The Horse With My Name (11 page)

We finally made it back to the house. It was five minutes by car, but half an hour by drunk woman in one heel. I opened the front door and she fell through it. I picked her up off the floor and steered her into the lounge. I let her down gently on to the sofa and her head fell immediately on to the arm rest. She was snoring before her eyes closed. I lifted her feet up on to the cushions. I removed her shoes. Her short skirt had ridden way up to reveal her tanned, finely muscled legs and her knickers, again. There was a smidgin of pubic hair showing through where she hadn’t pulled them up properly and I debated for several seconds what the gentlemanly thing to do was, pull the material back into place or get a felt pen from my pencil case and write
Kilroy Was Here
. In the end, of course, I chose neither. I went upstairs and got a quilt off one of the spare beds and placed it gently over her. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and two headache pills from my personal and vital supply and left them on the carpet where she couldn’t miss them.

Then I went to bed.

I woke to the sound of hearty cursing from below. It was still dark and I was in the middle of another bleak dream.
It took me a moment to get my bearings. Then I pulled on my trousers and hurried down.

Mandy was sitting in the middle of the carpet, blood dripping from her foot. ‘Some stupid bastard left a glass on the floor!’ she cried as I appeared. She was gripping her foot and there were tears on her cheeks and blood on her fingers as she gingerly tried to remove the little shards embedded in her sole.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘that was me. I thought––’

‘For fuck sake! How could you be so . . .’ She let out a painful sigh. ‘Never mind – can you get me a towel or something?’ She winced again and I went to get one. I stayed in the kitchen long enough to take a drink of Diet Pepsi to clear the hangover throat, then hurried back in. She was still examining her foot. I asked her if she’d got them all out and she said there might still be one in there, but she’d probably only know when it made its way through her bloodstream to her brain and killed her.

‘Okay,’ I said and handed her the towel.

She gave me half an apologetic smile then pressed the towel against her foot. She winced. She looked up again, then nodded at the sofa. ‘I was sick on your . . . I was in the middle of clearing it up when I stepped on the glass. I got kitchen roll from the kitchen. I think I got most of it.’

‘It’s the
most of it
that worries me.’

She smiled endearingly. ‘I know. There’s some gone down the back in under the cushion I couldn’t get.’ She winced again.

‘Do you think you need a doctor?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’ She peered in at the wound. She pressed some kitchen roll against it, held it, then removed it. I could see several small lacerations, but nothing major, at least to a man. ‘It should be okay,’ she said. She looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry, it was more the shock of it.’

I shrugged. I got her a drink of Diet Pepsi. We sat opposite each other, sipping. After a while she said, ‘What am I doing here?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I remember – the pub. A field? I don’t really know.’

‘You insisted on giving me a lift home in your car. You were drunk, but you insisted. Then you lost control and we flew through a hedge and across a field and nearly tipped up into a river. But didn’t. It’s still sitting there. Or should be. I wouldn’t leave it there too long.’ I looked at my watch. It was getting near six and was starting to brighten outside. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘My head’s going to explode.’

‘Feel free. The sofa’s already ruined.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’ve only got this house for the Easter week. They’ll be advertising it next week as five-bedroom furnished house with slight smell of boke.’

Her smile was nice, but it soon faded. ‘I can’t believe how horrible I’ve been to you. At the stables, nearly killing you in the car, then I’m sick down your settee and bleed on the carpet. You must hate me.’

‘Hate’s a very strong word, but perfectly adequate.’ I shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just let me know where to send the bill.’

‘I . . .’

‘Don’t worry. I know someone in the trade. You’ll get a discount.’

‘I . . .’

‘Joke. He doesn’t give discount.’

‘I . . .’

‘You have a hangover. You should sleep some more. Come upstairs. Uhm. There’s a spare room.’

‘Okay. What about the car?’

‘We’ll get it later.’

‘Are you sure? It’s worth nearly two hundred thousand.’

‘Not now it’s not.’

‘Oh
shit
.’

‘Relax. It’s too early, we can’t do anything yet. Let the blood-alcohol content reduce.’

