The Horse With My Name (23 page)

Except there was, of course.

Her eyes settled on me. As they did, I looked away. I was going to die, and die secure in the knowledge that although I had come to first rescue, then chastise Hilda for betraying me, I had instead failed miserably to save her then managed to betray her daughter to the bad guys. Killed two birds with one stone, even. My only hope was that Hilda was so far gone she wouldn’t be aware of it. I looked up at her again. A melted woman with her legs spread. Her eyes were hard and alive and burning into me with as much vigour and vim as the flames that were now licking across the floor toward us.

‘You . . . told . . . them . . .’

‘I had to, Hilda.’

‘You . . . have . . . killed . . . my
daughter
. . .’

‘This isn’t the time to be scoring points, Hilda, but you might have told me.’

There was a loud crack from above and I ducked down as best as I could as part of the ceiling fell away, crashing to the floor behind me and momentarily dousing the flames that had crept as far as the base of my chair.

I tugged at the ropes, but they were expertly tied. In a movie we would have shuffled our chairs across the floor, got them back to back and then untied each other before making a dramatic charge through the flames as the building crashed around us. Except we would have been younger and better looking, my companion would not have been hideously scarred and I would not have been on the verge of tears.

The flames were at the base of her chair and were beginning to bite into her legs.

‘You . . . have . . . to . . . save . . . her . . .’

‘Hilda . . . oh Jesus . . .’

Her legs were on fire. Her whole body was shaking.

‘You . . . have . . . to . . .’

‘Hilda. Fuck sake!’

‘Please!’

‘Hilda . . . Hilda . . .’

She was burning alive.

She
screammmmmmmmmmmed
. . .

I screamed.

And then she was burning dead.

Oh fuck! I prayed to every god there has ever been. A second section of the ceiling gave way and crashed down on to Hilda, knocking her backwards and engulfing her completely in the flames.

She was gone.

Swallowed up.

Consumed.

It was closing in on all sides. I looked down. The legs of my chair were burning. I could keep my feet raised, but for how long before they too were alight?

Seconds.

Face it, Starkey, you’re toast. Just as you like it, black
.

I could feel my arse burning through the seat of the chair.

And then
snap
and
thump
as the cheap legs of the chair gave way and I was suddenly on my arse on the red-hot floor. The sudden collapse had extinguished the flames closest to the chair, but the reprieve only lasted for brief moments. As they bloomed again I was fleetingly in a position to make use of them. The pause in their intensity and my position on the ground allowed me to stretch my wrists back into the fire without burning the rest of me first.

I held them there . . . one, two, three . . . Jesussssss! Then back out. I strained against the smouldering rope, but it wouldn’t give. I plunged my wrists back into the flames again, screaming as they burned into my flesh . . . hold it, hold it, hold it! The rope was on fire, it must, it must . . . I pulled hard and it snapped suddenly.

My hands were free. I rubbed my wrists against my jacket for relief from the pain, then turned my attention to the rope holding my feet together. Another crash from above sprayed me with burning shards of wood. Then they were free and I was up.

I looked about me desperately. Which way?
Which way!

To the door, stupid. No, to the window.

Sheets of flaming death, either way.

Just get fucking out!

I closed my eyes. I put my jacket over my head. I screamed and I ran into the flames.

I was hissing in the swimming pool.

I was smouldering and black, and after a fashion, alive. Hilda’s mansion was crashing in the background. There were sirens. I cried tears of relief and anger, but not for long.

I dragged myself reluctantly out of the pool and limped away across the lawns to the perimeter wall. I barely had the strength to pull myself over it. I sat bedraggled on the crisp grass on the other side, breathing hard, alternately cursing and praising God. I ducked down behind a tree as the first of a series of fire engines sped past.

When it was clear, I tumbled down the bank and hurried along to where I’d left the car. I could see in the distance a police car sitting with flashing lights close to the entrance to Hilda’s mansion, and a cop trying to hold back the small crowd of onlookers who’d come to enjoy the spectacle.

I’d left the keys hanging from the branch of a tree overhanging the footpath beside the car, but it took several minutes to discover
which
branch.

