Annan Water (12 page)

‘The school counsellor’s office,’ he was saying. ‘At eleven fifteen. You’ll like her. She’s easy to talk to.’

Michael nodded, just ordinary, grey Michael again; in more trouble. Mr Burns wrote down the name for him, and the time. Michael stared at the written words until he lost focus, and was gazing at Annie again.

He left the school at morning break and went into town. He bought the two mobiles first—Pay-As-You-Go—then hung around in cafés and arcades until the schools closed and it was time to hitch home.

Unusually, Frank and Jean were both sitting in the kitchen. Michael made for the stairs, but Frank called him back.

‘We’re in a lot of trouble,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘What?’

Frank exploded, leaping to his feet. ‘The flaming car! The flaming hospital!’

The blood raced into Michael’s head. How had he managed to forget it? ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That.’

‘Oh,’ said Frank, with cruel sarcasm. ‘That. You gormless bugger.’

‘It was only a little tip.’

‘A little tip?’ said Frank in the same tone. ‘A little three-thousand-pound tip.’

‘Three grand?’ said Michael stupidly.

Frank moved away, turning his fury towards the wall. ‘I don’t know where your head is at, Michael. I’m getting seriously worried.’

‘If you’d just told us,’ said Jean. ‘I mean, these things happen. What did you think we would say?’

It hadn’t been that. He could have coped with Jean’s anger. What he had feared, that evening at the hospital, was something far worse. That her tenacious hold on the all-rightness of everything would finally give. And that she would fall.

They spent their lives with their backs to that abyss, struggling against its gravitational pull. But it was always there: Joanne’s colossal absence. It lay beside them on the main road every morning, beneath the juggernaut wheels. It gaped between the bright rails of the show jumps. It rocked Jimmy Souter’s boat on its swell.

… the water’s deep …

Michael’s knees gave way. He slumped onto a stool.

‘The insurance company rang me,’ said Frank. ‘If I’d known I could have admitted it. Said it was me driving. Claimed it was a tit for tat. All sorted. Instead I gave them an earful.’

‘Can’t you phone them back?’ said Michael.

‘I did, when I worked it out. But they’d already got back to the other crowd. They’ve got the police involved now.’

A fresh shower of rain broke into the silence.

‘You weren’t at school,’ said Jean.

‘I was!’

‘Michael …’

He ran up the stairs and into his room. He tore the boxes out of his bag, the phones out of the boxes. Then he changed into his mud-stiff jeans and went out into the yard.

Three thousand. The chestnut pony would fetch—what? Eighteen hundred perhaps? Bandit? Not enough. Meat price at the sales. Horrocks, the Irish lad. They’d sell something, make it up somehow.

But the police. The police.

He heard Frank’s footsteps in the yard, and slipped into the grey mare’s box. In the darkness he heard Frank call, then get into the car and drive away.

The box was a stinking quagmire. Michael went back for a barrow and fork.

Woe betide you …

‘It’s me,’ he remembered Annie saying. ‘I’m bad luck.’

Woe betide you …

He didn’t go in for his dinner. Jean came out to talk to him, but he froze her out. She went away again. He worked until every last horse in the yard was comfortable; every poultice changed, every net and bucket filled. He was in the feed shed, mixing the evening feeds, when Frank came back, smelling of beer and cigarettes. He wasn’t drunk; he never got drunk. He didn’t seem much happier either.

Michael stepped back and allowed him to continue with the mixing of the feeds. He handed the empty buckets over and stacked them when they were filled.

‘You’ll have to face this, Michael,’ said Frank. ‘We’ll come up with the money some way or other, but you’ll have to talk to the police. You’re not running away this time.’

‘Who says I’m running away?’

Frank’s hand caught him behind the ear, turning off his world for an instant, leaving him reeling. He had never been hit before. Never.

‘Shape up, will you? It’s all going in one ear and out the other! You’re in all kinds of trouble; not just the bloody lorry!’

Michael stared at his father. His head was stinging, but not half as much as his heart. His face contorted; he kicked over the stacked buckets and ran out into the rain. Jean stood up when he slammed into the house. He didn’t leave his boots at the door.

‘What happened?’