We found a plaster in the bathroom cabinet and carefully applied it to her wounded foot. Then I showed her into the spare room. She thanked me and I closed the door. I returned to my room and tried to get over again. I was just dozing off when I felt the quilt go back and someone climb in beside me. Mandy said, vaguely, ‘Warm,’ then snuggled up beside me and fell asleep.

It was nice.

I didn’t try anything.

I didn’t even object to the boke in her hair, although that probably wouldn’t last much beyond the second or third date.

The farmer was okay about it, actually, though a little bemused as to how we’d managed to miss the dead sheep mangled under the rear tyres. Mandy was charm itself. She asked him the sheep’s worth, then doubled it and gave him the cash. He got his tractor and towed the Ferrari back from the edge of the stream, across the field and back up on to the road.

As he did, I said, ‘That was very generous, the sheep.’

She shrugged. ‘I killed it. Besides, it would cost me three times as much to get a garage to tow it. Once they saw it was a Ferrari you’d see the pound signs in their eyes. To him, it’s just a red car.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘My dad’ll sort it out. Though he’ll probably take the time to kill me first.’

‘His car?’

‘His car. Fuck.’

‘C’mon,’ I said, ‘let’s get some breakfast.’

She looked at me oddly. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ I think she was just getting towards a smile, but then she stopped herself suddenly and frowned. ‘You’re writing that bloody book, aren’t you? You’re going to write about me and the drink and the crash and make it sound like we’re all fucking Hooray Henrys pissing about at the expense of other jockeys who can hardly afford to feed their bloody kids. Well it’s not like that! I swear to God – Daddy doesn’t give me a penny. He didn’t want me to go into the riding at all. He’s done his best to keep me off of it. Do you have any idea how much I earn from this?’

‘Enough to pay double for dead sheep.’

‘Oh really? Oh really? Well take a look at this?’ She brandished her open purse at me. Apart from a few coins, it was empty. ‘I’ve bugger all. It was just the right thing to do. I killed his sheep. But I’ve nothing left! Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a woman to make her way in this business? Okay, so I’m lucky, my dad begrudgingly lets me ride the odd donkey, but for other owners? Once in a fucking blue moon. Even then – fuck, I get paid eighty-seven pounds a ride. Out of that I’ve to pay a tenner to my agent, another tenner to get my kit cleaned. I’ve to pay fees to the Jockey Club’s accountants and to the Jockeys Association, I’ve to run my own car – it’s a fucking Metro – and drive everywhere. What I’m saying is I don’t make any bloody money at this game and I work my guts out, so if you’re writing about me don’t make me out to be some sort of pampered little daddy’s girl. I give everything to this and I take nothing back, okay?’ She was breathing hard, her cheeks had flushed and her eyes were narrow and intense.

I felt like hugging her. ‘Is this a convoluted way of getting me to pay for breakfast?’ I asked, instead.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Okay.
Okay
. Sorry for getting on my high horse.
Literally
. I just need . . .’

‘To be taken seriously?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll take you seriously. But you can relax. Your father talked me out of writing the book. I’m just here to relax and try to get my own life back together.’

‘Honest?’

‘Honest injun.’

As we approached the Ferrari, now sitting forlornly back on the open road, the farmer was just unhooking his tractor. He stood, sucking on a pipe, while Mandy climbed gingerly in behind the wheel. She inserted the key, looked at me hopefully, then turned it. It started first time.
Quality
. The Metro would have made a long grating noise that sounded like
Catch yourself on
.

In a few moments we were motoring back down the road towards the village. I directed her into the car park beside the diner. We went inside and ordered two unoccupied fries.

‘This is a bit of a no-no,’ she said when they arrived, looking down at the plates with glee. ‘I’ll be starving myself all week after this.’

‘Another ride?’ She nodded. I shook my head. ‘If there’s so much self-denial involved for so few rewards, why bother?’

‘Because I love it. Because the greatest feeling in the world is coming into those final few furlongs with the crowd cheering you all the way and then crossing that finishing line in first place, knowing that that special bond between you and the horse is what’s gotten you there. And because this Saturday it’s all going to pay off.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that that special bond with a horse doesn’t happen very often. But when you train him yourself, look after him night and day, ride him out in the gallops every morning come rain or shine, when no other single human being has anything to do with him but you, when he won’t
let
anyone else on to him but you, and you know that he’s something special . . .’

