Samphire Song (17 page)

‘Up here,’ directs Ed, as we approach a right-hand turning, wobbling our way into it as he leans over too far, motorcycle style.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask him. The lane is single track and there’s an imposing metal gate with
Private Road
emblazoned on it just up ahead. The place looks like something out of a spooky film set with lines of tall fir trees disappearing into the thick gloom on either
side of us. I shudder at their oppressive darkness and automatically check my mobile phone for signal. No bars. That’s not a good sign.

‘There’s a footpath on the left,’ Ed says and we are soon faced with a neat stile and a reassuring wooden signpost. ‘We went up there, on to that hill. It used to be an Iron Age fort,’ he explains. ‘They sacrificed a lot of girls there. Kidding,’ he adds, when he sees my less-than-amused face.

‘I’ll lock the bike up here,’ I say. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ For some reason, there are shivers going up my spine. Maybe it’s the dampness creeping up from the ground. That must be it. Nothing to do with all those stories about bad things happening to kids in the woods.

We walk and run, run and walk for about ten minutes, climbing the gentle ascent towards the stars. Eventually, Ed stops, turns in a circle and claps his hands.

‘This is it,’ he confirms. ‘Look. Those are the ashes of our fire. And that’s where I buried my cauliflower.
Yeuch. Leo’s dad eats it RAW! Leo says he likes eating it but he doesn’t really. Anyway, I dug the hole when they weren’t looking. The peaches and brown sugar were nice, though.’

‘Teddy, that’s great to know, but we didn’t come here to search for vegetables.’ I’m casting my gaze down to the surrounding countryside. I can make out some fields beside the lane we cycled up where the tree line stops, some barns in the far distance, but nothing distinct. There are no lights anywhere, no sign of habitation. Everything is still and quiet, as if it’s holding its breath. I strain my ears for any sound, even the faintest echo of a creature’s call. Nothing.

‘Where did the neighing come from, Teddy?’ I ask.

‘Mmm. That way. No, that way. Oh, I don’t know. My ears can’t remember. Can we go now, Stick?’ asks Ed, hugging his arms round his body. An early autumn chill is wrapping us in a cold embrace. I give him a hug and rub his arms hard to make him warm again.

‘Stick?’

‘Shhh,’ I caution. ‘Listen.’ Ed pretends to turn to stone and holds a silly pose. He manages this for a whole minute. The landscape around us is still silent.

‘I’m bored now,’ complains the statue. ‘And I’m getting nins and peedles. Aaaaaaah,’ he moans, hopping about on one foot.

Disappointment and growing feelings of guilt for asking Ed to come on this night adventure start to well up in my chest. Ed stops hopping and lays a small stone respectfully on the earth near the charcoal.

‘Everything should have a grave. Bye, cauliflower,’ he says.

‘OK, Teddy. Last one to the bike is a cabbage full of slugs.’ I set off at a jogging pace so that Ed can catch me up.

‘Oi, that’s not fair. You started without me. Stick!’

We’re running back down the hill, stumbling over the edges of rabbit holes. I don’t mention to him that areas like this in the Forest are ancient burial sites
and that we could be treading on the remains of long-rotten corpses.

This was a bad idea. What if Mum has discovered our empty beds? What if the police are scouring the countryside for us? Do you get a criminal record for wasting their time? The scale of the trouble we’re going to be in is beginning to hit home, but something is niggling at the back of my mind. I don’t want to give up yet, even though we should be heading back as fast as our legs can carry us.

‘I think we should have a quick look up that private road, just to make sure,’ I say.

I grab Ed’s hand to prevent him falling and hurting himself as I pick up the pace and we keep running, filled with a new urgency. We reach the lane, retrieve the bike from behind a tree and fumble with the combination lock. Ed shines the torch on it and I click the four numbers into sequence. With a clunk, the clasp releases, like a snake uncoiling. I realise my hands are trembling as I wind it around my handlebar column.

