The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,2

for receiving calls, and not making them.

The man didn’t look up when Drake entered, just kept rattling the container in his hand, his eyes fixed on the table before him.

It was only as Drake spotted the table that he noticed the other men sitting round it. Afterwards, he would ask himself how he could possibly have missed them. Or one of them, at least.

The... thing sitting across from the first man appeared, at best, vaguely human. Or rather, he looked exactly like a small group of humans would look, were they blended together into a puree, then fed to another particularly hungry human.

Rolls of flab hung off him like tinsel from a Christmas tree. They drooped from his chins and from his neck. They hung down over the elasticated waistband of his grey jogging trousers. They bulged beneath his matching grey top and spilled out through splits in the reinforced seams.

The whole gelatinous mound of blubber wobbled as the man turned to look at the new arrival. He looked Drake up and down, then crammed an entire chocolate bar into his cavernous mouth. Sideways.

There was a wet smacking sound as the fat man’s purple tongue licked hungrily across his lips, and then he spoke. “You must be the new fella,” he said, in a voice like a turkey’s gobble. “Thought you’d be taller.”

“And I bet he thought you’d be less revolting,” snapped the third figure, whom Drake hadn’t even looked at thus far. He turned to look at him now, and was relieved to discover he appeared almost completely normal, aside from the white paper mask he wore over his nose and mouth, and the latex rubber gloves on each hand.

Reaching into the top pocket of his pristine white coat, the third man pulled out a pair of glasses. His eyes seemed to double in size as he positioned the spectacles on his nose. “Oooh, he’s right, though,” the man said, looking Drake up and down. “You are a shorty. Still, you know what they say. Size isn’t everything!” The man snorted out a laugh. “No, but seriously. Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. Fine. You’re perfect just as you are. Gorgeous.”

“You sitting down then?” asked the human blancmange. He was munching on another chocolate bar, not even bothering to remove the wrapper first.

Drake’s gaze shifted across each of the men in turn. The only sound in the shed was the slow, rhythmic rattling of the container in the bearded man’s hand.

“Um... um...” Drake stammered. “Sit... sit down?” “Well, you might as well!” chirped the third man, removing his glasses and slipping them back in his pocket. “I mean, let’s face it, you are going to be stuck here for ever, after all!”

The door gave a loud thud as it swung closed. The three occupants of the shed listened to the boy’s screams as he raced from the clearing and back towards the house.

“Oh dear,” said the third man. “Was it something I said, d’you think?”

It was the man in the deckchair’s turn to speak. He spoke with a broad Scottish brogue, his voice louder than the others’, despite the muffling effect of his beard. “Oh, don’t you worry. He’ll be back.”

“You sure?”

“Aye. I’m sure.”

Without another word, he opened his hand, letting a small square object tumble on to the tabletop. All three men peered down at the markings etched on to the object’s surface, and considered their significance.

“A four!” gurgled the fat man triumphantly. “War’s got a four!”

“Aye, all right,” sighed the one known as War.

“Down the snake you go!”

“I can see that, thank you, Famine. No need to rub it in.”

“Right then, Pestilence, my old son, your shot,” said Famine to the man in the white coat. He rubbed his sweaty hands together excitedly. “And pass me them chicken legs, will you? I am bloody starving!”

“Mum! Mum! There’s nutters in the garden!”

Drake scrambled through the grass towards the house, leaving the clearing, the shed and the three strange men behind. The weeds and bracken whipped and scratched at him, but they didn’t slow him down. In no time, he’d made it through the jungle, barged open the front door, and bolted inside.

His mum was in the kitchen, rummaging around in her handbag and patting down her pockets.

She was dressed for work – black nylon trousers with faded knees, off-white T-shirt and pale blue tabard. She worked three cleaning jobs, spread out across the day so she was out more often than she was home. Now that they’d moved,