Samphire Song (18 page)

‘No barbed-wire fence,’ I repeat in my head, like a mantra. Such an obstacle would surely bring us down. We would be trapped, at the mercy of the animal traffickers. ‘Clever boy, Sam,’ I praise, stroking his lathered neck. ‘At the end of this, there will be the biggest bucket of mash you’ve ever seen.’

We’re in the thick of the forest, about fifty yards
from the Land Rover, which is driving parallel with us. I’m not sure they can see us, but it feels like the men are waiting for us to falter so they can make their move. There is the faintest amber light filtering through the trees ahead. Maybe it’s just a mirage in this dark desert, a trick of nature, luring us from our objective. Are we still travelling in the right direction? I feel confused and lost. And Samphire is treading more unsurely, his nostrils flared, smelling danger. He is slowing to a complete stop and, despite my frantic instructions to trot on, he stands still, every muscle taut, every nerve engaged.

For a moment, there is silence. My legs have turned to jelly. I’m holding my breath, trying to let Sam assess the situation. He is unsure and makes a grumbling noise in his throat, pawing at the earth with one foot.

And then I see them, maybe twenty yards away; beams of white lights, criss-crossing their way through the trees like luminous sabres. They must be coming after us with torches. There is no decision to make. It’s
pointless trying to hide a grey stallion behind narrow firs. We’ll have to ride deeper into the forest and hope to stumble on an escape route.

‘Let’s go, Sam,’ I whisper, urging him with my legs. He moves in a circle, fretting, but won’t obey. ‘Please, boy. Do this for me one more time,’ I implore. He sidesteps and lowers his neck. The trembling returns with full force. He makes a low moan, but then raises his head high and throws his weight into movement with a lurch that nearly dislodges me from his back.

He’s half-trotting with jerky strides towards the lights and nothing I can do will persuade him to turn round. It must be a trap and we are stumbling right into it. I’m thinking of Mum and Ed, whom I might never see again; of the stables and the good friends I’ve made there; of Dad, who used to say he had a date in his diary to walk me down the aisle, one day in the future, and it would be his proudest duty ever.

Life doesn’t always work out the way you think, does it, Dad?

The amber glow is clearer now and tells me that
we’re almost at the periphery of the wood. The beams have become circles, like wolves’ eyes, looking directly at us, and I can make out the shape of people behind them, moving purposefully. I’m gripping Sam’s neck and where my teeth are biting my lower lip, I can taste blood.

Suddenly, Samphire drops on to his knees, his lungs emitting deep grunts as he tries to maintain his breathing. I dismount quickly, just as he rolls on to his side in the dew.

‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Sam. You’ve brought us as far as you can, haven’t you?’ I’m crying now and, danger or no danger, I don’t care any more. My heart has ripped in two.

‘Stop!’ commands a deep voice a little way ahead. ‘Stay where you are.’

A face comes into view, then another and another. I can just make out uniforms and then stern expressions giving way to concern.

‘Jodie Palmer?’ asks a short female, who has a radio in her hand.

I gasp at the unexpected sound of a gentle, female voice. I kneel down next to Samphire as relief floods through my body.

‘Yes. There are two men, in a Land Rover, and they’ve been keeping animals in the barn up the lane. Trafficking them. I rescued Sam. They were chasing us . . .’ I blurt out, stroking Samphire’s neck, which is heaving in an attempt to raise itself. ‘He’s hurt. He needs help.’ I’m sobbing now, unable to control myself, exhaustion mixing with hysteria in a liquid stream from my eyes and nose.

The woman is speaking into her radio handset, but I don’t hear the words. My head pulses and my ears throb, as if I’m passing at speed through a tunnel.

An instant later, a police siren blasts through the barrier of my deafness and the night is ablaze with the lights from half a dozen vehicles, which are blocking the road ahead. There are more voices shouting and the woman officer in front of me says something else into her receiver. She tells me the two men have ditched the
Land Rover and are running with police in hot pursuit. She says everything will be all right.