‘Stick,’ says Ed, in a hushed voice. He’s pointing to the metal gate a little way ahead, which is now open. ‘It wasn’t like that before.’ He gulps melodramatically.

‘Come on, let’s get moving,’ I whisper.

But we both freeze. Carried on the air, from the direction of the private road, the sound of frenzied barking and neighing suddenly assaults our ears. These are not animals spooked by the arrival of a fox in their yard. They are calling out, in distress, in terror. And above the distant confusion of noise, one high-pitched call is so familiar, the hairs on the back of my neck stand rigid with fear.

Chapter Thirty-six

I’m flying close to the ground, unaware of my feet working like pistons, turning my pedals. My eyes are almost blind with fury. Breath sears through my nose and into my chest. I drive it out in gasps. My hands grip the handlebars with all my strength, sending shock waves up my trembling arms.

No threat, no pain, no ordeal will dissuade me from reaching my destination. Never have I been so focused, never so sure of my instincts. Adrenaline is coursing through my body like liquid fire. If I yell, my voice will spew out red and orange flames.

The tarmac gives way to rough track with deep ruts, curving down into a valley. I’m descending into oblivion, into a dark place that holds a dreadful secret. Stones slew away from my tyres, which skid over the
fault lines in the caked mud and jam against the sides of grooves made by heavy vehicles.

Be quick, Ed. Raise the alarm. Tell them where I am
.

I dropped Ed outside the Snail and Rocket only minutes ago with orders to get help. Now, I’m on my own, heading at full speed towards a horror I won’t let myself imagine. The animals’ cries are louder now, more anguished, guiding me towards them. And there are men’s voices, raised in aggression, and the low rumble of an engine turning over, its exhaust blowing and rattling, adding to the commotion.

Ahead of me, I can make out a run-down yard with two dilapidated buildings, a barn and a smaller store, now with its roof missing. In front of them, there’s a large trailer and an old Land Rover, whose headlights are shining my way. It’s the only source of light, revealing abandoned machinery rusting against a stone wall, iron skeletons dumped in a heap. I swerve my bike into the undergrowth, leaving it on its side, and continue on foot, hiding where I can, avoiding the bright beams.

Yelping, growling, shrieking, whining, snorting – the desperate alarms coming from what sounds like dozens of captive creatures is almost deafening.

What is going on here is not the work of a farmer giving his livestock a late feed. The place has a disused, clandestine feel. There are men moving furtively, not wanting to be seen. They open the back ramp of the trailer, which hits the concrete beneath it with a clang. Then one of them removes the wooden plank securing the barn doors and pushes. As he does so, the animals intensify their vocal protest and the barking from within turns to howling, more blood curdling than any wolves. Again the shriek of a single animal rises above the others, scaling several octaves, more like a call to battle than an expression of fear. A song I know by heart.

‘Shut it, stupid horse,’ shouts the taller of the men who is the first to enter. ‘Get that rope round his neck, quickly. Load him first,’ he instructs his companion. There is an urgent sound of hooves
kicking out against the corrugated wall of the barn.

I probably have about twenty seconds to disable the vehicle while they’re not looking. A snap decision finds me silently opening the driver’s door of the Land Rover and feeling for the keys. I’ve seen it done a hundred times before in the movies. But there’s nothing hanging from the ignition.

‘I’ll show you –’ yells the second man, and I hear the thud of something hard and unforgiving on flesh, followed by a scream and the clash of shoes against metal.

‘He’s broken my arm,’ I hear the man yelp, crying with pain.

‘I’m gonna break his neck,’ comes the reply, together with a whole string of curses.

As I edge along the side of the trailer, I get my first glimpse inside the barn. The scene before me is more shocking than my worst nightmare. The countless silhouettes inside the stinking space tell me all I need to know. These poor animals are live cargo, destined
for transportation. There must be a hundred emaciated dogs tied to upright beams, some guarding puppies, and maybe half as many horses and donkeys, tethered together so tightly there’s no room to lie down.

