Outside Chance (15 page)

‘Now, Tamás!' he barked, Tamás scrambled clear, and with Emilian's help, Jakob managed to tip the balance of the chestnut horse away from
the wall and roll it into the centre of the stall. With another flick the whip was loosened and, as Ben slid sideways to the open door, taking Sulio with him, the animal lurched to its feet and stood swaying on spread legs.

All at once the close confines of the lorry were too much for Ben. His heart was pounding like a trip-hammer and he felt as though he would suffocate if he didn't get out to the open air. Leaving Sulio at the stall door he all but ran along the narrow corridor to the side-access door, dropped down on to the grass, and leaned back against the bodywork to drink in deep, reviving gulps of cold night air, the evaporating sweat on his face and body accentuating the chill.

He was still there, albeit a good deal calmer, when Jakob appeared in the doorway a couple of minutes later and jumped down beside him.

‘You all right, Ben?'

‘Yeah. Bit claustrophobic in there.' Ben brought both fists up towards his chest as he searched for a word that the Hungarian would understand. ‘A bit close – not enough space.'

Jakob gave him a long, considered look in the moonlight, then nodded.

‘It can be.'

Ben looked down at his toes. ‘I, er . . . wasn't much help.'

‘It was dangerous. Tamás was wrong to have asked you. I told him so.'

‘It's not his fault. He didn't know what else to do. He was afraid Sulio would get hurt.'

‘Even so.' Jakob looked along the row of lorries to where a lamp shone strongly under the awning
of Gyorgy's wagon. A tempting smell was wafting on the breeze. ‘Anyway, Tamás has things under control now. What do you say we go and eat before the vultures arrive?'

Ben didn't feel particularly hungry but, grateful for the change of scene and subject, he fell in readily with this plan.

A spare berth was found for him and Mouse in the lorry shared by Jakob, Emil and Vesh Bardu. Vesh was a contemporary of Jakob and his brothers, and the troupe's resident farrier. He was also some relation to Nico and his brothers, but Ben was too tired to work out this further addition to the complexities of the Bardu–Varga family tree and, at that moment, not sufficiently interested either.

The events of the evening had shaken the very foundations of the barriers he had built up over the years. He'd thought he had it all under control; that aside from the occasional disturbed night when the dreams returned, he had put it all behind him. He'd grown adept at avoiding situations where he'd be challenged, so why the hell had he allowed himself to be drawn so close to this one?

Tossing and turning on the surprisingly comfortable bunk, his eyes wide open, sleep was a million miles away. He was kept awake partly by the buzzing of an overactive brain and later, when weariness threatened to slow the thought process down, by the fear of what sleep would bring.

He wasn't sure whether or not his paralysing fear had been recognised by the others in the heat of the moment, but he was pretty certain
that Jakob had both seen and correctly interpreted his panic. The knowledge caused Ben shame. He had great respect for Jakob.

After an hour or so of wakefulness, listening to Emil's stentorian snores and feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the narrow confines of the vehicle, Ben slid off the bunk and put his shoes on. With Mouse at his heels he gathered his jacket and let himself out of the lorry, hoping there was no alarm set.

The site was peaceful; only the odd thud of a restless hoof inside the transporters disturbed the silence and, now and again, the call of a tawny owl. Ben remembered how, as kids, he and his twin brother had learned to imitate the owls around their home, becoming so convincing that more than once they had been swooped on by a patrolling bird, guarding its patch.

God! Why did he have to think about Alan, now? He'd come out to clear his mind, not to drag more memories out of the closet. There was no point in trying to remember the good times – sure, there'd been plenty of those, but he knew from experience the brain's stubborn determination to dwell on the melancholic in the small hours of the night. Something to do with brain chemistry, a GP had once told him, but knowing that was no bloody help at all.

He began to walk, his feet crunching on the frosty grass and the full moon illuminating his way. Mouse, trotting as though on hot coals, kept close, her back hunched and ears flat on her head.

‘Are you cold, sausage? I'm sorry. We'll go back in a minute.'