He brushed past her, heedless of her shoulder, and was at the bottom of the stairs when the phone rang. His first instinct was to ignore it, but he hesitated. Then he knew.

‘Hello?’

‘Michael?’

‘Annie. It’s you.’ There was silence on the other end. ‘Are you OK?’

Her voice was thin. ‘He’s coming home. Tomorrow.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Michael?’

‘I’m here. What are you going to do?’

‘I can’t get Jimmy. I can’t get over.’

He looked at his watch. It was after eleven o’clock. His head was spinning. ‘Annie,’ he said. ‘I got mobiles for us. One each.’

‘That’s nice, Michael. They’re going to be a lot of use.’

He struggled to understand, knowing that he was missing something.

‘I’ll ring you some time,’ she said. ‘Whenever I can.’

‘Wait a minute …’ he stuttered. ‘What’s happening?’ In the background he heard Ruth calling.

‘I have to go,’ said Annie. ‘Bye, Michael.’

‘Annie!’

The line was dead.

‘Oh, shit. Shit!’ He dialled 1471. The number was withheld.

Why had he gabbled on about mobiles? Why had his head worked so slowly?

She couldn’t get over. She was going to leave without him.

Jean was at his shoulder. ‘Who was that? What’s going on?’

‘Where’s Dad?’ said Michael.

He met him at the back door, on his way in.

‘Will you give me a lift to Annie’s?’

‘You what?’

‘Please, Dad. Please. It’s urgent!’

Jean had followed him. ‘Listen, Michael. We know you like this girl—’

‘Please, Dad!’

‘This is barmy,’ said Frank. ‘It has to stop. You’ve gone way over the top.’

He couldn’t make them understand. How could he?

He ran back out through the rain. Someone had moved his bike. Where was it? Not far. It was flat again. The foot pump. He’d have to get the torch. Get the chain back on.

It would all take far too long. There had to be a better way.

There was.

T
HE SOUND OF THE
mare’s feet on the cobbles was smothered by the hammering of the rain. Michael vaulted up and felt her tense beneath him; her reckless energy undiminished by the night. She danced sideways, rocking and plunging as they passed the waterlogged jumps field. When her feet touched the grass between the meadows she leaped forward into a canter, her ears stretched forwards, looking for the gate in the darkness. She saw it wasn’t there and took hold like a little racehorse.

Michael battled with her, breaking all his own rules in the effort to control her. Brambles whipped his face. Whenever he ducked his head, the mare took advantage and rocketed forward. The wet reins slithered in his hands.

The rain seemed to be coming from all directions at once, hitting his face like hailstones, hurting his eyes. The mare’s eager feet clattered on puddles and stones. He was still fighting for control when he heard thunder behind him; a heavy, spine-chilling drumroll. Not thunder. Some awful, flapping, apocalyptic enormity, born of the wild wind. Michael dropped his head, looked back beneath his right arm. Something white was bearing down on him. He flinched with the shock before his mind recognized the pale shape. It was the broad blaze on Bandit’s face.

He was at the mare’s heels, trying to nudge up alongside her on the narrow track. His huge feet were invisible in the dark, but Michael could imagine them striking into the pony’s fetlocks; bringing her down. He took a swipe at the cob’s nose.

‘Get out of here, you jug-head! Go home!’

He might as well have told the rain to stop falling. The big, lumbering fool of a horse must have enjoyed his little outings down the track. Nothing Michael did was going to stop him now.

Everything was suddenly beyond his control. The mare had got her head down and was eating up the ground like a hunted deer. Branches were catching at his face and his hair. He was in danger of losing an eye. Suddenly resigned, Michael dropped his head down beside the mare’s neck. He was night-blind; she was not. He abandoned himself to her.

O’er moor and moss and many’s the mire …

She flew on, leaning into the bends, stretching out along the straights, powering up the inclines and launching herself over their brows. She had never been allowed to run like this before. All the schooling, the restriction, the months and years of steady, steady, steady was flung from her now; kicked away behind her flying heels.

This was what she had been born for.

Rain and sweat mingled on her neck beside Michael’s face. He hung on. His mind raced ahead of them.

… boatman, come, put off your boat…

Why couldn’t Annie get Jimmy? Where was he?

