The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,22

suppose anyone’s got one?”

Drake stepped out on to the sand. It wasn’t hot, like he’d expected. In fact, the sand wasn’t really anything, temperature-wise. Nor was the air, he noticed. He was neither hot, nor cold, but he didn’t feel just right, either. It wasn’t that he was at the perfect temperature, it was more the case that there was no temperature to speak of.

He looked out across the vast plain. It stretched out as far as the eye could see. Desolate. Bare. Empty.

“Hello, ’ello!”

Drake spun, kicking up a cloud of sand that quickly settled again without a breeze to keep it afloat. A blond-haired man with a goatee beard poked his head round the corner of the shed. He gave Drake a friendly wave.

“Um... hello,” Drake said.

The stranger stepped out from behind the shed and looked Drake up and down. At the same time, Drake studied him. The man wore black trousers with a matching black polo neck top and a charcoal-grey waistcoat. His black shoes looked as if they had once been polished, but the sand had taken its toll and now they were scuffed and dull.

The man hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. “So,” he said, still smiling, “who are you, then?”

Drake glanced sidelong into the shed. Or, at least, he tried to, but the door was now closed.

“Drake,” he said. “Drake Finn.”

“Alfred Randall,” said Alfred Randall, “of the Alfred Randall X-perience.” He took one of Drake’s hands in both of his and shook it vigorously. He went on like that for several seconds, showing no sign of stopping. Eventually, Drake pulled his hand away.

“So, what you doing in this old thing, then?” asked Alfred, giving the shed a pat. “They in?” He stepped past Drake and tried the door handle. The handle turned, but the door remained firmly closed. “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home? It’s Alfred Randall. The Alfred Randall X-perience.”

There was silence inside the shed. Alfred turned, his eyes suddenly narrow with suspicion. “Here, you haven’t nicked it, have you?”

“No, I haven’t nicked it,” Drake replied. “They’re in there, look.” He knocked on the door. “Stop mucking about, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

At first, Drake heard nothing from beyond the door. Then there was the sound of War muttering below his breath, and the door slowly creaked open. Pestilence emerged first. He wore a floppy white hat and blinked in the sudden glare of the light. War came out next, still muttering. He fired Drake a look of contempt as he stepped on to the sand.

Famine shuffled out next, keeping one hand on the shed wall for support.

“There’s the lads!” Alfred cried. He held up a hand for a high-five. When it was clear no one was about to give him one, he clicked his fingers, pointed, then let his hand swing down by his side again. “The lads, the lads, howay the lads!”

“All right, Alf?” War said, with the tone of someone who’d been through this too many times before.

“You can come out, Brian,” Alfred shouted. “It’s just the lads, right enough!”

“Hello, lads,” beamed another man, leaning his head round the corner. The rest of him followed close behind, and Drake realised he was dressed identically to Alfred. He had the same black trousers, shoes and polo shirt, and the same charcoal-coloured waistcoat. He had the same goatee beard too, although his hair was a silvery grey, not blond like Alfred’s. He looked older than Alfred, by two decades at least.

“Brian,” said Pestilence. He forced a polite smile.

“You’re missing one, I see,” Alfred said, taking a peek inside the shed and finding it empty. “Where’s himself?”

“He’s gone,” War said, giving nothing away. “This is his replacement.”

“Hear that, Brian? This is the new you-know-who!” He shook Drake’s hand again. “Pleasure to meet you. Alfred Randall, the Alfred Randall X-perience. But then, I expect they’ve told you all about that?”

Drake glanced over to the Horsemen. They nodded encouragingly.

“Uh... no,” Drake said. He heard Pestilence stifle a sob. “Actually, they haven’t.”

A flicker of pain passed behind Alfred’s eyes. His lips pursed together so tightly they virtually disappeared.

“But it’s my first day,” Drake added quickly.

Alfred smiled. This seemed to satisfy him.

“Well, that explains it,” he said. “I’m Alfred Randall, and we” – he put an arm round Brian’s shoulder and pulled him in – “are the Alfred Randall X-perience, Limbo’s premier barbershop quartet. And, by the way, that’s X as in the letter X,” Alfred explained.