Walking along behind the vehicles, Ben wandered across to the area where the untrained geldings were corralled. They were all in the barn now, a collection of shadowy shapes pulling hay from the racks or just dozing sleepily on their feet. Four legs and joints that locked out enabled them to do this, but still Ben found it difficult to imagine. What if humans could do the same? he mused. Hotels could really pack 'em in, then. They could advertise Standing Room Only.

Moving along the line of the fence he wondered what the horses made of their altered circumstances, and hoped they weren't too cold. Most of them were clipped out and had probably come from stables or had, at the very least, been rugged up. Nico said they would soon acclimatise, but Ben would have put rugs on them.

For the first time that day he thought about Cajun King. He was clipped. Was he standing shivering somewhere, or was he in a stable being looked after? Was he even alive? How would you get rid of a creature that size? Dig a hole? Not with a spade, surely? You'd need a JCB. Or what about an existing pit? A quarry perhaps, or a slurry tank. Would they ever know what had happened to him?

Ben sighed. What a waste.

One or two of the horses caught sight of him and came to the front of the barn, looking enquiringly in his direction. Calm, inquisitive, uncomplicated; eager for human company. As always, Ben felt their pull, but the idea of getting close brought the faint flutterings of panic deep inside.

Depression settled on him and he turned away.
Maybe it would be better if he kept his distance from horses completely and concentrated his career in another area. It wasn't the first time he'd considered the idea, though, and, as before, he found he couldn't imagine a life without them.

The chill had penetrated his jacket and, feeling sympathy for Mouse, Ben headed back towards Jakob's lorry. As he reached the first of the transporters a figure detached itself from the shadows and a voice asked quietly, ‘Did it help?'

Jakob.

Ben didn't pretend to misunderstand him.

‘Not really. It never does.'

‘If you want to talk . . .'

‘I don't think so. Thanks all the same.' Ben kept walking, but slowly. In a way it was a lie. Part of him longed to talk but suppression had become a habit he was wary of breaking. It was as if to bring it out into the open would be to give his fear substance.

Jakob fell in beside him.

‘You
should
talk about it, Ben,' he advised softly. ‘Fear is a natural reaction. It is nothing to be ashamed of.'

A picture of his brother as he'd last seen him – eyes closed in a white face – flashed across Ben's mind and a fizz of remembered shock stung him, making his reply sharper than he'd intended.

‘What the hell do you know about it? You know nothing about me!'

As soon as he'd uttered the words he wished them unsaid. It was no way to speak to someone who'd shown him nothing but courtesy. He checked his stride, desperately trying to formulate
an apology, but it was already too late. Jakob merely inclined his head and turned away without a word.

Damn and hell!
Ben thought explosively. But how could he open up to someone he'd only just met – when he'd bottled it all up for almost twenty years? He'd never even told Lisa, for God's sake!

Heartsick and frustrated, he gazed up into the star-filled sky, but the millions of cold pinpricks of light did nothing except ridicule his concerns.

On the edge of his vision, something moved.

Ben's head whipped round and he stared hard into the darkness, his depression forgotten in an instant.

Nothing. Everything appeared calm.

It was tempting to just shrug it off. Movement in itself wasn't alarming. It was probably just the loose horses having a minor disagreement and kicking up their heels. They would settle.

No. There it was again. The moonlight gleamed on something metallic, way over by the horse barn. Surely if it was one of the Csikós they would be carrying a torch, wouldn't they?

‘Jakob!' Ben hissed, hoping the Hungarian hadn't gone too far. ‘Jakob, there's someone over by the horses.'

‘Ben?'

He could hear Jakob's feet crunching towards him over the frosty grass and was just about to repeat himself when there was a dull crack, followed immediately by a flurry of hoofbeats as the ten loose horses burst out of the barn en masse and stampeded across their corral.

‘They'll run the fence!' Jakob hurried to Ben's side.

Ben was looking the other way, over towards the field's boundary with the road.

‘Shit! The gate's open!' he exclaimed and broke into a run.

