Page 1 of His Worst Crime

one

David did most of the mucking out—a.k.a. shit shoveling—in the boxes, a task the other stablehands avoided if they could. It didn’t worry him—just one of those hands-on jobs that gave you a chance to think. Plus, he’d never minded the smell of horse manure: pungent it was, but it didn’t stink the way other sorts of waste did. Third, his options were limited—had been for a while—so doing the stuff everyone else was trying to avoid was a good way to get his foot in the door, expand his chances.

There’d been no silver spoon in his mouth back in Ravenscragg—their Dad and Mam had raised them both to muck in—so this way of looking at things came naturally. And it stood him in good stead here, where he was a foreigner, and barely spoke the lingo—either of them. The problem with learning the language in this weird place was that there were two of them, and people were mixing them constantly. Even the street signs were all jumbled between one and the other, like “sortida” and “salida” in the metro. For ages he’d thought they pointed at two different things—obviously both showed the way out—he wasn’t that silly. But was one the elevator exit, and the other the stairs, something like that? He could now proudly tell you they both meant “exit”, one in Catalan, the other in Spanish.

That one had been quite embarrassing—hadn’t he been learning Catalan for a year before coming away, and it was pretty basic vocabulary. Who had finally set him right on that score? Dennis, maybe, the Scouser English teacher he’d met in his first week here. They’d met in bar Cásparo off carrer del Bonsuccés and together downed a few canyes—what the beers were called in this city.

“Listen, la, first thing you have to understand here is that they have two languages, Catalan and Spanish, and let me tell you, best thing you can do for yourself is learn Catalan as soon as you hop off the plane, know what I mean? Much handier—it’ll get you into places where Spanish won’t, you get me?”

David didn’t, but he’d let it slide. Fitting in, passing under the radar here was his goal. If they had two languages in this place instead of one, so be it. He’d learn them both it if it helped him get by.

Getting the job in the stables had been a lucky break in those early days, not long after he’d arrived. With his money getting low, he couldn’t keep staying in the Egipte, the budget hostel on Plaça Reial, just off the Rambla. It was supposed to be the cheapest place in Barcelona, though it still cost money, more than he had. But the weather was good, and Barcelona’s sultry winter climes were a doddle compared to Yorkshire’s freezing weather, so he’d put his pack on his back and set off hiking up the high hill that overlooked the city, the one they called a mountain: Montjuïc. The whole rock was nothing but a massive wooded park—not too different from Ravenscragg back home, but he’d put that thought out of his head as soon as he’d had it—no more thinking about home. There had to be some discreet nook where he could kip for free until he got on his feet. He’d climbed up as far as the big art museum, the MNAC, that looked out over Plaça Espanya, above the famous magical fountains. He was just wandering really, looking for some sort of secret cranny where he could sleep rough, out of the way of nosy people and cops, just until he was working and could afford the hostel again.

Passing by that big palace, crossing the parking area, he spied a wooded lane over on the right that looked like it might be the ticket. But as he was walking toward it to explore, a beautiful blue roan filly came trotting out of that very road. She didn’t look older than a couple of years, too young to be broken for riding, and was unharnessed except for a simple halter around her head, with no trace of a bridle, bit or lead. She must have got loose from some stable nearby. As she came out onto the large car park, she halted for a moment, looking around, undecided which way to go. A car was turning in off the road, with another behind it. At first she trotted toward them, but the first driver honked. David swore: that was the last thing she needed. The filly shied, cantering back in the opposite direction, where another car was nosing its way along, heading out of the parking area. If she went on like that, she’d turn herself into road kill.

David dropped his pack next to a tree and thought about what to do. He didn’t have much except for some barley sugar sweets he’d been rationing to keep his hunger at bay. Taking them from his pocket, he unwrapped one as he approached the filly, holding it out in his palm, making an enticing sound with the crinkly wrapping while all the time murmuring in that particular clucking, crooning language he’d always used with his babies back home. The filly stopped and pricked up her ears, eying this third unknown coming at her head on. David paused too, not wanting to spook her, letting her see him, see and smell his offer. Was the breeze with him? By luck it was blowing off the sea, so from him toward the filly. She should be able to smell the sweet in his hand. He inched forward slowly, not rushing her, letting her get used to his presence. Lucky, both cars had now stopped, and their occupants were watching the show.

“Here, baby, hey, have I got something for you? You want a little treat? Of course you do, come on, baby, come and see what I’ve got.”

He kept it slow, kept it gentle, and made sure to keep crinkling the packet, piquing the filly’s curiosity. She could smell him clearly now, this stranger, but also smell the treat in his hand. When he was sure she had the scent clear, he stopped still, about ten paces from where she was standing undecided, and just let her make all the decisions. All the time he kept crooning to her in the same babble that had always worked so well with his babies back at Ravenscragg. The filly lowered her head, nostrils flaring, trying to fathom this fresh situation. The barley sugar finally tipped the scales, and she took a tentative step toward him. He stayed still as a tree, just crooning further sweet nothings to her. She paused a few moments longer, and then, decided, walked the few steps across to his outstretched hand.

“Good girl, that’s the way.”

As she stretched out her muzzle towards his hand, he withdrew his hand slowly, leading her on, letting him bring his other hand up calmly beside her neck to grasp her halter.

“There you go, good girl. Who’s a beautiful girl then?” he crooned as he let her nibble at and then take the barley sugar out of his hand.

A few tourists who had gathered to watch the whole spectacle gave a scattered round of applause.

“No more. Sorry, baby, your boss’d kill me if they saw me giving you all this sugar. Come on, let’s see who you belong to.”

Taking a firm hold on her halter, he began to lead her back toward the tree-covered lane from which she’d appeared. They hadn’t gone more than a few paces before a woman in her early thirties with cropped blond hair came barreling out of the lane. Dressed in dirty sweat pants, rubber boots and a ragged sweater, David knew instinctively she was the filly’s owner, or at least trainer.

“Mare de déu santíssima, per on has escapat aquest cop, Boira?”

“Hey, I have her,” David reassured her.

“Moltíssimes gràcies! No sé com t’ha deixat agafar-la, però gràcies!”

“Sorry… English?”

“Ai, yes, sorry, my English is very bad. Thank you very much. Boira is a great escape artist. How did you to catch her?”

“Boira? She likes barley sugar. It’s my—”

He meant to say “secret weapon”, but he didn’t know the Catalan, so he laughed self-consciously as he stroked the filly’s neck. With animals things were fine, but having to deal with people always got him tongue-tied.

“She likes you… She let you take her… that is good.”

“I… yeah, I grew up with horses. I… get them.”

They walked back down the lane, David still leading Boira. A couple hundred yards in, they came to some stables and a yard, where there were several other horses, and people going about their business, grooming or exercising them. A three-year-old chestnut colt was being worked on a lunge rein in the dressage yard next door. At Boira’s reappearance, he faltered in his training and whickered in her direction. Boira gave an answering whinny and began prancing excitedly, her tail raised.

“Hey, easy girl,” David coaxed her. “You’ll see him soon enough. Calm down now.”

Instead of trying to take over, the woman beside him just stood back watching.

“You are good with her,” she said. “Here…” and she went and grabbed a lead from a hitching post, handing it to him.