I got them, opened the car door and slipped in behind the wheel. As I put them into the ignition a hand landed on my shoulder and I jumped, banging my head off the roof.

‘Nice fire,’ a familiar voice said.

I turned to look at Mouse in the back seat. ‘Jesus wept,’ I said.

‘Nice to see you too, Danny boy.’ He leant forward out of the darkness. His familiar oval face and perky smile.

I should have kissed him, but: ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ had to suffice.

‘As your luck would have it, a wee doll stormed into the office trying to sell me an exclusive about a journalist on the run and all sorts of murder and mayhem in the horsey world. I put two and two together and got you.’

‘So where is she now?’

‘Typing.’

I sat back and sighed. I was hurting. ‘Are you going to run . . . ?’

‘No, of course not. How much of it is true?’

‘Off the record and allowing for standard female journalistic exaggeration?’ He nodded. ‘Oh, about a hundred per cent.’ I started the engine. It was agony to turn it with my burnt hand.

Mouse couldn’t help but notice the agonised expression. ‘Do you want me to drive?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, never the brave soldier. He squeezed forward between the seats as soon as I’d moved across to the other side. As he reached beneath the seat to move it to a better position he glanced across at the fire. ‘I hope she’s insured,’ he said.

‘She’s dead.’

‘Oh. God.’

‘I know.’ I glanced at the clock on the dash. Nine thirty. ‘What time’s the last sailing of the Liverpool ferry?’

‘What am I, Captain Birdseye?’

‘
Mouse
.’

‘Ten, I think. What’s––’

‘Then get this fucking wagon moving. The big place where the boats are.’

‘The docks.’

‘That’ll do.’

He got into gear and pulled out. Another fire engine was arriving. ‘Do you want to tell me what went on in there?’ Mouse asked.

‘No. Just watch the road.’

‘Swell. How is it you tell a wee girl not long out of school all the facts, but you don’t think of confiding in me?’ I looked at him. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. It’s glaringly obvious.’

I smiled through the pain barrier. ‘If you would just lose the ’tache.’

He shook his head, and drove. The docks were less than ten minutes away. As he drove I said, ‘You didn’t think of coming in and rescuing me or anything?’

‘I’m a watcher, not a doer, Dan, you know that.’

‘So what did you see?’

‘Three guys leaving in a car. Then four guys following the three guys.’

‘Tell me about the four guys.’

‘They were Oriental.’

‘Certain?’

‘They were pulling rickshaws.’

‘Fair enough.’

He wasn’t the sort to jump lights. If he was really pushed he might rev the engine a bit. I drummed my fingers on the dash and cursed at him. He gave me a lot of guff about doing his best and and how it wouldn’t help anyone if we were both flattened by a lorry or stopped by the cops. He didn’t
understand
, but there was nothing I could do.

He said: ‘I’m here for you, aren’t I? How many of your other friends are here? Come to think of it . . .’

‘Just step on it.’

‘I’ll step on you.’

He did increase the speed a little. He went through two lights in a row on amber and stopped indicating when he was overtaking pensioners. In his own mind he was probably Mad Max.

He said, once, with real feeling, ‘Are you okay?’

I nodded. ‘I’m never having another barbecue again.’

For no sane reason he said, ‘I saw Trish the other night.’

‘Oh.’

‘She was having an argument with some guy with a
beard. He slapped her and got thrown out of the pub for his trouble.’

‘I hope you went after him and killed him.’

‘No, Dan, I’m a––’

‘Watcher, not a doer. So what else did you see?’

‘Them hugging each other, later. It warms the cockles of your heart.’

‘I’m going to warm his cockles over the fucking––’

The ferry. Up ahead. Brilliantly lit. And pulling out.

‘Fuck!’ said Mouse, slapping the wheel.

‘Fuck!’ I said, slapping the dash.

We screeched to a halt.

Actually, we indicated and pulled over, braking gently a hundred yards short of the entrance to the ferry terminal. And he didn’t say
fuck
, he said
flip
. I had a best friend who said
flip
and wouldn’t break the speed limit even if it was a case of life or death. Even when it was more than that. It was life
and
death. I got out of the car and kicked one of the tyres. A security guard checking vehicles in the short-stay car park opposite looked over. I ignored him.

