LITMIR.BIZ

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glanced down. ‘What’s this?’

      His eyes widened. ‘A ring? A gold ring? On my third finger?’

      He glared at Beede, almost accusingly. ‘Can that be right?’

      Beede nodded. He seemed calm and unflustered; as if thoroughly accustomed to this kind of scenario.

      ‘Mein Gott!’ The German’s handsome face grew stiff with incredulity.

      ‘You’re telling me I’m…I’m…’

      ‘Married?’ Beede offered. ‘Yes. Yes, you are. Very happily.’

      ‘Seriously?’

      ‘Just wait a while,’ Beede patted his arm, ‘and everything will become clear. I promise.’

      ‘You’re right. You’re right…’ the German smiled at him, gratefully, ‘I know that…’

      But he didn’t seem entirely convinced by it.

      ‘So do you have any thoughts on where the horse may’ve came from?’ Beede enquired, gently stroking the mare’s flanks. She was exhausted. Her tongue was protruding slightly. There were flecks of foam on her neck and her ribcage. He was concerned that someone inside the restaurant might see them (a member of staff – the manager). They were in a children’s play area, after all. The horse was plainly stolen. Did this qualify as trespass?

      The German closed his eyes for a moment (as if struggling to remember), and then the tension suddenly lifted from his face and he nodded. ‘I see a field in the middle of two roads, curving…’ he murmured softly, his speech much less harsh, less halting than before, ‘and beyond…beyond I see Romney. I see the marshes. ‘

      He opened his eyes again. ‘I was checking over a couple of vacant properties earlier,’ he explained amiably, ‘in South Willesborough…’

      Then he started –

      ‘Eh?!’

      – and spun around, as though someone had just whispered something detestable into his ear.

      ‘WHO SAID THAT?!’ he cried.

      ‘Who said what?’

      Beede’s voice was tolerant but slightly teachery.

      ‘About…About South Willesborough…?’ He continued to look around him agitatedly. ‘Was it you? Did you speak? Were you there earlier?’

      ‘Hmmn. A field in the middle of two roads curving…’ Beede mused (pointedly ignoring the German’s questions), ‘I think I know the place. And it’s not too far. Perhaps a mile – a little more. We’ll need to lead her back quickly. Someone might miss her. Do you have a belt?’

      The German peered down at himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, and automatically started to unfasten the buckle.

      ‘I’ll take mine off, too,’ Beede said, unfastening his own.

      The German pulled his belt free, passed it over, then tentatively sniffed at the arm of his jacket. ‘Urgh!’ he croaked. ‘What on earth have I been doing? I smell disgusting, and look – look – I have horse hair simply everywhere…’

      He began frantically patting and slapping at the fabric, but after a couple of seconds he froze – mid-slap – as something terrible dawned on him. ‘Oh Christ,’ he gasped. ‘Oh Jesus Christ – the car. Where’s the car? What on earth have I done with it?’

      Beede had buckled the two belts together. He whispered soothingly into the mare’s ear and then looped them around her neck. She was a sweet filly. She nodded a couple of times as he pulled the leather tighter.

      On the second nod – and completely without warning – the German sprang back with a loud yell. The horse took fright and reared up. Beede clung on, resolutely.

      ‘Hey, hey…’ he hissed (managing – rather miraculously – to rein in both the horse and his temper), ‘just calm down, Dory. She won’t hurt anybody. She’s worn out. Let’s try and hold this situation together, shall we?’

      ‘But I hate horses,’ the German whimpered, hugging himself, tightly (the way a frightened girl might), and gazing up at the horse with a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. ‘I absolutely…I…I loathe them…’

      ‘That’s fine,’ Beede interrupted, ‘I’ll lead the horse, see?’

      Beede led the horse two steps forward. ‘The horse is fine. Everything’s fine. There’s no need to panic. Everything’s just fine here.’

      But the German was still panicking. ‘Oh God,’ he wailed, ‘if I’ve lost the car they’ll sack me for sure. Then where will we be?’

      ‘You won’t have lost it,’ Beede said determinedly.

      ‘Why?’ He grew instantly suspicious. ‘How do you know? How can you be sure? Were you there?’

      ‘No. No, I was here,’ Beede pointed towards the French Connection, ‘I was in the restaurant. I was having a coffee with my son. My son is called Kane. He’s still inside, actually.’

      As he pointed, Beede glanced over towards the window where Kane had stood previously. The window was empty. ‘Coffee?’ The German peered over towards the window, scowling – ‘Coffee?’ – but then something powerful suddenly seemed to strike him – a revelation – ‘But of course!’ he gasped. ‘Kaffee… kaff…kaff… Koffee. Coffee. I remember that. I know that. I know kaffee…’

      He put a tentative – almost fearful – hand up to his own chin and gently explored it with the tips of his fingers. Then he smiled (it was a brilliant smile), then he gazed at Beede, almost in wonder.

      ‘Beede,’ he said, rolling the name around in his mouth like a boiled toffee. Then he clutched at his stomach (as if the memory had just jabbed him there), leaned sharply forward and took a quick, rasping gulp of air –

       Oh God –

       Oh God

       Just to be…to be…to be…

      He stared around him, quite amazed –

      

       Where?

      ‘Of course,’ Beede smiled back, clearly relieved by this sudden show of progress (tastes and smells, he found, were often the key), ‘of course you remember…’

      He placed a reassuring hand on to the German’s broad shoulder. ‘Now – deep breath, deep breath – are you ready? Shall we get the hell out of here?’

      Kelly Broad was sitting on a high wall, chewing ferociously on a piece of celery. She was passably pretty and alarmingly thin with artificially tinted burgundy hair –

      

       Because I’m worth it

      Her face was hard (but with an enviable bone-structure), her ‘look’ was urban – hooded top (hood worn up), combat mini-skirt and a pair of modern, slightly scuffed, silver trainers (the kind astronauts wore – devoutly – whenever they went jogging above the atmosphere). No socks (not even the ones you could buy which made it look like you weren’t wearing any – the half-socks you got at JD Sports or Marks & Spencer).

      Her legs were bare and white and goose-bumping prodigiously. But she didn’t feel the cold. She had bad circulation, weak bones (fractured both her wrists when she was nine in a bouncy-castle misadventure. Earned herself a tidy £3,000 in compensation, and the whole family got to spend three weeks in Newquay; her gran lived there), a penchant for laxatives and an Eating

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