Bandit was still at their heels, amazingly fast for a horse of his bulk. A mad vision flashed across Michael’s sight. He and Annie, riding off on horseback.

But where? Where would they go? What golden plains lay out there beyond the Annan Water?

The mare was losing speed. She was jumping fit, but not race fit. The spring was gone from her stride. Michael could have pulled her up now with no bother at all, but he didn’t. He dug his heels into her sides. She ran on.

No golden plains. No Las Vegas. There were cities spilling their homeless on to the streets. There were cold days and colder nights. There were prisons.

They crossed the little road junction at full tilt.

Sparks from the mare’s hooves flew like fire …

But she was flagging. He kicked her on again and she responded, still game. They had to be nearly there.

It couldn’t be so bleak. He could work. Any horse yard would give him a job if they saw him ride. And Annie; what could Annie do? Anything. Paint, decorate, become an interior designer. She would know what to do. She always did. They would be fine.

He was pushing the mare at every stride now. She was tired; pulling out all the stops. Without warning, her feet clattered out on to tarmac. She slowed and stopped.

She couldn’t have ridden a furlong more,

Had a thousand whips been laid upon her.

Michael turned her head towards the river and they walked the few metres until it came into view. His heart sank. It was a different river. No longer dark and oily; swelled from all the recent rain, it was bulging into its banks; breaking white water where the jetty snagged its flank. The boat was above the landing level, leaning against its painter.

The mare stopped dead, stricken by the sight. The forgotten line returned at last, unbidden.

The bonny grey mare she sweats for fear,

She stands to hear the water roaring.

He was suddenly cold. Fury rose up in him against the stupid old song that kept intruding upon his thoughts, as though it had some right to be there; as though it could possibly have anything to do with what was happening in his life.

But it didn’t leave him.

… never more I’ll see my Annie …

He turned the pony’s head and trotted her up to Jimmy’s house. Bandit jogged alongside, blowing like a steam engine.

The van was there, parked in the yard. Michael jumped down and let go of the reins, but both horses followed him anyway, into the garden and up to the front door. There was a light on in one of the downstairs rooms but no one answered his knock. He went round to the back. The horses went with him, snatching at shrubs on their way.

Through the window, Michael saw Jimmy. He was slumped over the kitchen table amidst a litter of beer cans and whisky bottles. The back door was wide open.

‘Jimmy!’

‘Wha’?’

He didn’t even open his eyes. Michael shook him.

‘Jimmy! Get up! We have to go across!’

Jimmy groaned. Turned the other side of his face to the table.

‘Jimmy!’

It was no use. There was no way that Jimmy was going to get up. Michael suddenly knew why, as well. He wasn’t the only one who was on the point of losing someone he loved.

He glanced around the shabby kitchen. Did a boat have a key? How did you drive it?

He couldn’t. Even if the river wasn’t in full spate he couldn’t get into the boat in the rain and the dark and try to work out how to sail it.

He stepped back out into the night. The horses were still waiting for him; he was their only point of reference in this mad midnight world. He took the mare’s reins, led her out of the garden and down along the road towards the river again.

And he has tried to swim that stream,

And he swam on both strong and steady …

But he wouldn’t. It proved to him that the song was just that. It had no power over him. It could go back to his grandmother’s grave. Nothing, not even his love for Annie, would induce him to try and swim. It was all over.

The mare tugged at the reins, afraid of the river; anxious to go back to her dry box and her haynet. Beside her, Bandit stood calmly, his flanks still heaving but his gaze quite steady and clear.

No. It was crazy.

The broad white blaze turned towards Michael.

No. Horses didn’t think. Horses didn’t make suggestions.

No way. No way. But despite himself, Michael was already pulling the tack off the mare.

E
VEN ON ITS LAST
holes the bridle barely fitted the cob’s huge head. The bit pulled up the corners of his mouth. The short browband pulled the headpiece over the base of his ears. The noseband wouldn’t fasten at all. But he stood, as solid and patient as a tractor, while Michael pulled off the New Zealand rug. The wind grabbed it and the mare swung away from its sudden, flapping mass and trotted away down the road. Michael picked up the saddle then dropped it again. There was no way the girth would reach.