Mouse got out and stood beside me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, kicking another tyre, although relatively gently, and glaring critically at the car, ‘more power in a fart.’

I nodded. What was the point?

We sat on the bonnet. The docks had been transformed in recent years. They were bright and modern and there were restaurants and bars and live entertainment nearby, where previously they’d been dark and dilapidated and there’d been live ammunition. And I kind of liked them the old way. There was something romantic about the abandoned warehouses, the bricked-up terraces and the dank streets, particularly when you’d lost your virginity around here, thanks to three bottles of cider and a pasty supper. Particularly when her name was Patricia.

She let men slap her, then hugged them
.

Me, she slapped back.

I loved her still, but now there was someone else. For both of us.

The ferry was already fading from sight. It was modern, all enclosed. It had a McDonalds and a four-star restaurant and a kids’ club and there was
no smoking
. I’d only ever been on the old one where smoking was compulsory and hot and cold running vomit was virtually guaranteed.

‘Remember the old ferries?’ Mouse asked. ‘Hot and cold running boke. They were disgusting.’

I smiled. ‘Great minds think alike.’

‘Fools seldom differ.’ He sighed. ‘So who’s on the ferry?’

‘Hilda’s daughter. Three hoods, four Chinamen and a horse called Dan. It’s not serious. I just don’t want her killed.’

‘Patricia hears, she will be.’

I shrugged. ‘Patricia can go fuck––’

And then stood stunned as my eyes fell on a Land Rover and horse box emerging from the short-stay car park. It paused for just a moment at a junction at the end of the slip road to allow another car to pass by, then turned right towards the exit from the ferry terminal; but a moment was all I needed to get a clear glimpse of Mandy at the wheel.

24

‘I can’t, Dan. I told the wife I was only popping out for a few pints after work. We have guests for dinner. If I phone her from Scotland she’ll murder me. Especially after last time.’

‘What happened last time?’

‘You and me. Cannes. I was in bed, for Christ sake. I told her I’d forgotten to lock up and went downstairs and out the door and drove to the airport in my pyjamas.’

‘There’s an airport in your pyjamas?’

‘Stop it. I was in France a week. Mind you, I think it was Tuesday before she noticed.’

We looked at the ferry. Different ferry. Different port. Larne. Twenty miles up the coast, two hours across choppy waters to Stranraer. The long way round. Mandy had just driven the horse box up and on to the ship. I was at the desk paying for my ticket with Mouse’s money. I promised to pay him back. I was lying. He said it didn’t matter. He was lying. Our friendship has existed on that basis for many years. He handed me the ticket and said, ‘Dan, you should learn to say no.’

‘I say no all the time.’

‘Aye.
No, don’t shoot me. No, I didn’t do it
. I mean, in the first place. You should do your job and go home at night and put your feet up.’

‘I’ve nothing to put my feet up
on
, Mouse.’

‘That’ll change. You two will get back together again.’

‘Aye, they said that about Burton and Taylor.’

‘They
did
get back together.’

‘Aye, for about an hour. Then he died and she joined the cast of
The Flintstones
.’

‘But what an hour it was.’ He sighed. He gave me some more money. I thanked him. He said, ‘Don’t waste it. Buy something nutritional.’ I nodded. We shook hands like adults and then I turned for the ferry.

‘Dan,’ he called after me. I turned. ‘Yabba-dabba,’ he said.

‘Yabba-dabba.’

It was cold and dark outside. I went up the plank. It wasn’t a plank, of course. It was like boarding an aircraft. I did a quick tour. I bought a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake and then went to the newsagent and asked for a packet of Opal Fruits. The girl looked at me and I groaned and said, ‘Starburst.’ She nodded and lifted them off the shelf. ‘They used to be called Opal Fruits,’ I said. ‘They changed the name because the Americans call their Opal Fruits “Starburst”.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘And do you know why they call them Starburst?’

‘No.’

‘Because the astronauts took them into space. Existed on them. They’re packed with fruit juice. There’s a dozen square meals in this packet, and all for just thirty-two pence.’