—the bulge in the other pocket Bran didn't know a thing about, and didn't care to. Framed by the high neck of the jumper, his face permanently stuck in that sneering expression, Jeremiah looked years older.

      Taking his rucksack Bran slung it over his shoulder, clutching at the strap with both hands. "Twenty minutes' head start at least," he warned.

      "Yes, I remember." Jeremiah jammed both hands into his bulging pockets. "Best get a move on."

      Bran took a step back, turned on his heel, and hurried off into the wet. For the first few minutes it was a pure relief to be alone and not waiting on anyone—then it was nothing but a cascade of worries and fears and what-ifs and should-I-haves and Bran finished his journey with his shoulders hunched and his head down.

      He reached the McDonalds shortly after seven in the evening, ducking into the brightly-lit warmth and dripping on the already-sodden entry rug. It was full of people, parents and children, mostly. More people than he'd been expecting, that was for sure, and after a startled moment Bran kicked himself for that as well—it was only bloody dinnertime, of course the place was liable to be packed, what else hadn't he thought of? Now truly grumpy and paranoid to boot, Bran treated himself to dinner and carried it off towards the front of the restaurant, where he lucked into a table fairly close to the front windows.

      The shop across the street was closed, shuttered, and dark, the street around it only sparsely populated. It was Sunday, after all, and the shop closed at six sharp, probably a bit earlier than that if trade was slow. Bran dug into his fat pack after Macbeth—Jeremiah's bunched-up orange parka rustled against his hand, making him jump—and settled in to his food. Every few seconds he glanced over the top of his book, looking at his own eyes in the black mirror of the window and then, a moment later, at the darkened shop.

      He didn't spot a single patrol car or policeman abroad, although how common that was, he didn't know. The steel shutters over the front of the shop looked ordinary as far as Bran could tell. It wasn't so much the shutters themselves that would be the problem, rather the time one would have to spend exposed in order to get through them—and then the opened shutters would shout for the coppers as loudly as any alarm. No, Bran wasn't going in the front, that much was certain, and he was glad to have the option taken away from him.

      He finished off his food and lingered over his drink, pretending to read Macbeth and not retaining a bloody word of it. He checked his watch but couldn't quite recall when he'd arrived, so he had only a vague idea of how long he had left to wait—what else hadn't he thought of? He was a fool and no mistake. Bran directed his scowl back down at the pages of his book, chewing on his straw.

      It was a fairly endless five minutes before Bran caught the shift of rapid movement out of the corner of his eye. He'd been expecting it, waiting for it, dreading it, and still it managed to startle him. His head jerked up. The running figure barely slowed, only rocked back and heaved something at the jewellery shop—a brick, Bran thought, although he couldn't quite tell.

      The shop's front window shattered with a crash that drew the attention of every person in the restaurant. The alarm started shrieking even before the brick bounced off the steel shutters—the vandal snaked a lightning-quick hand into the shop, snatched something, and bolted. "Little thief!" someone gasped behind Bran, but no one showed any inclination to run out into the cold and wet after him. Of course not, Bran thought sourly. Bran joined the excited crowds bunching in the front windows, ignoring the cries of "Mama mama what happened?!" and glancing at his watch. 7:23.

      The police showed up an endless, noisy three minutes later. By that point most of the gawpers had grabbed their meals and brought them forward, to sit in the window seats and watch the show, not that there was much of one. The police studied the broken window and the steel shutters and conferred, shining their torches into the hole, ignoring the screaming alarms. One of them glanced at the McDonalds. He'd be coming to ask for eyewitness statements soon—Bran slid out of his seat and headed towards the back of the restaurant. He wasn't the only one making a quiet exit, he noticed with some grim amusement, and he followed a couple of the employees out the back door to the alleyway and freedom.

      He ought to be less panicky now, he thought, but it was only worse. What if they'd caught Jeremiah going away with his spoils—what if he'd given up Bran—what if he'd given up Ethan—Bran hurried off, bugs crawling up his spine. It took him ten long, long minutes to get back to the cinema, even chased as he was by his fears. He was so certain that Jeremiah had mucked it all up and got himself caught that it was purely a surprise when Jeremiah hissed at him from the alley beside the cinema, his eyes nearly glittering in the near-dark. Bran jumped, then wandered over, forcing himself to move slowly, to not care.

