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city.
    ‘Oh, God, are you all right?’
    It took him a while to get the breath to wheeze, ‘Not really.’ He tried to curl up tighter, while being perfectly aware that this would do no good whatsoever.
    The pain was about as bad as anything he’d ever felt. It seemed to radiate out from his groin like some terrible searchlight, forcing its ghastly dark rays of agony into every part of him, from his hair to his toenails. It went beyond pain, into other realms which included an encompassing feeling of cold and nausea and despair. It also seemed to be getting gradually worse. Alban had lived fifteen years and had never experienced anything like it. He hoped he never would again.
    ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’ The girl took off her black riding hat and put it down on the brick path. She knelt by him, hesitating, then she put her hand on to his shoulder and squeezed gently. He was making a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a gurgle. She looked around, but there was nobody else in the walled garden. She wondered if she ought to go up to the house and alert somebody. How bad could this be? At first she’d thought he was exaggerating when he’d fallen like a sack of potatoes and curled up like a hedgehog. Now she thought he probably really was in intense pain.
    Scrabbles gave a cough and flexed one hind leg again, backing towards the two of them. Oh, God, she might kick him again. Or her. She tutted and rose, chiding the tall chestnut mare and leading her to where she could munch on some carrot leaves, out of harm’s way. Then she went back to the boy lying clutched around his pain on the red-brick path. She bit her lip and patted his head softly. He had curly light brown hair.
    ‘That’s called a stringhalt,’ she said, not knowing what else to say.
    He made a noise that might have been a ‘What?’
    ‘Sudden spasmodic lifting of a horse’s hind leg,’ she explained. ‘It’s called a stringhalt.’
    He made a sort of keening noise and seemed to try to straighten out, then gasped and curled up again. ‘Thanks,’ he said. It sounded like his teeth were clenched. ‘That’s good to know.’ He paused for breath. ‘Felt more like a . . . kick.’
    ‘Actually, you’re right, it was more like a kick. I’m so sorry. Is it really, really painful, yah?’
    He might have nodded. ‘Kinda.’
    ‘Scrabbles has never done that before.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Scrabbles. She’s never done that before. Kicked anyone.’
    ‘Really.’ Each of his words sounded clipped, bitten off.
    ‘Yah. You’re not really supposed to walk that close to the rear legs of a horse, ’specially one you don’t know.’
    ‘Uh-huh. Well,’ he said, ‘you’re not really,’ he took another shuddering breath, ‘meant to bring horses’ - one more breath, wheezing - ‘into a kitchen garden,’ he told her. ‘Either.’
    ‘Sorry. Suppose not.’
    ‘And, are you deaf?’
    ‘I’m sorry? Oh, no. No, I was listening to my Walkman.’
    ‘What were you -’ he sucked air in raggedly ‘- listening to?’
    ‘Oh, ah, Now That’s What I Call Music ; one of those.’
    ‘Right.’
    She bit her lip again. All she’d been doing was taking a look round the old walled garden at the end of her ride round the estate and along the beach. She’d just got back from Spain and the first thing she’d wanted to do was take Scrabbles out for a hack. She patted the boy’s head again. His hair was very soft. She was pretty sure she knew who he was. ‘Should I go get help or something? What do you think?’
    ‘Dunno. Ice?’ He looked round at her and she saw his face properly for the first time. His face was contorted, right now, obviously, but she suspected it was probably rather nice when it wasn’t. He had beautiful brown eyes, the same colour as Scrabbles’ coat. She guessed he was a year or so older than her; sixteen, say. He reminded her a bit of Nick Rhodes, from Duran Duran. She felt she’d rather outgrown Duran Duran about a year ago, but