The Horse Dancer (35 page)

Outside a car pulled up, its stereo inappropriately loud for the early hour. They stood inches apart on the stairs, neither able to move. Mac knew he should walk down, but he couldn’t lift his feet. He could smell a trace of perfume, a scent he no longer recognised as hers. He could see her hand, still clutching the banister for support she couldn’t do without.

‘You know what’s worst about all this?’ He waited for the next verbal blow. ‘You know what I really can’t stand?’

He couldn’t speak.

‘This is like . . . It feels like it did before you went in the first place.’ Her voice cracked. Then she walked heavily to her room.

Upstairs, Sarah shrank back from the banister and ran into her room. Her ears rang with Natasha’s words. It was all falling apart. Natasha was going, and she would have to leave too.
We should never have offered her a home
. She hadn’t been able to make out everything they were saying, but she had heard that much. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing her biggest, thickest jumper, woollen tights under her jeans. Now, however, she felt frozen. Would she be met at school by Ruth, black bags of her stuff on the back seat, and ferried somewhere else? They hadn’t even had the guts to talk to her about it.

Sarah sat on the floor by the bed and rammed her fists into her eyes to stop herself crying. All of the previous day and last night she had felt Sal’s hands on her skin, heard his disgusting words in her ears. She had scrubbed herself with Natasha’s expensive creams and potions, trying to obliterate his smell, the invisible trail left by his mouth. She had shuddered at the thought of who might come across her bra, still in Boo’s stable. For some reason the thought of it lying in the straw upset her more than anything else.

In the next room she could hear Natasha opening and closing drawers, the soft click of her built-in wardrobes.

She would have to tell Papa. She would miss school this morning, and after she had been to the yard, she would tell him she needed him to come home – that he
had
to come home. She would look after him, no matter what they said. It was the only way. If Sal knew Papa was back, he would leave her alone.

Natasha knocked on her door. ‘Sarah?’

She scrambled on to her bed, forced her features to reveal nothing. ‘Hi,’ she said.

Natasha’s face was blotchy, the skin white with lack of sleep. ‘Just to say I’m a little busy at the moment, and I may be a bit late tonight, but perhaps we could have a chat later?’

She nodded.
A chat. Just a few words while I chuck you back on the rubbish dump.

Natasha was looking at her carefully. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine,’ Sarah said.

‘Good. Well, as I said, this evening, all three of us. And ring me if you have any problems. You have my mobile number.’

As she left, Sarah heard something collide with the front door. Ten minutes later when she crept downstairs she found Mac’s shoe.

Sal’s four-wheel drive sat outside the yard, a gleaming, squat affront, a sight to make her stomach clench and her arms cross defensively in front of her. She took a deep breath, pulled her coat tightly around her neck, then let herself in through the wire gates.

He was at the far end of the yard, talking to Ralph and a couple of his cronies, and they were warming their hands on the brazier, drinking coffee from polystyrene cups. Ralph caught sight of her and busied himself stroking one of Sal’s horses. She hoped this didn’t mean he hadn’t fed Boo for her yesterday. She hadn’t come, reasoning that it might be better to let Sal cool down for twenty-four hours.

That hadn’t been the sole reasoning, but perhaps she needn’t have worried; Sal didn’t look up at her, although he must have heard her push back the gates. She prayed he had either failed to notice it was her or perhaps decided it would be better for them to pretend that the other evening hadn’t happened. Perhaps he was even embarrassed, although some deeper part of her suspected that Sal had never been embarrassed about anything.

She let herself into her lock-up and swapped her school shoes for her riding boots, acutely conscious of the murmured conversation at the other side of the yard.
Please don’t come in here
. She fumbled with the buttons of her coat to change and be out of there before he could enter. She made up Boo’s morning feed in a bucket, filled a haynet and, hoisting it over her shoulder, walked briskly to the stable, head down, determined not to meet anyone’s eye.

It took her a moment to realise that his door was open. She dropped the haynet.

Boo was not there. His stable door swung open, his straw bedding still scattered with droppings. She glanced down the yard. Why had he been moved to another stable?

