Border Princes

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The End of the World began on a Thursday night in October, just after eight in the evening.

It began with filthy, spitting rain creeping inland from the Bristol Channel, with a black SUV hammering east along the Penarth Road, with the bleep of a text message received.

‘Scale of one to ten?’ Owen asked. He was driving, peering out at traffic barely visible in the veil of rain.

‘One being slightly pressing and ten being insanely urgent?’ Jack wondered from the passenger seat.

‘Yeah.’

‘About twenty-six, twenty-seven,’ Jack replied mildly. He held up his mobile phone so that Owen could glance over and read the screen.

THE END OF THE WORLD.

‘Captain Analogy strikes again,’ said Owen.

‘There’s only room for one captain on this team,’ Jack replied, flipping the clam-shell mobile shut. ‘Uh, Owen…’ he added.

Looking at Jack’s mobile had taken Owen’s eyes away from the road long enough for tail lights to bloom bright like distress flares dead ahead. Owen stood on the brakes, rocking the SUV nose down, and downshifted to go around.

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