Two of them were pawing the ground, no more than a foot away, as if they wanted to dig their hooves into me. I looked around slowly. There were at least ten riders surrounding us, their horses flexing their shoulders, jittering, snorting and neighing. We wouldn’t get away easily. The riders were wearing dark hooded outfits, all except the man on the horse directly in front of me. He was bare headed, almost bald, his skin pitted, as if from a long-forgotten childhood disease. He shouted something in Arabic. The horses inched closer to us, pawing the ground. Ariel responded in Arabic. One of the riders laughed. ‘You look like you speak English,’ said the man on the horse in front of me. His accent was oddly familiar, part Middle Eastern, part north London. I was relieved to hear a familiar accent. Then he said, ‘I am warning you not to run.’ ‘Why would we?’ said Mark.