She walked down, checking the others. Various heads poked out, skewbald, piebald, chestnut. No Boo. Something clawed at the base of her throat, and panic rose in her chest. She half walked, half ran to where the men were standing, anxiety overriding any feelings she had about speaking to Sal. ‘Where’s Boo?’ She tried to keep her voice calm.

‘Boo who?’ Sal didn’t even turn around.

‘Boo-hoo,’ muttered one of his men, and laughed unpleasantly.

‘Where is he? Have you moved him?’

‘Is there a cat trapped somewhere? I can hear a bad noise.’ Sal cupped his ear. ‘Like a mewing sound.’

She walked around the men so that he was forced to look at her. Her breathing was rapid, the panic spreading like the cold sweat that had broken across her skin. ‘Where is he? Where have you put him? Sal, this isn’t funny.’

‘Do you see me laughing?’

She grasped his coat sleeve. He shook her off. ‘Where is my horse?’ she demanded.

‘Your horse?’

‘Yes, my horse.’

‘I sold
my
horse, if that’s what you mean.’

She shook her head slightly, frowned.

‘I sold my horse. You don’t have a horse.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a little leatherbound book, opened it and held out the pages for her to see. ‘Eight weeks’ rent, you owed me. Eight weeks. Plus hay and feed. The terms of your contract say that if you don’t pay for eight weeks your horse becomes mine. I sold him to pay your bill.’

The sounds of the street outside were replaced by the ringing in her ears. The ground dipped dangerously in front of her, a deck in high seas. She was waiting for the punchline, waiting for him to deny what his face told her he would not.

‘I sold your horse, Sarah, if you really don’t get it.’

‘You – you can’t sell him! You had no right! What contract? What are you talking about?’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘Everyone has a copy of the terms and conditions. Yours are in your lock-up. Perhaps you didn’t notice them. I’m acting within my legal rights as the owner of the yard.’ His eyes were the cold black of fetid, brackish water. They looked through her as if she was nothing. She glanced at Ralph, who was kicking a loose cobble. It was the truth. She could see it in the discomfort on his face.

She turned back to Sal, her mind racing. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry about the money. I’m sorry about everything. I’ll find it. I’ll find it tomorrow. Just let me have him back. I’ll do – I’ll do anything.’ She didn’t care if they heard her now. She would do what Sal wanted. She would steal from the Macauleys. Anything.

‘Do you not understand?’ Sal’s tone had become rough, unpleasant. ‘I sold him, Sarah. Even if I was inclined to get him back, I couldn’t.’

‘Who? Who did you sell him to? Where is he?’ She had both hands on him now, gripping him tightly.

He wrested her away from him. ‘Not my problem. I suggest you meet your financial commitments next time.’ He reached into his jacket. ‘Oh, yes. He didn’t make such a good price. Bad temperament. Like his owner.’ He turned to his men, waiting for the inevitable laugh. ‘Here’s what you made once your debt was paid.’ As she stood there, disbelieving, he peeled off five twenty-pound notes and handed them to her. ‘So now we’re square, Circus Girl. Find yourself another trick pony.’

She could see from the faint smiles on the men’s faces that they knew what she knew: that he would never tell her to whom he had sold Boo. She had crossed him and he had exacted his revenge.

Her legs were weak. She stumbled back into the lock-up, and sat down on a bale of hay. She stared at her hands, which were trembling, and a low moan escaped her. In the corner of the lock-up, behind the door, a white sheet of typewritten paper, with the supposed terms and conditions, glowed ominously in the dim light. He would have put it there yesterday.

She dropped her head on to her knees and hugged them, imagining her horse, frightened, loaded into a lorry, fed into some underpass, eyes wide, head lifted in fear. A million miles away already. Her teeth were chattering. She lifted her head, and through the gap in the door saw the men talking, breaking off to laugh at something. ‘Boo-hoo,’ one wailed mockingly. Someone threw down a cigarette and ground it under the heel of his boot. Ralph’s gaze flickered towards the lock-up, perhaps seeing her curled up there, in the shadows. Then he, too, turned away.

‘Nice work,’ Harrington said, as they left Court Four. ‘You did a great job taking that witness apart. A light touch. We’ve made a good start.’

