The Jack Hansard Series: Season One

Episode 6: Cockermouth

Contrary to what you might think, the Black Market isn't centred in London. Seems strange, what with the capital being the living, beating heart of the whole country; it's the centre for everything. News, music, art: sackfuls of culture churned out every second in an incestuous squall of creation and distribution. That's the problem, really.

The Black Market isn't based in London because too many other things are. Including the other black market. The one that peddles drugs and sex and ruined lives. Sure, our Black Market thrives on the same things, but it's a better class of ruination. If your chosen method of degeneration had to be obtained by way of a hazardous journey into another dimension, wrestled from the jaws of an unspeakably monstrous beast, and then brought back in a jar sealed with a maiden's kiss in moonlight –then you know it's quality stuff. And a lot more exciting than a bit of white powder.

Of course, the maiden's kiss or suchlike is often replaced with duct tape. Duct tape can do anything.

The point I'm trying to make is that the Black Market is everywhere. It's more of an idea than a place, you see. You are just as likely to find a dealer in the heart of Camden Town as you are in a sleepy Lincolnshire village. The Welsh contingent is particularly thriving. Lots of residual magic in Wales. Something to do with the sheep.

On a mild but drizzly day in March, the Black Market was thriving more specifically in a Cumbrian town called Cockermouth. I may or may not have decided to take up residence in this location purely for its delightful name. I am a child at heart.

I was in this part of the country – the northerly, constantly raining part – as a result of some business dealings with an associate of mine: the affable witch Mark Demdike who I rely on for a supply of ready-mades pells and potions. After an incident with a troll (in which I heroically and entirely selflessly saved the day) I find myself both thankful to still be alive, and consequently fully stocked.

"'m hungry, gwas."

And then, of course, there was Ang. Two and a half feet tall with pointy ears sticking out from under a flat cap, the little Welsh coblyn had been my travelling companion for a few weeks now. She didn't take up much space, but her debris sure did. Pie wrappers, beer bottles and spent tea bags – if it wasn't covered in pastry she wouldn't eat it, and if it wasn't ale or tea she wouldn't drink it. It may not sound like much, but when the entirety of your living area consists of one Ford Escort estate car, space fills up fast. And she snored like a wildebeest.

"We'll get food later, Ang. We need to make some money, first." I pulled out some fresh potion bottles and heaped them in Ang's skinny arms. "Arrange these on the table, would you? Neatly."

"I ain't doin' your work."

"'My work' is how we fund all those pies you eat. If you want to keep eating, it's going to become 'your work' too."

"Fine talk. We been out here all mornin' an' made no sells. Ain't no-one here's gunna buy your heathen magickry and cheap doo-dads."

"Just be patient."

"This's a farmer's market, twpsyn. People are here t'buy meat 'n' cheese, not charms 'n' potions."

"Trust me, Ang. There's always a customer out there. You just need to learn to spot them."

"There ain't none here."

I met her sceptical gaze. Time, I decided, to give Ang some instruction in the art of Black Marketeering.

"Settle in, Ang. You're going to learn a bit about our consumer base."

"Our what?"

There are two broad strains of customer that I'm always on the look out for. The first type is the hippie, who comes in several flavours. The most common flavour is the young, earth-loving waif who, despite a strong abhorrence of the ecological impact of commercialism, is nevertheless able to stomach spending a great deal of money on outlandish jewellery and stylish tie-dye outfits made by children in Thailand (but in an environmentally friendly manner).