Expecting Someone Taller by Tom Holt

him, as by rote, the principles of the gymkhana. To this explanation Malcolm did not listen, for he was using the power he had gained by drinking Giant’s blood to read her thoughts. It was easily done and, with the exception of one or two of his school reports, Malcolm had never read anything so discouraging. For although the Tarnhelm had made him the most handsome man in the world, it was evident that Miss Ayres did not judge by appearances. For Liz was wondering who this boring foreigner reminded her of. Now, who was it? Ah, yes. That Malcolm Fisher . . .
    He smiled, wished the family good luck in the arena, and walked swiftly away. When he was sure no-one was watching, he turned himself into an appletree and stood for a moment in one of his own hedges, secure in the knowledge that apple trees cannot weep. But even apple trees can have malicious thoughts (ask any botanist) and if the consequences for the world were unfortunate, then so be it. One of Malcolm’s few remaining illusions had been shattered: he had always believed that his total lack of attractiveness to the opposite sex was due simply to his
unprepossessing appearance, a shortcoming (as he argued) that was in no respect his fault, so that his failure in this field of human endeavour reflected badly not on him but on those who chose to make such shallow and superficial judgements.
    The natural consequence of the destruction of this illusion was that Malcolm wanted very much to do something nasty and spiteful, and he wanted to do it to Philip Wilcox, preferably in front of a large number of malicious people. He shrugged his branches, dislodging a blackbird, and resumed his human shape.
    Thanks to the blood of the Giant Ingolf, Malcolm could understand all languages and forms of speech, even the curious noises coming out of the tannoy. The competitors in the main event were being asked to assemble in the collecting ring. With the firm intention of turning himself into a horse-fly and stinging Philip Wilcox’s horse at an appropriate moment, Malcolm made his way over to the arcade of horseboxes that formed a temporary mews under the shade of a little copse in the west corner of the Park. He recognised the Wilcox family horsebox, which was drawn up at the end of the row. There was the horse, just standing there.
    An idea, sent no doubt by the Lord of the Flies, suddenly came into Malcolm’s mind. How would it be if . . .? No-one was watching; the attention of the whole world seemed to be focused on a fat child in jodhpurs and his long-suffering pony. Malcolm made himself invisible, and with extreme apprehension (for he was terrified of horses) he led Philip Wilcox’s steed out of its box and into the depths of the tangled copse, where he tied it securely to a tree. Then, with his nails pressed hard into the palms of his hands, he changed himself into an exact copy of the animal
and transported himself back to the horsebox. This would be hard work, but never mind.
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    â€˜And have you met the new owner?’ asked Aunt Marjorie, settling herself comfortably on a straw bale. ‘I never thought I’d live to see the day when a foreigner . . .’
    â€˜Just for a few minutes,’ replied Liz Ayres. She had learnt over the years the art of separating the questions from the comments in her aunt’s conversation, and slipping in answers to them during pauses for breath and other interruptions.
    â€˜What’s he like? The trouble with most Germans . . .’
    â€˜I don’t know. He seemed pleasant enough, in a gormless sort of way, but I only said a few words to him.’
    â€˜Well, I suppose we should all be very grateful to him for letting us put a waterjump in the middle of his Park, not that I imagine he minds anyway, or he wouldn’t have. Colonel Booth never let us have one, but he was just plain difficult at times. I remember . . .’
    â€˜I don’t think he’s terribly interested in the Hall,