I’m trying to believe her but looking at the suffering animal at my side, I know justice comes at a terrible cost. It shouldn’t be Samphire who pays the price.

Chapter Thirty-seven

‘Keep fighting, brave boy, and get well,’ I whisper in Samphire’s ear, expecting it to twitch in recognition. He isn’t responding. His lashes flicker over his half-closed eyes, which seem unmoving and far away. Lying in the straw of his old loose box at Whitehawk Farm Stables, the full extent of his starvation is clear. His chest looks shrunken, the skin on his flanks is like muslin over fine china. His mane and tail are matted and grey with dirt. There is so much bruising across his neck where the wooden weapon came down that it has swollen up like a tyre.

We needed a sling and a team of helpers to load him into Sue’s trailer in the early hours of this morning. The vet, Greg Thomas, says it’s a miracle that no bones are broken. He’s warned me that Sam is so
weak his heart may not be strong enough to help him through recovery, but he’s given him a combination of painkillers and drugs to treat the infection in his lungs and put him on a drip to keep him hydrated. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.

We’re keeping a vigil by his side, Mum, Ed and I. Mum is as white as a sheet from all the worry – and from having a real go at me. It turns out she called Leo’s dad and the police even before Ed raised the alarm, having discovered we were missing at about ten thirty. She guessed where we had gone and was on her way to meet Leo’s dad and follow him to the campsite. Ed said she went off like a firework when he told her that I’d gone back alone.

Samphire was calling me. What else could I have done?

There will be time for explanations and apologies. For now, Ed is leaning against Mum, covered by a horse blanket, fast asleep. Mum is watching me, like a guardian angel, and I’m resting my hand on Samphire
so that he knows I’m here and that I will never leave him again.

He’s one of the lucky ones. The police say that five of the horses in the barn were dead and two had to be put down on the spot. The same fate befell many of the dogs. Only the very toughest have survived after days with no food. Out of a total of eighty animals, only forty-five were saved. Several local animal charities have rallied and are collecting the survivors. All will be cared for and as many as possible returned to their owners or rehomed.

That’s the good news.

The police also say that the creatures were probably stolen from across the region, often to order, by a criminal gang. The plan had been to drive them to auctions in other parts of the country and the money raised would be used to import drugs through a network reaching as far as China. It seems that something had gone wrong, the plan changed and the animals were abandoned, until the two men turned up
with orders to move some of the horses. At least now the pair are in custody.

‘It’s a big trade,’ the female officer explained to us. ‘When the thefts are sporadic, it’s hard to find a pattern. Holding areas are always tucked away in the countryside, so unless a member of the public notices or hears something suspicious, it’s unlikely that we’ll locate them. Hopefully, this is one gang that will never be able to lay hands on another animal.’

Mum said that despite our reckless actions, Ed and I had saved a lot of lives. I think it was her way of saying we’re forgiven, as long as we never, ever take off without telling her again.

‘It’s nearly morning,’ she comments now, indicating the lightening sky beyond the stable door. My vision is blurred with tiredness. To me it looks like the blank screen of a TV, which has been left switched on standby. I’m aware that horses in neighbouring stalls are beginning to stir. There is the odd stamping of a hoof and a few snorts. Maybe Sam’s friends are sensing
his return and letting him know that they have joined our vigil.

The smell of the warm straw is luring my head down next to Sam’s. I stroke his velvet nose gently, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, which is slow and weak. I touch his brow lightly and, with a sweeping movement, try to wipe away the memories of the terrible events of recent months.

‘You’re home, boy. That’s all that matters now,’ I tell him, before letting my eyelids droop and waiting for the welcome rush of darkness to envelop me.

‘Stick. Wake up. Brekky time,’ says a familiar voice, somewhere in the background of my dream about climbing the tallest tree in the world. The smell of bacon is wafting into my nose, and there are strong hints of fresh bread and tomato sauce, closely followed by hay and horse.

