Al, can you hear me?’ Al was draped over the servery table like a crumpled dishcloth. Stormy shook his shoulder. ‘Al, please.’ ‘What is’t? What yerwant?’ ‘I want your flying horse, Al.’ Al shrugged him off. ‘Want what? Do what?’ He peered at Stormy from under half-closed lids. ‘Please open your eyes. Sit up. Listen to me!’ He pulled Al upright. ‘I want your permission to see number thirteen. To try and get her fit again.’ Al moaned and Stormy let him fall back over the table again. ‘Oh, what’s the point,’ Stormy said. ‘The poor thing won’t be able to fly anyway.’ He stared at Al’s limp body. ‘How could you neglect her like that?’ Al’s face was flat against the wood of the table. ‘Years of training,’ he said coldly, ‘years of it.’ He sat up sharply. ‘Years!’ Picking up his knife he went on cutting up a bit of pie into small chunks. ‘Well, so, I can try, can I?’ Stormy said. ‘I told you she is wild and crazy. I told you what she did to me.
