The Horse With My Name (22 page)

I went to the door and peered out. The hall was in darkness. I padded along it. I came to the room where Hilda had shown me the Horse Whisperer set-up. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I opened it and slipped in, then
closed it behind me. I chanced turning on the light. I blinked against the brightness for a moment, then switched it off again. The room was empty. No computers, no faxes, no gossip, no Horse Whisperer.

At the end of the hall I looked over the banister. The stairs and downstairs hall were partially lit by light emanating from the half-open door of the lounge. I could see shadows dancing on the walls. Although not, of course,
dancing
. Or if they were, it was some kind of surreal torture tango. Another hideous groan. I shuddered. I’d had no idea of what I might find in Hilda’s mansion. All I knew was that she had used me. Quite possibly she had betrayed me. At the back of my mind there’d been a hint of a suspicion that she might somehow have been in league with Jimmy the Chicken, Oil Paintings and the mysteriously absent Dry Cleaner, that there had been some dispute between her and Geordie over money and she was using me in some bizarre fashion to try and flush it out, but the screams of terror and pain and despair that were coming from that room knocked any such suspicions of collaboration well into touch.

They were killing her.

I sat on the bottom step.

‘Tell us, you fucking old hoor.’

A hiss. Like . . .
steam
?

A scream.

‘Where’s the fucking money, you cunt?’

‘Tell us!’

A hiss. Like . . . an
iron
?

A terrible juddery involuntary scream.

Then laughter. A horribly sadistic snigger. ‘Look at the fuckin’ shape of that!’

‘Girlie, we’re doing a fucking map of the world on yer tits.’

Hiss. Scream.

‘Tell us!’

‘Nooooooooooo!’

Hiss. Scream.

Silence.

‘Get some water.’

I flattened myself against the stairs, but kept my head raised just enough to see the door open further and Oil Paintings emerge. Beyond him Jimmy the Chicken stood with an iron in his hand. He raised his other hand, then slapped it downwards. I heard flesh meet flesh. ‘Come on, you stupid bitch, wake up.’ Then he tutted, stepped back and set the iron on a sideboard. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He moved out of my line of sight and I saw Hilda for the first time.

I will never forget that vision of torment.

What had she been? A beautiful woman in upper middle age. Proud. Determined. Angry. Vengeful. What was it my mother used to say? Full of
vim
. And that was back in the days when the only vim I knew was the brand name of the scouring powder she used to clean the toilets.

But now.

Naked. Her arms bound behind her. Her legs deliberately spread for the maximum humiliation, then tied to the legs of the chair. But she could cope with that. She was strong. But no one could cope with . . .

Her flesh was melting. Great welts of dripping, corrupted skin hung bloody from her chest. Around those horrific wounds her ribs were clearly visible, pressing outwards as if trying to escape. The arms were blotched and burned. Her legs. They’d been at her for some time. I’d been listening to the weather forecast in the car while they’d been pressing her. Her head was slumped down, her grey hair tangled and dank with sweat. There was
a damp patch on the carpet beneath her, urine on her legs.

There were footsteps to my left, and Oil Paintings came back along the hall carrying a pint glass full of water. He re-entered the lounge and pushed the door closed behind him.

There was a splash and a groan and a gloating ‘Now where were we?’

I cursed silently.

What’s the plan, Dan?

Call the police. I would give myself up for this. Everyone would. But it would be too late. They’d be gone and Hilda would be dead long before they arrived.

What to do, what to fucking do!

I looked desperately about me. Horses . . .
horses
? Hilda was into horses, and half of those into horses are also into the hunting, the shooting and the fishing. It was part of the lifestyle. They went hand in hand. Guns. For hunting. Somewhere in the house. But where? It was massive. There’d be a gun room, somewhere . . . but locked. Keys . . . keys?

There was another yell and a barely audible ‘Please . . .’

Frig. There wasn’t time.

A weapon. Anything.

The kitchen. A knife. A
carving
knife.

Take a run at them, stab, stab, stab, hope for the best.

I moved cautiously off the stairs, then quickly along the hall and down the corridor leading to the kitchen. The door was three quarters closed but Oil Paintings had left the light on. I hurried through and crossed directly to the drawers underneath the sink. I carefully pulled the first open.

Behind me, a voice said: ‘Looking for something?’

My heart stopped. Then started. I turned slowly.

Sitting at the breakfast counter, a forkful of pasta in one
hand, a gun in the other, a microwave meal before him, was Dry Cleaner.

