The Piglet File

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2021. The Piglet File. Flash in a Flash Episode 133 (5 January 2021).

We planned to capture him at Paddington Station and eliminate him elsewhere after we got the file, but he spotted us first; he was young, not naïve.

Fred tried to jab his foot with the drugged sword cane, feigning an accidental collision and then grabbing the smaller man as he collapsed, but bungled the maneuver. CR skipped aside and stepped on Fred’s shin—hard, with pricey patent-leather shoes that apparently concealed a steel plate in the sole. Plan B was to kill him there, but before Brandon could shiv him with the 15-cm blade concealed in a folded Daily Mail, CR stepped backwards into him and sank an elbow into his spleen, crushing it. Brandon hit the ground almost before Fred. The rest of us tried to close, but CR was thin and nimble, and wove through the crowd with surprising dexterity. A crowd of Brits, eyes resolutely avoiding contact with the other commuters.

He fled through the Arrivals doors and stepped into a cab, but as I’d been waiting behind one of the doors, I was able to tag him, center of mass. He lurched, but the backpack he was carrying slung over one shoulder saved him. Before I could fire again, the door slammed and the cab sped off.

“Where’s he going?” Fred was limping and leaning heavily on Martin; there was no sign of Brandon. Fuck him. We had more important problems, and would retrieve him later.

“Were it me, I’d take the game somewhere I can control the situation.” I’d memorized the cab’s license, and tapped it into a very nonstandard app on my iPhone. The ironically named spinning pizza of death appeared for a moment, then a map came up. “He’s heading due south. Ah. Got it: he’s heading for the hundred-acre wood. Ashdown Forest, East Sussex.” Formerly the thousand-acre wood, but nothing’s sacred to the damned real estate developers, even in rural Britain.

Grant, who’d come running and left our car at the curb, looked over my shoulder at the screen. “Surely the Brits haven’t granted us access to their CCTV network?”

“Don’t be an ass. Those things are easier to hack than Alexa.” I swiped to another app. “Intel says he used to play in the forest with stuffed animals when he was a child. Intel clearly needs a good talking to about their priorities. Get in the damned car.” They complied, hastily.

As our car tore away from the curb, we cut off a soccer mom in her minivan. She rolled down her window and cursed us in a distinctly non-British way. Maybe an expat? Fred gave her the finger, and Grant floored the accelerator, peeling away from her shocked face, mouth open in an outraged O.

We drove in silence, avoiding recriminations and other words it would’ve been difficult to take back. It took us nearly two hours to reach the remnant woodland. CR stood waiting for us in the parking lot, backpack behind him and some kind of large, open jar at his feet. We got out, leaving Grant at the wheel, motor idling.

I smiled at him, half regretting that the game was about to end. “Sorry we missed you at the airport. And at Paddington. But this is so much more convenient, really. No witnesses.”

Martin pulled a silenced pistol from his shoulder holster. “Any last words?”

CR smiled. “Just one: duck!”

The paw of the 10-foot grizzly crushed Martin’s skull like a meringue struck with a rolling pin. The return stroke caved in Fred’s rib cage like a child jumping on a gingerbread house. Martin fell like a sack of potatoes; Fred gurgled once, blood welling from his mouth, then toppled like a tree.

I stepped back, out of range, fighting down vomit, and drew the sawed-off shotgun from my coat.

“Oh, bother,” said the bear, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

Before I could bring the gun to bear—so to speak—an orange and white striped blur swept the gun from my hands, leaving blood gouting from a severed artery in my wrist. I clamped down hard on it with my free hand.

CR’s grin widened. “The wonderful thing about tiggers...”

“Is tiggers are wonderful things,” the bear replied through a mouthful of honey. He’d somehow managed to lift the jar to his face, and honey was trickling down his muzzle, coating the bloodstained fur. The tiger smiled, and I took a step back involuntarily, hand still clamped on the artery to keep from bleeding out.

“It’s good to see you, boy,” the bear mumbled stickily around a mouthful of honey.

A grizzled, emaciated but disturbingly anthropomorphic rabbit emerged from the shrubbery. “Enough. We’ll socialize later. We’ve business to conduct. You have the package?”

CR nodded and gestured at the backpack with one hand, and I belatedly noticed the blood trickling down the straps. A large enough flow to give one hope, but not so large I actually felt hopeful. “Unfortunately, that bugger tagged me before I could close the cab door.”

From behind me came the sound of shattering glass. Despite my reluctance to take my eyes from the tiger, I glanced back. A large, plum-colored donkey stood, weight on its front legs. Its hind legs had crashed through the side window and nearly taken off Grant’s head.

CR winced. “Ouch. Are you all right, old friend?”

His voice was morose. “Thanks for noticing me. Wish I could say yes, but I can’t.” He sighed, brokenhearted. “I’m stuck. Not that this is in any way unexpected. That’s just how things tend to work out in this business.”

CR stepped around me and helped the beast extricate its hind legs from what remained of the window. Meanwhile, the rabbit had opened the backpack and removed a file folder. He pulled thick, horn-rimmed glasses from a pocket and pressed a button on the temple so they lit up. He scanned the printout for microdots—still the safest way to communicate untraceably. “He’s safe,” he called out. “Piglet got to the safe house and will be extracted shortly.”

“What do you want done with him?” The tiger’s grin widened and I took another step backwards.

CR frowned. “Wish I could say you can play with him a while, but I think we need to send him back mostly intact so he can have a few words with his handlers.”

I felt a moment’s relief. I might just survive this after all. “What message do you want me to give them?”

“That this is our country, not part of the American pond, and that you shouldn’t meddle here without our permission.”

“But the pig...”

“Is an old friend of England, and none of your business.” He smiled and patted the bear’s shoulder. “Also? Don’t trust your intel so much. Children are notoriously inaccurate at describing their reality. But I’m not a child anymore.”

Author’s note

The title was inspired by the charming British comedy of the same name. The story was inspired by the movie Christopher Robin, which I watched over someone’s shoulder on a plane to New Zealand, without sound, so certain misinterpretations were perhaps inevitable.

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