Free Heart by Garrett Leigh Page B

his life around horses, but he’d never seen an animal as huge as the sleek black stallion.
    The policeman glared down at him. “Move it along. If you’re drunk, go home.”
    The horse walked on, ambling at a sedate pace that gave him an almost regal air. Dex stared after him, taking in the animal’s thick, corded muscles and gleaming coat. It was the healthiest horse he’d ever seen. Carric and Tauna flashed into his mind. Carric was lame, and Tauna had been so hungry last time he’d fed them, she’d eaten half of Carric’s feed before Carric could get to it. There hadn’t been enough to give Carric any more grain, and he’d fallen asleep that night to the mournful call of the starving mare.
    Until Mikey had come to get him.
    Dex let himself into the hostel and made his way to his room, sticking close to the walls and avoiding eye contact with the other residents. His head hurt, and he felt unsettled and sick. He thought he’d feel better when he locked his door behind him, but it wasn’t to be. He stumbled to his mattress in the corner and lay down, feeling like his spinning head would topple him right off the earth. Sleep found him, but his dreams were plagued by the cries of the horses he’d left behind in Hatfield. Cora came to him too, her lifeless face reanimating to become frantic and desperate, calling to him for help. But he didn’t dream of the man bound at the foot of the tree with a gun to his head. He never had, and in the rare moments he ever thought of him, he knew he wouldn’t.
    In the morning, Dex woke drenched in sweat. His stomach roiled until he leaned over the side of the mattress and threw up. Panting, he slapped a shaky hand over his mouth. He felt awful, like he’d been tipped upside down and shaken until his insides came out, but as his stomach heaved to empty itself of its phantom contents, he felt like a weight was floating away from his body. By the time he’d cleaned up the mess and got ready for work, he felt a lot better.
    He was an hour early for his shift, but Rick was waiting for him on the back steps, blowing smoke from his ever-present cigarette into the early morning sky.
    Rick put two fingers under Dex’s chin, tilting his face so he could see it better. He winced when he saw the jagged red line on his temple, surrounded by a faint, murky bruise. “Sorry, kid. Things got a little lairy last night, eh?”
    Dex said nothing, forcing himself not to squirm under Rick’s light touch. What was there to say? Bernie said he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he’d yet to find that magical place where no one felt the need to take a swing at him.
    Rick gave him a long look and sighed. “Bernie ripped me a new one last night, just so you know. Can’t promise I won’t chew you out again—it’s how kitchens work—but I’ll try and keep my utensils to myself next time. Deal?”
    “Works for me.”
    “All right, lad.” Rick grinned and lit another cigarette. “Go get cleaned up and ready for lunch. I’ll get the missus to bring you a butty.”
    It was the first and only time the incident was ever mentioned. Bernie’s prophecy that the storm would pass turned out to be true, and a week or so later, with his head fully healed, Dex all but forgot it too.
    One night in early December, he finished mopping the kitchen around midnight. He was about to leave when Rick called him into the bar.
    “Hey, kid. Come and have a drink with us. We’re celebrating.”
    Dex accepted a pint of cold lager. He didn’t often stay after his shifts, preferring to keep to himself, but occasionally, Rick wouldn’t let him escape. “What are you celebrating?”
    “A fucking miracle, that’s what. We’ve got a new dessert chef. Starts in the morning. Can hardly believe it. Never thought we’d get someone this close to Christmas. He’s good too. I worked with him in Piccadilly before he buggered off down south.”
    Dex absorbed the information with muted interest. Chefs