      "Went all right, then?" Jeremiah asked, rubbing a sleeve over his face to clear away the wet on his cheeks. His eyes were wide and alert, his fingers flexing into claws, his pulse jumping in his throat.

      Bran pulled the orange parka out of his rucksack with a huge and heaving slither. "Think so," he said, holding it out.

      Jeremiah stripped off the anorak and dropped it to the pavement between his feet, then yanked the jumper off over his head. It nearly brought his t-shirt with it. His stomach muscles bunched in front of Bran's eyes—oh, there was no denying that that was what they were, not any more—and then Jeremiah dropped the jumper onto the anorak and yanked his t-shirt down, hiding everything from view again. His bared arms were all over gooseflesh; he bundled himself back into the parka with relief.

      Grabbing the discarded clothes Bran stuffed them back into his pack, getting them out of sight. "What'd you nick, then?" he said, pitching his voice low. "Didn't tell you to nick anything, did I?"

      "Couldn't resist, it was right there," Jeremiah said with a snicker. "Besides, if I didn't nick something, it'd look odd to break the window, wouldn't it?" One hand darted into his jeans pocket and drew out a billowing shimmer of reddish light—Jeremiah smirked and fluttered the silk scarf at Bran. "It's all yours," he said. "Fair trade for the bracelet, I think."

      "What am I to do with that, then?" Bran asked sourly. He snatched the drifting scarf out of the air, mostly to get it back out of sight; it was so thin and fine that it felt like candyfloss in his fingers. "Dress up like a lady so I can tie it 'round my neck and act all fancy?"

      Jeremiah shrugged. The little smile on his face didn't budge. "Do whatever you like," he said. "I stole it for you, like, so it's still yours."

      "Oh, aye. Cheers." Bran stuffed the scarf into his rucksack after the coat and jumper, wedging it firmly down the side and out of sight.

      Burying his chin in the fat collar of his parka Jeremiah watched Bran struggle with his pack. "Find out everything you need, then," he ventured.

      "More or less, aye." Bran closed the flap. "Alarm was still going off when I left, but I didn't want to hang about and get questioned by the filth, did I?"

      "No, expect not. That it, then? Anything else to do before we head back?"

      Bran thought about it, hefting his pack. "Don't think so," he said. "If we start back now we ought to make it back to Ethan's by ten or so."

      "Let's go, then," said Jeremiah. "Maybe Claude will have saved me some dinner. I'm bloody starving."

      "Aye. Maybe." Bran eased past Jeremiah, heading for the nearest bus stop.

      Even though it was done Bran still found himself wound tight, warily checking every car that went past, just waiting for the hammerblow of a policeman's shout to stop them both. Surely even in his puffy orange parka Jeremiah was radiating guilt. Even if Bran couldn't see it nor sense it himself—even if Jeremiah seemed to be ambling along at his side without a care for anything but the constant mist—a policeman would surely see right through their bravado.

      He clung to this certainty until the train pulled out of the station, at which point the tension melted out of him so fast that it felt like a plug had been pulled. As the train left London Bran melted against its wall and shut his eyes, amazed that he could finally breathe again. He heaved a deep breath, just because he could.

      "I know," Jeremiah groaned, slumping in the seat next to him. The grin he gave Bran was almost sheepish. Suddenly he looked his age again—he gave in and started giggling like a lunatic, which startled Bran into cracking up, and then he couldn't stop—there they both were, both stifling whoops of laughter, aware of the other passengers' mild annoyance.

      By the time Bran had laughed himself out, he was exhausted. Which was ridiculous, he'd barely done a thing all day, he hadn't even exercised as hard as usual, but all the same, there it was. He didn't exactly want to fall asleep on the train, but ten minutes out of the station and he was slumping down in his seat, drifting in and out of consciousness. By the time a puffy and rustling thing settled up against his shoulder, he was so far gone that he barely noticed, and they slept on each other all the way home, Jeremiah's face against the side of Bran's throat.

      The nap and the distance from London did a lot to restore Bran's good humour, and he hopped off the train feeling his old self, more or less. It was long after ten on a Sunday night. Within minutes of their arrival the station was empty enough to echo.