‘This is beginning to sound a little . . . unnatural.’

She smiled. ‘Maybe it is. But Dan . . . it’s just, y’know, some horses can be awkward to ride, part elephant, part camel, but on
him
it’s like sitting in your favourite armchair . . . There’s like plenty of head and neck in front and those big quarters behind . . . he’s deep-girthed and a smooth walker and such a fearless but skilled jumper. He’ll tackle anything you can throw at him, his footwork’s amazing, when he jumps he just kind of arches his back and really goes for it, whereas half the others just blunder through . . .’

She trailed off, looked down to her plate, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘It’s okay. I’m starting to fall in love with him myself. What’s he called?’

She looked up, small smile. ‘Dan.’

I smiled back, although it hadn’t been a hard question. ‘What?’

‘Dan.’

‘
What?
’

‘Dan. It’s Dan. Dan the Man. I’m riding him in the Grand National on Saturday.’

11

We lingered over our fry. She told me more about the stables and the state of the horses within them than I could ever possibly remember, so it was just as well I was taping it. I had to earn a crust and Hilda had promised me a whole loaf if we got any dirt on Geordie McClean. Mandy was beautiful and fiery, but she was his daughter, so she was completely and utterly off limits. We said a somewhat awkward goodbye. She was walking away when I asked her out to dinner.

She stopped, she thought for a moment, she turned round. Her face was glum.

‘Sorry,’ I said immediately, ‘bad idea.’

‘Good idea, but bad timing. I told you. I can’t eat anything else because of the race. We could go for a jog tomorrow morning if you want.’

‘Yeah. Okay. That would be great.’

She smiled and turned away again.

Jog
.

What on earth was I doing?

Jog
.

I had clearly taken leave of my senses. Playing football
between ciders in the park was one thing, but
jogging
. Jogging
kills
.

I tried to shout after her, but there was only the roar of the Ferrari engine and she was gone.

Jog
.

I tramped home from home, thinking about jogging and ways I might get out of it. She didn’t have the look of someone who just went for a gentle little run either. She’d glide like a cheetah, barely breaking sweat; I’d be reduced to a puddle by the end of the road, if I made the end of the road.

Well, hell, she could stick to my pace or she could . . . not.

The birdshit cleaner’s kids were out playing hurling or something in the middle of the road when I got home. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ I snapped as I put the key in the door.

They snapped back, ‘At Easter? Y’heathen.’

‘Well just . . .
just
. . .’ I warned them conclusively and sloped inside.

I took one of fat incoherent lad’s gift beers from the fridge, then sat and spent an hour transcribing the tape. There were a lot of cutlery and chewing sounds, but once they were edited out I e-mailed what was left to Hilda. Then I phoned her. That’s the way e-mail works. Send it, then you make the phone call you would originally have made to make sure the e-mail has arrived. She sounded pleased to hear from me, but it faded slightly when I said I was thinking of going to Liverpool.

‘Why for?’ she demanded.

‘Because the National’s on Saturday.’

‘I
know
that. What’s it got to do with you?’

‘McClean will be going. His daughter’s a ride.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, his daughter’s riding in the National.’

‘You did not.’

‘I did too.’

‘You . . . Oh Jesus, Starkey, have you been drinking?’

‘Not really.’

There was a sigh, then a silence. Then a diplomatic ‘Surely it would be better to take advantage of McLean’s absence to infiltrate his organisation.’

‘What’re you suggesting,
burglary
?’

‘Whatever it takes.’

‘Hilda – please. I want to find out who killed Corkery as much as you do, but I’m not a burglar. I’d impale myself on something if I tried to break in anywhere. Besides, those stables are secure, I wouldn’t have a chance. Anyway, I have an
in
already. His daughter’s taken a shine to me. I’m getting it straight from the horse’s daughter’s mouth. Let me follow her to Aintree, you never know what’ll develop.’