My eyes snap open and my brain reprograms itself to reality. There is no tree. But there is a toasted
sandwich on a plate about six inches from my mouth. Six inches in the other direction there is Samphire, who is lying still on his side in a drug-induced sleep. Flashbacks batter my brain as I sit up, rubbing my aching neck. I am almost dizzy with the images of animals in distress.

‘Mum says you have to eat,’ says Ed, who is sitting in front of me, legs crossed, staring at me like I’m an exhibit in a museum. But the fried meat smeared in red gloss has lost its appeal.

‘Hot chocolate would be good,’ I say.

‘Wilco,’ replies Ed, hurrying out of the stable, his protruding pyjama bottoms dragging on the ground.

It’s 8 a.m. I’ve slept for about four hours. While the world outside goes about its business, the yard bustling with the activity of Sue’s weekend team tending to the horses, I begin an inspection of my stablemate, making a mental note of any positive signs of change. The swelling on his neck has reduced a little. There are sores on the underside of his belly I hadn’t noticed before.
Daylight also reveals that the rims of his eyes are red raw, a sign of infection.

His eyes are half open. What’s that in his pupil? A reaction? An attempt to focus? I look closely. It’s like gazing into a deep, deep well, devoid of life. The valiant stallion from last night has been diluted away by the strong drugs. I hope he’s lost in good dreams. I can’t bear to think of his confused mind wandering in darkness.

I run my hand along his neck several times, dispersing clusters of mud. His mane is matted, with clumps of hair twisted into each other. It will take hours to tease them out, wash them and brush them back to their former glory. I hope with all my heart that I will get the chance to cleanse away all the dirt from his awful experience. I want to groom him until he shines.

‘Soz, Stick, I tripped over a brush and the froth fell off,’ says Ed, appearing with a steaming hot chocolate straight from the stable kitchen. He passes it to me carefully, the handle towards me, then shakes his
fingers like a lunatic as he’s a complete baby when it comes to hot things. Like all the mugs here, this one has a cute pony on it and chips on the rim.

‘Thanks, Teddy. Did you put some extra sugar in?’ I ask, taking a sip.

‘Aaargh!’ he answers, hitting his head with his hand. ‘I forgot. Don’t you have any lumps in your pocket?’ This assumption makes me smile. I shake my head, which makes me realise how stiff my neck is.

‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Talking to a reporter and another dude with a camera. It’s you they want, but Mum said no,’ Ed answers. He leans towards me and confides in my ear. ‘I think that’s silly because we could have got LOADS of money.’

‘I don’t want to speak to anyone, Teddy,’ I tell him, relieved that Mum is defending our privacy. Ed nods, a little disappointed. I think he’s probably confusing the local press with
Hello
magazine.

‘Mum’s brought us some clothes from home,’ he
informs me. ‘I can sit right here while you change out of those pongy things and if he moves a muscle, I’ll phone you,’ promises my brother, keen to help. He produces his mobile and waves it in my face, as proof. I glance down at my filthy trackie bums and hoodie and have to agree that a shower and some clean togs would be a good idea.

‘OK but if he so much as twitches . . .’ I say.

‘Yup. Understood,’ responds Ed, sitting down in the exact spot where I’ve made a dent in the straw. ‘Hey, Stick?’

‘What?’ I answer, on the alert.

‘If you don’t want your sandwich, can I have it?’

‘Yeah, go on then.’ I suppose, on the scale of things, a little tomato sauce won’t hurt him.

‘Oh my God, STICK!’ he says, almost breathless, leaning over Sam.

‘What is it, Teddy?’ I answer, by his side in a flash.

‘Didn’t know horses got bogies,’ Ed observes, examining Sam’s nostrils from every angle. ‘Gross!’

* * *

It’s 5 p.m. Greg the vet is here again, very concerned that Samphire hasn’t made any attempt to move. He takes his temperature and finds that Sam is running a fever. His neck and shoulders are breaking out in a sweat. Greg gives him an injection and fixes up another bag of saline, which will drip through a plastic tube into Sam’s leg vein. It’s vital to keep him hydrated.