threw back his head and roared, ‘GE-FHAAAAR!’ at full volume.
The horse skipped nervously from foot to foot.
‘Urgh…’
The German grimaced, wiped his chin with his cuff, then closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. On the exhale he repeated the word – ‘Gefhaar’ – but much more softly this time. He smiled to himself and drew another breath. ‘Fhaar,’ he sighed, then (with increasing rapidity), ‘Fhaar-fhar-fhear-fear-fear…Yes!’
His eyes flew open, then he scowled. ‘But what am I saying here?’
‘This fear,’ Beede primed him.
‘Yes. Of course. Fear. This fear’
The German rapidly clicked back into gear again. ‘I have a feeling – a…a suspicion, you might say – that this dread, this…this…this fhar may be linked in some way…connected in some way…’ he jinked his head towards the pony, conspiratorially ‘…to it. To that. To…’ he struggled to find the correct noun, ‘to khor-khor-khorsam…’
He shook his head, scowling. ‘Khorsam. Horsam. Hors. Horse. Horsey. Horse. Horses.’
He glanced over at Beede, breathlessly, for confirmation. Beede nodded, encouragingly.
‘But you see I’m not…I can’t be entirely…uh…certus,’ he scowled, then winced, then forged doggedly onward, ‘certanus…’ He paused. ‘Cer-tan. I can’t be certain, because it’s still just an…an inkling…’ he shuddered ‘…a slight shadow in the back of my mind. A hunch. Nothing more.’
While he spoke he distractedly adjusted the wedding band on his finger (twisted it, as if of old habit), then gradually grew aware of what he was doing and 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