There are also bodies strewn amongst piles of excrement, some so decomposed it’s difficult to tell what type of animal they were. I do my best to stifle my reflex to be violently sick.

But above all this, rearing, bucking, lunging at his tormentor who is repeatedly bringing down a heavy wooden stick on his neck, there is a grey stallion as pale as death, his ribs prominent, his face a contorted mask of determination. His teeth are braced, and he is clearly fighting for his life, gathering the remnants of his spirit for a last assault.

I have to get him out of there this second, even though it means yelling and blowing my cover.

‘SAMPHIRE!’ I shout, but he doesn’t hear me above the panic-stricken animals. If he runs now, I can save him. ‘SAMPHIRE!’ I scream, waving my arms.
The men turn to look at me, surprised, and the one giving the orders starts to move forwards, menacingly, but wary of this great, grey adversary in his way.

Samphire, rising up on his rear legs, bellowing like a war horse, thrusts his front hooves towards the object of his hatred. He brings them down with all his force, making contact with the man’s shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

The other man approaches from the side and tries to throw a halter rope over Sam’s head, while his colleague writhes in pain.

‘Got you, you raving monster,’ he snarls. Sam tries to backstep and slip the rope off but there are other animals in the way, all shrieking with terror. The halter tightens. Sam rears and neighs, his eyes rolling.

‘Now, boy, come now!’ I call, but he buckles onto his knees, foam oozing from his mouth, sweat running down his face, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, all energy spent. As the man gets closer, ready to snare his prey more securely, I sprint forwards and slip deftly on
to my horse’s back. He responds like a light brought to life with the flick of a switch, rising like a Phoenix from the ashes. With a shake of his head and a final kick, the halter flies off and Samphire leaps, with a noble groan, towards the freedom of the yard.

In a split second, we’re cantering awkwardly up the track, the ridges of his bones rubbing my calves and thighs, the grunt from his throat telling me how much effort every step is taking. Bridleless, he uses every one of his senses to navigate his way, but every step seems to cause him discomfort, his weak legs stumbling on the uneven surface. We dare not slow down. The only way to reach safety is to keep going as fast as possible. I urge him on, saying his name over and over. He’s holding his head high, proud and undaunted, but his breaths are laboured, rasping in his throat. He is running on willpower alone, this brave and beautiful stallion. And he’s doing it for me, for the bond we have, for the promise I made him.

Far behind us, I can hear the revving of an engine
and the squeal of brakes as the Land Rover is turned round, ready for pursuit. If only I could have found those keys and thrown them in the bushes.

On we ride, to the top of the incline and towards the point where the track melds into tarmac. Sam’s pace is slowing, despite my encouragement. One hoof is dragging and scraping – oh God, please don’t stop now. The jeep is labouring up the track and is probably only a hundred yards away.

‘Not much further, Sam, good boy,’ I say, my voice disintegrating, my body aching from the effort of gripping on to Samphire’s once magnificent frame.

I must stay positive. I try to imagine Sam and me on the beach, galloping through shallow surf, sunlit and serene. If I close my eyes, I see us both, but the image fades and darkens, like the shutter of a camera closing.

As we pass the open gate with the
Private Road
sign, Samphire’s body starts to tremble like an earthquake, shuddering in waves. I should close the gate to slow our pursuers, but without reins Sam is making the
decisions. Still he labours on along the dark corridor through the trees; it can only be another mile, I tell myself, straining to see ahead in the darkness.

But the Land Rover isn’t far behind us. Its headlights have got us in their glare. Pressing my right leg against Sam’s belly and my hand against his neck, I ask him to swerve off the lane into the trees. He responds, sensing my rising panic. We must find or force a path through the woods in order to reach the pub. The tall, slim trunks are like soldiers, standing to attention. Their lines are long and ordered. There is just space for a horse between them. Trotting as fast as he is able, Sam’s survival instinct guides us through the black maze.