      Bran found a pay phone and called Ethan, then ducked outside. Jeremiah was leaning against one of the pillars, hands stuffed in his pockets, momentarily quelled. His face was oddly serious in the dim outdoor lights.

      "Ethan'll be here in ten," Bran reported, joining Jeremiah under the overhang. "Mind what you say, like."

      Jeremiah twitched out half a tired smile. "I know."

      "Don't know how I'll explain the scarf," Bran said. "S'pose I'll just hide it somewhere and hope he doesn't see for a while."

      "Fair enough."

      Bran studied Jeremiah's profile, uneasy. "Here," he finally said. "You all right?"

      "Tired. And a bit overwhelmed, you want the truth." Jeremiah pulled a hand out of his parka long enough to rub his temples. "Haven't done a smash-and-grab in a while, that's all. Thought that was behind me, like. Feels like slipping backwards."

      Bran rocked back onto his heels, surprised and then not surprised all in the space of a breath. "You ever get caught at it?"

      "Came close a few times, that's all. Nothing to come back on Ethan, if that's what you're worried about."

      "I'm not worried," Bran said with some heat. "I was just wondering. Haven't done any of that myself—Ethan says it's for fools."

      Jeremiah laughed under his breath. "It is at that," he said, looking away.

      "It's just..." Bran floundered. "Don't act too wobbly 'round Ethan, that's all. He'll know something's up."

      "Don't worry." Jeremiah closed his eyes and cleared his face of expression, then opened his eyes and offered Bran a low-key version of his usual grin. "I've got it, me."

      "Right," Bran said. The change in Jeremiah was a little unsettling. It seemed to call for something else, so he repeated himself, unsure of what else to say: "Right."

      They ran out of conversation after that and waited together in silence until Ethan's car pulled sedately into the wet and empty lot. Bran dashed through the misting rain and threw himself into the front seat, dripping and triumphant; one of the back doors clunked open and Jeremiah scrambled into the back, laughing. Bran couldn't tell if it was a real laugh or a fake one just for fooling Ethan, and the fact that he couldn't tell didn't do much for his nerves, but fortunately Ethan was more concerned with turning about and putting the car back on the road than he was with interrogating his charges.

      It wasn't until they were several minutes out of the station that Ethan cleared his throat. "So, how did it go?"

      "Fine," Bran said, fingers flexing on the strap of his pack. "Bit damp and awful, like, but I found out what I needed to know."

      "Good, good," Ethan said absently, paying more attention to his driving than to Bran, for which Bran was grateful. "We can talk about it in more detail tomorrow. Jeremy? How did you think it went?"

      "Thought it went well," Jeremiah said, leaning forward to put an arm on the back of the front seat. "It looks a right nice target, you want my opinion. All those little trays."

      Ethan put on his indicator and guided the car off onto a smaller road. "Oh, yes, it should be a reasonably lucrative job," he said. "More than most poor fools in this job see in a year."

      "Course, now I'm starving," Jeremiah said hopefully. "Never did get supper."

      Ethan smiled. "Well. I'm sure we can do something about that."

      Leaving the others in the kitchen (Jeremiah applying himself to an omelet which Claude had seemed all too happy to whip up) Bran trudged up to his room and dropped his pack on the bed, digging everything out. The anorak and jumper were damp and dirty, smelling of Jeremiah's sweat, and Bran hustled them into the laundry first thing. The scarf... he shook it out and let it flutter down onto his bed, considering it. It wasn't real silk, most likely, but it was pretty enough for all that. The glitter in the red was little gold threads, all shot through the weave.

      Bran folded the scarf into a neat little package and tucked it away in a drawer with his track suits. It could stay there for now, until he thought of something to do with it. No matter what Jeremiah might say, he wasn't going to keep it about, not least because it was stolen and Ethan had taught him from the very beginning to get rid of such things. Just remembering that made Bran waver for a moment, wondering if he shouldn't ought to go put the scarf in with the building plans and such. Eventually he decided that he was too tired, and at any rate it would keep until tomorrow.