I sighed. He smiled. ‘Not in enjoying the fun?’ I asked.

‘Nah. Puts me off my dinner.’ He put the pasta in his mouth, then set down the fork. ‘Jimmy said he saw you on the train,’ he said between chews.

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘Oh no. He sent me on ahead. To do a recce and buy the iron.’

‘You
bought
the iron?’

‘Oh yeah. Much better value up here. It’s the exchange rate.’

‘I mean . . . why not just use hers . . .?’

‘Women like this, more money than sense, they send their clothes out to be done. Keeps me in business! Besides. I needed a new one for the shop. Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. You can put the knife back any time you want.’

I put the knife I’d slipped into my sleeve back into the drawer.

‘What now?’ I said.

‘I should think that’s fucking obvious.’

I nodded. I was going to get ironed.

I was tied to a chair. A cheap wooden effort of the type you stand on to change light bulbs, while Hilda was secured to a much superior aluminium number that had once sat around her dining table. She looked at me with a kind of vague recognition. Her eyes were flecked with blood and there was saliva dribbling out of her mouth. I said, ‘I’m sorry . . .’ across to her, but there was no reaction.

‘You will be,’ said Oil Paintings.

Dry Cleaner stayed with his pasta. Oil Paintings marched
me in. Jimmy the Chicken laughed his head off when he saw me, then decked me. My eye was already swollen and closed by the time they both came to stand in front of me, but that didn’t bother me. What did was the iron with the slivers of crisped flesh hanging from it which Jimmy was brandishing.

‘So,’ Jimmy said, ‘about this money?’

‘I don’t know anything about–– Don’t, don’t, don’t . . .’ The iron was an inch from my trouser leg. It is a well-documented fact that I can stand anything but bad reviews and pain. ‘Just don’t. Please. Ask me anything. Better still, let me volunteer everything I know.’

Jimmy laughed. ‘You know,’ he said, then nodded at Hilda, ‘she’s a better man than you are.’

‘I know.’

‘She didn’t give us shit for two hours. She’s fucking dying and you’d give it all up as soon as the room temperature goes up a degree.’

I shrugged helplessly. ‘What can I say?’

‘Everything,’ Oil Paintings said, stepping forward, ‘that includes the word money.’

‘I don’t know anything about––’

Oil Paintings grabbed my hand. I bunched it into a fist. He squeezed the little finger tight and I opened up. Jimmy brought the iron down on my palm with a delighted laugh and I jerked back in agony . . .
Jesusjesusjesusjesusfuckfuckfuck
. . .

‘Now where the fuck is it!’ Oil Paintings screamed.

‘There is none!’ I bellowed.

‘Of course there is! Where is it!’

‘I swear to God!’

Jimmy stood back up and glared down at me. He spat on to the base of the iron and it hissed. Hilda gave a low groan. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I . . .’ I looked from one to the other. I looked at my hand. The flesh was bubbling.
Fuck!
‘Water . . . please . . .’

Jimmy thought for a moment, then nodded at Oil Paintings. He snarled, then lifted what was left in the pint glass and threw it over my hand. I shuddered again.

‘Now,’ Jimmy snapped, standing over me again, ‘talk or melt.’

As threats go, it was right up there in the top one.

I took a deep breath. There was nothing to lose by telling them what little I knew, and a life, possibly two, to be gained.

‘I don’t know anything about money–– Wait, wait, wait! Let me finish!’ Jimmy hesitated. ‘Just let me finish. I’ve been working for
her
, but besides some loose change there’s never been any money about the place. I know youse have all fallen out over some scam or something, but whatever money’s been ripped off you, it’s either gone . . . or it’s in a horse.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘You’ve heard of Dan the Man?’

‘Of course we’ve––’

‘There’s your money.’

‘Talk sense, cunto.’

‘Okay. Listen. Listen. He’s running in the Grand National, day after tomorrow, right? Owned by Geordie McClean, Irish American Racing, right?’

‘Right.’

‘He’s her ex-husband.’

‘We know this, what the fuck has this got to do––’

‘The horse is worth millions if it goes to stud, right?’ Jimmy and Oil Paintings nodded warily. ‘But there’s this dispute over who owns it, right? The way I see it, Geordie gave Hilda the horse as a gift, to try and win her back, but maybe volunteered to train him up . . . Meanwhile, okay,
meanwhile . . . Hilda’s boyfriend managed to lose whatever money he ripped off youse, so Hilda needed cash to pay off his debts. Okay? With me?’