Natasha handed her papers to Ben and removed her wig. She was still warm with adrenalin and it had begun to itch. She pulled the two grips from her hair and tucked them into her pocket. ‘Tomorrow won’t be so straightforward,’ she said.

Ben wrestled with the files, then handed her one. ‘These are the other accountant’s reports we were waiting for. I don’t think there’s much that’s new in there, but you never know.’

‘I’ll go over them this evening.’

Conor appeared in the corridor. He winked at her, and she waited until Ben was deep in conversation with Harrington before she went to meet him. ‘How’d it go?’ he said, kissing her cheek.

‘Oh, not bad. Harrington pretty much decimated their financial claims.’

‘That’s what he’s paid for. You want to go back to the office first?’

She looked at Ben. ‘No, I’ve got all the papers I need downstairs. Let’s go.’

He took her arm, an unusually possessive gesture. ‘You still good for this evening?’

She had a sudden image of Mac on the stairs.
You’ve got a boyfriend,
he had said.
Why should Maria bother you?
‘I can’t stay,’ she said. She shrugged on her coat. ‘I’ve told Sarah we’ll have a talk about her future. But a long soak in your bath and a glass of wine before I have to do it will suit me just fine.’

He stopped. ‘Well, you can have the wine, but you may have to hold on the bath.’

She was perplexed.

‘I’ve invited the boys over. I thought you should meet them.’

‘Tonight?’ She couldn’t hide her dismay.

‘We’ve waited long enough. I’ve cleared it with their mother. I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘But . . .’ she sighed ‘. . . I’m right in the middle of a big trial, Conor. I’d rather have met them when I’m a little less . . . distracted.’

He was dismissive. ‘You don’t have to do anything, Hotshot, just smile, be your usual lovely self. It’ll be enough that you’re there. Hell, have your bath. We’ll just goof around in the living room. We’ll let you be furniture.’

She raised a small smile.

‘We’ll give you a bit of leeway before we force you on to your hands and knees to play horsey.’ The word caught at her, but he was grinning to himself, apparently locked in some anticipatory vision of the four of them in his front room. She thought of Sarah, the conversation she had have to have with her and what it would mean for her. But Conor was steering her towards the door. ‘And I’m cooking, you lucky, lucky thing. How’d you fancy fish-fingers on white bread with tomato ketchup?’

She couldn’t see the words on the front of the bus. She had sat in the shelter for almost an hour now, staring as the red buses trundled along, with a hiss of brakes disgorging one load of passengers on to the pavement and swallowing the next, their brake lights bright in the dark city night. She saw nothing. Her eyes blurred with tears, her fingers and toes numb with cold. She felt paralysed, unable to decide which bus to take, even if she had been able to make out where they were going.

Everything was lost. Papa was not coming back. Boo was gone. She had no home, no family. She sat on the cold plastic ledge, hugged her coat around her and ignored the incurious stares of those who came, waited, then went to continue their own lives.

He said her name twice before she heard it. She had been so locked into her pain, so numb.

‘Sarah?’

Ralph was standing in front of her, a cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth.

‘You all right?’

She couldn’t speak. She wondered that he would even ask.

He huddled into a corner so that he was hidden by the shelter and the bodies of the people queuing. ‘I’m sorry, right? It weren’t nothing to do with me.’

Still she couldn’t speak. She wasn’t sure if she would ever open her mouth again.

‘He done it yesterday. He said you owed him a load of money, Sarah. I did try, but you know what he’s like . . . Whatever you done you wound him up something major.’

They shipped horses abroad, she had heard, crammed into lorries, deprived of food and water. Some were so weak they were only held upright by the pressure of the others around them. A solitary tear slid down her cheek.

‘Anyway.’ He spat noisily on the pavement, attracting a ferocious scowl from a Nigerian woman. ‘If I tell you something you mustn’t tell him I told you, all right?’

She looked up slowly.

‘Cos if you knew anything, he’d know it come from me, right? So I’m still not going to talk to you in the yard or on the street or nothing. I’ll act like I don’t know you, right?’