Dan Abnett - Border Princes

James turned, deftly ducking the punch Dean threw at him, and landed a punch of his own.

Dean hurtled backwards onto the checkout, breaking the code reader. He flopped unconscious. The checkout display flashed ‘UNKNOWN BAR CODE’.

The shoppers and the checkout girls gave James a spontaneous round of applause. James stepped forward, and looked at the beige lump sliding towards him on the packing conveyer.

He pulled one of the crumpled serviettes out of his pocket and gathered the thing up. It was unpleasantly warm.

Gwen appeared behind him. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Having fun?’

‘Loads,’ James replied.

‘How did that happen?’ she asked, pointing.

At the far end of the shop front, a broken trolley full of slumping beer crates was making the automatic exit open and close and open and close.

‘No idea,’ said James.

Jack’s phone rang again. He straightened himself up on the edge of the nearest chest freezer.

‘You all right, honey?’ the big black woman cooed at him, peering under the eye-levels.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,’ Jack replied. Who the hell was she?

He opened his phone.

‘This is Jack.’

‘Jack, for God’s sake!’ said Owen’s voice. ‘In answer to your question, twenty-bloody-seven!’

‘On a scale of one to ten?’

‘Yes!’

‘Owen, why the hell didn’t you call me earlier?’

‘We’ll meet you there,’ said Owen.

Jack hung up. ‘Owen says they’ll meet us there.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said James. He was driving. ‘Lunchtime rush. Cathays is going to be fifteen minutes minimum from here.’

‘Punch it,’ said Jack.

‘You two OK?’ James called back.

‘We’re fine,’ said Jack.

‘He got you both. Both of you,’ James said.

‘So you say. I don’t remember,’ said Jack.

‘Oh, come on!’

‘OK, OK, I’ll take your word for it,’ Jack looked at James in the driving mirror. ‘How come he didn’t get you?’

‘I didn’t give him the chance. You’ve got it bagged?’

‘Bagged and stowed in a box,’ said Gwen. ‘Horrible thing, it was. Like an organ. Like a swollen appendix.’

‘Looked like a sentient gland to me,’ said Jack.

‘And you’d have seen plenty of those,’ said Gwen.

‘One or two. Owen can give us a full slice and dice later.’

‘If there is a later,’ said James. He braked hard. ‘Where are you going? Where are you going?’ he yelled impatiently at a drifting taxi.

‘Calm down,’ said Gwen.

‘I hate that we had to leave him there,’ James complained, hauling on the wheel as they went over a roundabout.

‘He’s nothing without his mojo,’ said Jack. ‘We shut him down. Who’s he gonna complain to? Who’d believe him?’

‘I suppose,’ said James.

‘Besides, this is more important,’ said Jack.

Gwen nudged Jack. ‘James?’ said Jack.

‘Yeah?’

‘Back there, did you throw a shopping cart full of crated beer the length of the store?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘OK.’

‘Because I have superpowers, obviously. What the hell are you asking me?’

‘You didn’t then?’ asked Jack.

‘Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t.’

‘OK, then.’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Well, a cart got tossed-’

‘Arsehole!’ James shouted, and leant on the horn.

‘Excuse me,’ said Jack.

‘Not you, that van. Look, the cart rolled and fell over. That’s all it was.’

‘The cart rolled and fell over,’ Jack said to Gwen. ‘So, you see, that’s what it was.’

James glanced up and looked at himself in the mirror. He was sweating. It wasn’t just the stress of hard-nosed driving.

He was a little bit scared.

And he couldn’t tell anyone why.

‘Where are we going again?’ he asked.

Jack consulted the GPS. ‘Wrigley Street. The open ground behind it.’

‘Guess we’re going to find out what happened to all those missing pets,’ said James. He parped the horn. ‘Get in lane! Get in lane, you idiot!’

Wrigley Street, Cathays. Noon. Grey clouds shooting spots of rain. Back-to-back tenements, front-and-backs, a relic of labourer’s housing.

A blue Honda sports drew up with an ostentatious squeal of disc brakes.

Owen and Toshiko got out. She flipped out her phone and called Ianto.

‘We’re on the plot. Do you have a house number?’

‘Number sixteen.’

‘Ident?’

‘David Gryffud Morgan. Lives alone. Pensioner.’

‘Thanks, Ianto. Where are the others?’

‘Eight minutes away, by GPS.’

‘Thanks. I’m going to mute you but keep you live in my pocket, OK?’

‘Yes, Tosh. I’m monitoring and recording.’

Toshiko and Owen walked up to the peeling door.

Owen rang the bell.

‘David Gryffud, right?’ he asked.

‘David Morgan. Gryffud is the middle name.’

‘Oh, OK.’

The door began to open. It rattled as someone inside shook it. It was sticking.

It opened. A tiny old man in a suit peered out at them. He had a black eye. He was one of the oldest people Owen had ever seen.

‘Hello, yes?’

‘Mr Morgan?’ Toshiko asked.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr David Morgan?’

‘Davey. Or Taff. They always used to call me Taff, even the wife.’

‘Excellent,’ said Owen, rubbing his hands together. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Are you from the MOD?’ Davey asked cautiously.

Owen glanced at Toshiko.

‘Were you expecting the MOD, Davey?’ she asked.

‘Of course. I rung them up.’

‘All right then,’ smiled Owen. ‘We’re from the MOD. Can we come in?’

Davey opened the door and limped around to let them through into the hall. They saw he was slightly scoliotic, and his frame so shrunken. So thin, like a bird. Owen thought if he stood in front of a light, they’d see his skeleton like an X-ray.

‘About time,’ Davey Morgan said. ‘I was at a loss. He’s very volatile, obviously. Very, very volatile. I was afraid to provoke him.’

‘Uh, who?’ asked Owen.

‘Go through, the sitting room to your right.’

Toshiko and Owen went into the tiny sitting room. Two armchairs and a sofa. A wood-effect radiogram cabinet. An upright piano. A framed picture of the Scottish Highlands on the chimney breast. A stale aroma.

‘Nice,’ said Owen, looking around.

‘It’s all right. They’re from the MOD,’ they heard the old man say in the hall.

‘Who are you talking to, sir?’ Toshiko asked.

Davey followed them into the sitting room. ‘Davey, just Davey, please.’

‘Who were you talking to?’

‘No one,’ Davey said. ‘Please sit.’ He hobbled into one of the worn armchairs.

‘So… Davey …’ said Toshiko, ‘how can the Ministry of Defence help you today?’

‘Well,’ he said, leaning forwards, ‘I suppose you’ve come to bring it in. On the nod. I understand. A thing like that has to be on the secret list.’

‘A thing like what, Davey?’ asked Toshiko.

‘Smart weapons. That’s what they’re called, aren’t they? Smart weapons? I read about them in the papers. Not the kind of war I knew, of course.’

‘What war did you know, Davey?’

Davey Morgan smiled. ‘The last one. I went into Normandy with the landings. 1944. Royal Fusiliers.’

‘Well, that must have been quite a thing, Davey.’

‘Davey,’ said Owen, cutting in quickly. ‘Davey, old mate… what did you find? You said a smart weapon?’

Davey nodded. ‘I would have thought you’d have known you’d lost it. Clever bit of kit, I’ll grant you. Talking to me. I suppose that’s computers and the Interweb and all that. I’ve been told about the Interweb.’