Page 20 of Never a Hero

Joan wanted to cry. Dad wouldn’t tell either. God, how long had she and Nick been gone? ‘We can’t bring them into this,’ she said, willing him to understand. ‘We have to keep them safe. The people after us are ruthless.’

Nick shook his head again, but Joan could see that her words had cut through.

‘My gran will help us,’ Joan said. ‘My mum’s mum. She’ll know what to do. We just have to get to Queenhithe to find her.’

Nick’s eyes cleared slightly. ‘She can help?’

Joan nodded. ‘She will.’

Gran would be angry with her, of course, for telling Nick all this stuff. But when Joan explained, Gran would understand. Gran loved Joan, and she’d look after Nick if Joan asked her to. Joan knew she would.

Inside the station, only one ticket booth was open. A bored man in a red beanie yawned, eyes on his phone. He’d propped it up against the service window so that he could flick his gaze from screen to customer without moving his head. Joan guessed he was watching cricket or rugby—the phone emanated the faint roar of a crowd and Australian-accented commentators.

‘Two tickets to Blackfriars,’ Joan said. She kept her head down, wishing she had a cap to hide her face. Train stations always had cameras.

‘Ninety-nine pounds eighty.’ The guy’s name tag said Mark.

‘What?’ Nick interjected. He’d been scanning the station, alert for anyone entering, but now he turned to Mark, sounding more shocked than he’d been about any of the other changes so far. ‘A hundred pounds for two tickets to London?’

Mark shrugged. ‘That’s how much it costs.’

Joan didn’t have that kind of cash. She had a debit card, and Dad had put an emergency credit card on her phone, but there was no way she could use those without drawing someone’s attention—even if the things still worked.

Wait … she’d taken Corvin’s wallet. She dug it from her pocket and rifled through it, glimpsing transparent-and-gold monster currency. To her relief, there was a sheaf of familiar banknotes too, paper-clipped together like a tourist might have done. Joan plucked out four twenties, a ten, and two fives.

Mark took the notes and printed off their tickets, still yawning. He started to slide over twenty pence in change and then paused. He sat up straighter. ‘What’s this?’

‘What’s what?’ Joan said, and then her stomach dropped.

Mark was staring at a crisp ten-pound note with an unfamiliar queen’s face on it. ‘Who is this?’ He turned it over, frowning. Was that Emily Brontë on the other side? Shit. That had to be a banknote from the future.

‘Here.’ Nick snagged the note from Mark’s hand, leaving behind a more recognisable one. His cake money, Joan remembered.

‘Wait.’ Mark didn’t look bored anymore. ‘Give us another look at that note. What was that?’

‘Nothing. Sorry. Just got back from overseas,’ Joan lied. ‘Malaysian money.’ She hoped Mark hadn’t noticed the giant letters at the top of the note: Bank of England.

Mark looked like he wanted to argue, but then his phone roared—someone had scored a goal or taken a wicket. His eyes flicked back to the match, and Joan grabbed the tickets before his attention could return. ‘Thanks!’

She cursed at herself as she and Nick sped to the platform. A banknote from the future would have been a clear announcement that she’d been here. She couldn’t make mistakes like that. Nick’s life was on the line as much as hers.

It was still more nighttime than morning. The platform’s lights were on, making the sky look darker than it was. There didn’t seem to be anyone around.

‘Train’ll be here soon,’ Nick murmured, and Joan nodded, trying to relax.

The minutes ticked down on the screen. Eventually, the train arrived in a slow-motion rumble. Through the windows, Joan spotted sleepy commuters and no obvious guards. The last carriage was empty.

A wave of exhaustion hit her as she boarded. She found a window seat, and Nick settled beside her, his body a solid wall blocking the rest of the world. In Joan’s tired state, she felt almost safe, even knowing who he’d been. Even knowing they were still on the run.

‘Just over an hour to Blackfriars,’ he murmured, and Joan nodded again. ‘And then we’ll find your grandmother,’ he added.

His voice was even and matter-of-fact. There was nothing off about his tone. But Joan found herself tensing. It occurred to her that she was about to guide Nick right into the monster world—to Gran.

In her mind’s eye, she saw him knock Corvin out without any seeming effort. One strike to Corvin’s jaw, and Corvin had slumped. Then Nick had punched him again as he was falling. Precise. Expert. Could someone untrained have done that?

What if Joan was wrong about Nick? What if he was playing her? What if he was still the hero, and she was leading him to her family?

‘You should sleep,’ Nick said. There was gravel in his voice. ‘We’ve been on the run all night, and you worked a shift before that.’

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