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‘No, that's all right, I hate the British too.' Jack wished that David had been there to say that, but he wasn't, so Jack just shrugged non-committally.

‘Forty-two pence, sir. Thank you very much.'

‘Thanks, do you have a phone I could use?'

‘Just over there, in the corner.'

A dog-eared copy of the Yellow Pages rested on a ledge underneath the phone and it was the work of a moment to flick through and find the section headed 'Veterinary Surgeons & Practitioners'. He dropped a couple of coins into the phone and dialled a likely number. While he listened to the ringing, he turned and watched the barman assiduously polishing the already gleaming oak surface.

'Hello, Evans, Riley and Skerritt Veterinary Practice. Can I help you?'

‘Ah yes. There's been a sort of accident with a horse Just off the road between Gwydyr and Llanfer Ceiriog, and I ... '

The beeps started and Jack fumbled another coin into the slot.

‘. . . not really within this practice's area. Perhaps .you should call Mr Taylor in Gwydyr.' The receptionist gave him a phone number and he traced it in the directory.

‘Oh, thanks very much.'

‘My pleasure. Goodbye.'

‘Bye.' Jack rang the new number. This time he got a recorded message.

'Mr Taylor is not in at the moment, but if you would like to leave details after the tone, he will get back to you as soon as he has returned from his rounds.'

Jack left a brief message and then put down the phone. He sat at one of the tables and sipped the rest of his drink. A paper discarded on an adjacent table caught his eye. He had been in England long enough to know that the Daily Spotter was the equivalent of the States' National Enquirer and he wondered what they would pay for actual pictures of a real-life centaur. Eagerly he picked up the newspaper and searched its pages. He found what he was looking for and returned to the phone.

‘Hello, Newbury here. What is it?' a bored voice asked.

‘Hi, I'm an American. I'm visiting Wales and I've seen something that I thought your paper might like to run a feature on.'

'I very much doubt it, son. I mean there's nuffink in Wales but sheep and nobody's interested in them.

'Cept the Welsh. And we've done all the rest - Celtic fertility rights, human sacrifice, Tom Jones's love life - we seen it, guv, and so’s Joe Public.'

'No, no, this is something different. This is a centaur’

'A what? Centre of what?'

'No, a centaur. You know, half man, half horse.'

'You what?'

Jack carefully explained about centaurs - there had, after all, been some use in playing Dungeons and Dragons for most of the time he was suffering puberty. Eventually the reporter summed up.

'So, you're saying that somebody's been crossing men with the gee-gees?'

Although he couldn't be seen, Jack shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Hey, could be.'

Newbury snorted. 'Pull the other one.'

'What would you pay for photos?'

'We only pay on sight. Fifty quid maybe.'

'Right, I'll be in touch. Bye.' He dropped the phone. It had been worth the try. Money comes to those who sell sensational pictures.

He drained his glass and left it in the centre of the table. The barman's eyes followed him as he went out. He had been one of the very few customers that Arthur Denver had these days ever since he had somehow managed to get himself on the wrong side of the Welsh populace.

When Arthur had arrived in Llanfer Ceiriog he'd understood the feelings that caused such anger among some people – he’d lived in the countryside and knew only too well the irritation of city folks and their holiday homes. He'd thought that situation was different. After all, he was working, not just leaving a perfectly good house unoccupied for eleven months of the year. But one night he'd made a bad mistake. There was one farmer who seemed to intimidate the other villagers and that night he'd been going out of his way to be as loud mouthed and obnoxious as he possibly could be to a group of tourists.

Arthur had thrown him out, to general applause from all those present. But then it had all gone wrong.

He couldn't say that the farmer was