‘Ben!' Jakob's shout followed him, but he knew there wasn't time to answer. From the sound of it, the horses had broken through the fence and some could well be heading for the gateway. Ben had the angle and distance on his side, but the horses had turn of foot emphatically on theirs.

It appeared to be a lost cause but he had to try. He'd never been any great shakes as a sprinter – his height and build leant themselves more readily to endurance running – but he was fitter than most, and he had desperation spurring him on.

That gate had been closed before the troupe turned in for the night, which meant that someone had opened it, and that could only be because they intended the horses to go through it.

The other side of the hedge was a B-road leading left towards a village, or right, a very short distance to a dual carriageway. If the horses got on to that there could be carnage.

The night was full of noise now. As Ben tore over the crisp, sparkling turf, he could hear, above the drumming hooves, a whip cracking and several people shouting. Moments later an engine started up and then lights came on, sending his shadow racing far ahead of him.

A quick look showed him that the horses had scattered and, thankfully, not all were running towards the gate, but the two or three that were were overhauling him fast. He couldn't beat
them. He'd have to try and turn them. Some hope, in a field this size.

As he sensed them drawing near, he swerved towards them, throwing up his arms and whooping as loud as he could in his breathless state.

It worked – for all of a second.

They threw up their heads, as one, and veered away from him, describing a neat semi-circle before swinging back on to their original course, making a beeline for the gateway. Reaching it just yards ahead of Ben, they shot through without hesitation, their hooves slipping and sliding on the tarmac as they took the corner, turning right for the dual carriageway and chaos.

Racing through the opening some ten seconds behind them, Ben's progress was rudely checked as he cannoned, at full speed, into someone waiting just outside. They both went sprawling on the tarmac but, carried on by his momentum, Ben rolled and came to his feet first, glancing down at the figure he'd flattened.

Dreadlocks and a ferocious scowl; even in the half-dark they were unmistakable.

Baz.

‘You stupid bastard!' Ben yelled at him. He had intended to close the gate and then continue the chase, but Baz's presence put paid to that plan. He'd almost certainly open it again.

Ben hesitated. Should he stay and guard the gate, or follow the runaways? Visions of broken limbs and twisted metal filled his head but, in reality, on foot, he hadn't much hope of averting a disaster.

‘
Damn
you!' Moving to shut the gate, he took
out his frustration on Baz. There must have been venom in his tone because the tousled one scrambled to his feet and backed off, holding his hands in front of him as if to ward Ben off.

Keeping a wary eye on the ALSA man as he fastened the catch, Ben became aware of the sound of running feet and someone, possibly Nico, called breathlessly, ‘Ben! Stop him!'

Squinting back down the beam of light he was able to make out the silhouettes of two figures running in pursuit of a third, and braced himself to take whatever action was needed.

In the event physical force wasn't necessary. The foremost runner saw Ben waiting and slowed up of his own accord, turning to face his pursuers and holding his hands in the air resignedly.

Nico was the first to catch up. He caught hold of one of the man's arms, twisting it behind his back with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than was called for.

‘There's another one here,' Ben called, but when he turned Baz was nowhere to be seen.

The third man loped up, breathing heavily. It was Gyorgy, the ageing cook. With a word or two in his native tongue, Nico handed the prisoner over to his burly countryman and vaulted the gate to land at Ben's side. He had obviously dressed in haste, and wore black jeans and an unzipped leather jacket over a bare torso that would have been the envy of many a fitness fanatic.

‘Where are the horses?'

‘They went towards the main road,' Ben told him. ‘I couldn't stop them.'

Suddenly, in the shadow of the hedge, just a
few yards from them, a car engine started to turn over. In a flash, Ben was at the driver's door, yanking it open and pulling Baz unceremoniously out on to the tarmac and taking his place.

‘Nico!' Ben yelled, but the Hungarian was right there, sliding into the passenger seat even as he turned the key in the ignition. The starter motor did its stuff once more and after a few tense moments the engine hiccupped and started.