Free Fourth Horseman by Kate Thompson Page A

now.’
    ‘Well done, Dad,’ I said, trying to muster an enthusiasm that I wasn’t really feeling.
    ‘Give me a mug of your finest tap water!’ he said, reaching for his cigarettes and heading towards the kitchen door. I filled a cup and handed it to him, and he held it up like a toast. ‘To my new outside office!’
    ‘Is it that definite?’ I said. ‘Are you sure you can do it now?’
    ‘Not remotely,’ he said, laughing. ‘But there’s nothing like a bit of optimism, eh?’
    He knocked back the water, dribbling a bit down his wonky shirt front. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘I’m exhausted.’
    He put on his shoes and stuffed his socks into his pocket. It took longer for me to change my clothes, and he went on ahead of me to get Mum’s bike. As I came out of the building I saw him at the side of the first yard, staring into the trees. Even at that distance I sensed that there was something unnatural about the way he was standing.
    ‘Dad?’
    He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. I had seen that look on his face before, and I broke into a cold sweat. I ran to join him. It wasn’t until I reached his side that I was able to see what it was that had transfixed him.
    The white rider had returned. And this time he wasn’t alone.

7
    T HERE WERE TWO OF them, standing side by side. The second horse was the brightest chestnut I’ve ever seen, its coat shot through with sparks of copper and gold. Its rider was dressed in rusty red, and in his hand he carried a huge sword. Blood was dripping from its tip. The sight scared me witless, but it didn’t occur to me to run. Both of us, Dad and I, stood motionless.
    They were in exactly the same spot where we’d seen the first one on his own a few weeks before; about twenty-five metres from us, underneath the trees. This time the sun was shining strongly and breaking through between the branches, but it seemed to me, as it had the last time, that they were illuminated by some other, more brilliant source of light.
    Both the riders were staring straight at Dad and he, as before, was staring back, totally mesmerized. I don’t know where it came from, but I had a sudden strong impulse to remember this; to observe more carefully than I had before. Scared as I was, I managed to keep part of my mind detached, and I looked more closely and saw much more than I had the first time. What I saw was that the white rider was like something out of ancient Rome. His robe was like a toga, and his legs were bare. The gleaming white cape that covered his head and streamed over his horse’s hindquarters was held in place at his throat by a huge gold pin. On his head was a crown of bright silver. In his hand he held a bow, and strapped to his calf was a full quiver of arrows.
    His horse, as before, stood four square, motionless and calm. The other horse, in complete contrast, was lightly built; skinny and rangy. Despite the fiery glints that bounced off its red coat it looked under-nourished and unhealthy. Even so, it was bursting with nervous energy. It snatched at the bit and danced on the spot continuously. Its rider was lean and, although he hardly moved, I sensed in him the same restless energy. The sword he carried was crude, made of bronze or tarnished steel, but if the blood was anything to go by it was an effective weapon. It should have had me legging it out of there, but it’s hard to explain the effect the riders had. I was afraid, but it wasn’t an immediate fear for my own safety. I knew, don’t ask me how, that the men weren’t going to use their weapons on us. The fear they produced was much more subtle. It cut into the deepest parts of my mind; into my soul, perhaps. It overwhelmed me with a suffocating sense of doom. It was so bad that it hurt.
    ‘Dad.’ I took his arm. ‘Come away.’
    He didn’t move. I hardly dared look at his face. I tugged at him; tried to turn him towards me. ‘Dad!’
    He looked absurd, with his shirt front crooked and his