      After a bit of consideration Bran dropped the empty rucksack into the laundry, too. With the stress of the day suddenly gone, just like that, Bran was nearly dropping where he stood; it was all he could do to splash some water on his face and crawl out of his trousers before he fell into the bed, groaning right along with the springs. Finally at rest, he drifted in and out of light consciousness until he heard the soft thump of Jeremiah's door closing, and a moment later, the muted click of Ethan's. It was oddly comforting. Bran's semi-conscious mind drifted along, lazily touching on this and that. The last thought he had before sleep claimed him was of the scarf.

      "I should be able to lay my hands on a card-case or two," Ethan said. "It'll come out of your budget, of course."

      Bran fidgeted with his fingers. "Aye."

      "Well, then. When do you plan to go in, do you think?"

      Instead of answering Ethan Bran spun up and out of his chair, going to press his nose to the kitchen window. It was an unseasonably pleasant day, still a bit grey but not actively raining, and a team of burly fellows in coveralls were taking advantage of the weather to re-surface the long drive, erasing the cracks in the surface and restoring it to a perfect gluey blackness. Bran watched them, half in fascination and half as a ploy not to answer until he had his response just right. "I was thinking October, about," he finally said. His reflection in the window wet its lips. Bran ignored it.

      Behind him Ethan was quiet for a moment. "Why October, then?" he finally asked, his voice severely neutral.

      "Because I don't know what all I don't know, like," Bran said. "Never done this before, have I? All I know for certain is that I want to go in when it's disgusting and wet and dark out, and we'll run out of spring soon enough, so it'll have to be autumn. I'll still be seventeen and all, so it's not that bad, and I'll have yonks to think of... whatever I haven't thought of yet." And I want to give them plenty of time to forget about me and about the burglary they've just had, he didn't add, averting his eyes from Ethan's reflection and from his own.

      "While your argument does make a certain amount of sense," Ethan said carefully, "I'm not certain that you ought to put the job off for nearly six months—"

      "Why not? You did it all the time when you were working! You said!"

      Ethan didn't precisely sigh, but the idea of it was there. "That's true."

      "I know it's not as big a job as you were always doing, but I still want to make sure that I have everything down just right before I go in!" Bran caught himself flapping his hands about and made them be still, in fists at his sides. "You think that because it's a piddling little shop that it's a quick and easy job—it isn't! It isn't a bit less dangerous and against the law! It's practise, like. Wish you'd have some respect."

      His heart gave a throb at that, quailing in the face of the disrespect of it, but after a moment Ethan looked away. "I suppose you're right," he said. "Very well. October it is."

      Bran restricted himself to a jerky little nod. "Right," he said, his voice rusty. "Gives you more time to lay hands on the stuff, too."

      "I don't expect I'll need six months, but again, you're right." Ethan looked down at his empty tea-cup, toying absently with its handle.

      In the ensuing silence Bran could hear the shouts from the workers outside. He almost said something to break the quiet, but couldn't think of anything to say. Finally Ethan looked up again. "Ah, well. If you won't be going in until October, we can perhaps get a few things accomplished in the meantime."

      Bran shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his clasped hands, waiting patiently for the silent prayer to be over. All around him the church boomed with the sound of lots of people praying silently (which meant coughing, shifting, clearing their throats, breathing, and so on, and so on) or, like Bran, just waiting for the silence to be over.

      Bran didn't feel any particular urge to speak to God today beyond a perfunctory wotcha. Truth be told he was somewhat uncomfortable with asking for God's blessing on his endeavours, since he was sure that God wouldn't approve of them—but still, couldn't hurt to ask. So he did, and he had, and now he just needed to wait until everyone else was done.

      Cracking open an eye, he glanced at Liam beside him. Like Bran, Liam was resting his forehead on his clasped hands, his knuckles standing out in hard knots. His eyes were screwed shut as tight as they'd go, and he was mumbling, his lips moving behind the scruff of his beard. So he wasn't done, then. Bran closed that eye, opened the other, and looked at Paula. Paula sat straighter, her head bowed over the rosary draped over her loosely-clasped hands. She worried at the beads with her thumbs, purely for the comfort of it. The red silk scarf gleamed like a beacon from the open collar of her church-going suit jacket. She'd been so thrilled with it that she'd put it on straight away, and given Bran a tremendous hug.

      Pleased with himself, Bran shut his eyes again and waited.