Free May Contain Traces of Magic by Tom Holt Page B

don’t need a bloody condemned soul imprisoned in a little plastic box with a set of OS maps to tell me how to get from Wolverhampton to Stafford without going through Birmingham city centre.
    It’s fine, they told him, the wards and containment spells are absolutely watertight and foolproof, there’s absolutely no way the bugger’s getting out of there, you’ve just got to be a tiny bit careful, that’s all. Asked to define ‘careful’ in this context, however, they’d gone ever so slightly vague - treat it with respect, don’t play with it, use a bit of common sense, and other well-meaning but useless advice. Chris had driven for a month like a lorry driver hauling nitroglycerine until Ben Jarrow, who had the south-eastern patch, finally told him what all the fuss was about. Yes, the unit was powered by a living entity, usually a sprite, dryad, water nymph or salamander; invariably, one that had committed some crime against the laws of its community and been given a life sentence. But that was fine, since the wards really did work, otherwise the standards commission would never have signed off on it. The only danger lay in getting - well, Ben had said, looking a little strange, in getting attached to it. What, caught up in the wiring or something? No, Ben said patiently, getting fond of it. Talking to it. Maybe starting to believe it was talking back, having a conversation. But the risk wasn’t worth worrying about, he’d continued, because who in his right mind would start talking to a navigational aid? Only someone who was a bit not quite right in the head, or a really sad bugger - And in any case, he’d added, if you do start to feel like you’re getting caught, all you’ve got to do is turn the radio on, or play a CD, and the spell’s broken. Simple as that.
    You never think it’ll be you. You always reckon you’re too smart, and then it’s too late; you’re hooked, caught, in the shit, and everybody’s giving you sad, sympathetic looks that really mean told you so . So easily done. But, Chris told himself, as he nerved himself to touch the car door again, it’s all right, I caught it in time, I’ll be sensible from now on and it’ll all be fine.
    So he climbed in and sat perfectly still for a moment or so; then he leaned across and reached for the radio. For a split second, his fingers brushed the SatNav’s little rectangular screen, and he felt a sudden urge to press the button; bad, he thought, very bad, and stretched past it until he felt the radio knob click into place. Safe. There, see? Nothing to it, really.
    The radio. The Jeremy Vine show; the daily current affairs phone-in spot. He put up with it for ten minutes, then turned it off, reflecting that if the spirit of the SatNav really was a nasty piece of work suffering eternal damnation for its sins, the only real difference between SatNav and the radio was that Jeremy was getting paid. After that he drove in silence for a bit; then, more through absent-mindedness than anything else, he turned on the CD player.
    That tune again. It really was rather catchy, though Chris couldn’t remember a note of it after it had finished - a point in its favour, since there’s nothing worse than having a song rattling around in your head all day. Distracting, though; which meant the diversion on the outskirts of Walsall took him completely by surprise, and before he could react he’d been swept away by the currents of the traffic and was heading at considerable speed in the wrong direction.
    Sod it, Chris thought, because the country he was being swirled along through was some way off his customary route, and he didn’t know offhand how you got back onto the main dual carriageway, which in any event was closed for resurfacing. Just as well, he told himself, that I’ve got my little friend here. He pressed the button, frowned - something at the back of his