‘We’re not fucking stupid,’ Oil Paintings hissed.

‘Okay . . . So she’s no money, can’t shift a white elephant like this fucking house, so all she has is Dan the Man. Only Geordie’s been training him all this time and has realised how good a horse he actually is and won’t hand him over.’

‘Is this going somewhere?’ Oil Paintings growled.

‘Shhhh,’ Jimmy the Chicken said, ‘go on.’

‘So big fight. Now if Hilda knows her name’s on the paperwork, there’s nothing to stop her going to court. But if it’s joint names, then it’s a bit murkier. She also knows that whatever Dan the Man’s worth at stud, it’ll double or triple if he wins the National. Plus . . . plus, you ready for this?’ They nodded. I prepared to draw one of the women I loved into their sights. ‘Hilda’s also having a bit of a tug of love with Geordie over their daughter . . .’

‘This is getting like fucking
Emmerdale
, Jimmy,’ Oil Paintings whined.

‘Shhhh,’ Jimmy said again.

‘She’s a jockey as well,’ I continued, ‘but Geordie’s never really going to let her ride in the National like he promised, so Hilda bargains her help for a free ride on Dan the Man in the big race.’

Jimmy’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean
her
daughter
stole
Dan the Man from Geordie McClean,’ Jimmy said, ponderously, ‘so that she could ride it in the National. And she’s hoping to treble the asking price when it comes to stud.’

‘Succinctly summarised,’ I said.

Jimmy looked across at Hilda. ‘Is that the way it is?’ he asked. There was a drip of saliva, but no other response.

‘So,’ I said, pushing my luck, ‘if you wait until the National’s
over, Hilda’ll be flush and you can get your money back. I’m sure she’ll give you interest. And expenses.’

Jimmy nodded. ‘So where would the daughter be now?’

I shrugged. ‘On the way to Aintree, I suppose.’

Jimmy looked at Oil Paintings. ‘Liverpool ferry,’ said Oil Paintings. ‘Direct route.’

‘So, uhm,’ I said, ‘you can let us go now.’

He smiled down at me. ‘Now what the fuck would I want to do that for?’

‘Because . . . well. I told you how to, ahm, get your money back.’

He came a little closer. He spoke more quietly, but somehow the threat seemed greater. He put his left hand over my burned one, and each time he made a point, he gave it a little squeeze. ‘Well, Dan Starkey, Horse Whisperer, whoever the fuck you are, it’s like this. Much as I would love to hang around until fuck knows when, that’s not really very practical. Y’see, I’m a betting man. I know my horses. I know my jockeys and I know my fucking courses. Now Dan the Man’s a good horse, sure he’ll maybe fetch half a million at stud, but he’s not a great horse, which is what you need to win the National. It’s the hardest fucking course in the world. Not only do you need a great horse, but you need a fucking great jockey as well, not some little girl’s barely run a race in her life and’s only up there because Mummy promised her. See?’

I nodded. He squeezed again. I held in the scream as best I could.

‘I’ll tell you what’ll happen. That girl will think she’s doing okay right up to Beecher’s Brook, she tries to get him over that fuckin’ fence she’ll not only break her own neck, but more importantly, she’ll break Dan the Man’s as well. And then Dan the fucking Man will be worth exactly
nothing
. So where’ll our money be then?’

‘I . . .’

‘It’ll be off to the knacker’s, won’t it?’ I nodded. ‘Like I say, I’m a betting man, and I’ll give you this tip for nothing, don’t bet on Dan the Man even starting that race on Saturday. I’ll take my half a million now, thanks very much.’ He nodded at Oil Paintings. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘we’ve a ferry to catch.’

Oil Paintings grinned at him, and turned for the door. As Jimmy the Chicken went to follow I said, in retrospect stupidly, ‘What about us?’

Jimmy paused. ‘Good point,’ he said. Abruptly he shivered. ‘Is it my imagination,’ he asked, ‘or is it cold in here?’

I looked to Oil Paintings. ‘No, right enough,’ he said, ‘it is a bit nippy.’

‘Okay,’ said Jimmy, smiling down at me, ‘why don’t we light a fire?’

23

Maybe it was the intense heat, or the overpowering smell of burning petrol, or maybe the crack of the windows as they exploded; whatever it was, it brought Hilda round. Her head moved slowly up and her red eyes surveyed the inferno with a kind of resigned relief. She had been tortured to within an inch of death, and now it was coming anyway. The house was burning around us, the bad guys were away, it was all going to end. There was nothing left to say.