The Horse Dancer (38 page)

The big man, the one with the neck wider than his head, was walking towards her. His stride was long, bristling with menace. ‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’

Boo danced sideways now, infected by her anxiety, and she hissed at him to stand. ‘
Come on
,’ she muttered at the buckle, as the other men glanced behind them, determining that something was wrong here, that the girl was not one of them. Then she saw John’s confusion, Sal’s face, his sudden, shocked recognition.
Come on.

The man broke into a run. The last buckle would not give. She wrenched at it, her breath coming in short audible bursts. And then, as the man was just feet away, the poles of the sulky dropped with a clang to the ground. Boo was released. Grabbing a strand of his mane she unclipped the rope from his bit, and vaulted on to his back, fear lifting her feet. ‘Go!’ she yelled, clamping her legs to his sides, and the great horse leapt forward along the side-road, as if this was the moment he had waited for, his muscles gathering beneath her with such power that she had to entwine her fingers in his mane to stop herself being left behind.

Chaos broke out. She heard shouts, the sound of revving engines as she dropped low on his neck, her voice lifting in panic. ‘Go on!’ she yelled, and hauled clumsily on the right rein, the too-long driving reins, already tangling down by his legs. She pointed him towards the slipway, the small road that led upwards on to the flyover, and then in three, four strides she was on top, hearing the screech of tyres, the horns as she flew across two lanes of dual-carriageway.

And she was galloping along the flyover, high above the city, racing between the cars, barely aware of the drivers who swerved to avoid her. She could see nothing but the distant marshes ahead, hear nothing but the rushing of her blood, knew nothing but that they would surely be behind her. She knew where to go: she had rehearsed this moment for much of the night, going over and over her escape route. And there it was, already coming up to meet her. She could see the exit left, clogged with stationary vehicles, a few hundred yards in front of her, knew that once she reached it, headed left towards the industrial estate, they would not be able to reach her.

It was then that the little blue hatchback pulled sharply on to the hard shoulder, its driver having decided too late to change lanes, oblivious to the galloping horse behind him. She gasped, trying to check Boo’s speed, seeing that, with the car there, the queues in the two lanes, she was blocked. She looked right across the dual-carriageway. She could not jump the dividing barrier without heading straight into oncoming traffic. There was no way out. She glanced under her arm, and behind her she saw Sal’s red four-by-four, its horn blaring as it fought through the cars. If she stayed on the flyover he would catch her. She swallowed, tasting the metallic bile of fear.

She eyed the car, still flying towards it, urging it to move out of the way. She had little choice.
Forgive me, Papa,
she said silently and, grabbing a handful of his mane, pushed Boo on, aiming for the vehicle’s bonnet.

Boo, confused at what was being asked of him, hesitated, heard the answering squeeze of her legs, her words of encouragement, and suddenly he was in the air, his huge muscular back stretching beneath her as he leapt over the car. And she was Xenophon, hearing the sounds of battle below her, her whole body, her whole self, trusting to the courage of the animal beneath her. She was all-mighty, protected, gifted. She was rage and glory, asking for nothing but survival. The world stilled. A silent shout escaped her. Her eyes were closed, then open, seeing nothing except the sky, the swerving cars across her path, and then, with a grunt of impact, they were down, him stumbling on the slippery surface, and she was half falling from his neck, hanging off him, grabbing frantically at too-long reins, mane, anything, to stay on.

He was galloping along the road, his legs a pumping blur and, with a roar of effort, she reached up with her left arm, grabbed at the harness and hauled herself back across him. And they were away, finally swerving off down the side-street that led to the canal as the sound of the blocked traffic, the disbelieving horns, gradually faded behind them.

‘Who’s your first witness?’

Natasha fired off another text message to Ben, asking him to check again that he had the correct papers for the morning, and that he would indeed be waiting outside the court in thirty minutes. She was in a coffee shop with Conor.

‘The child psychologist. One of ours. We’re going to frighten the husband with the suggestion that we might be able to stand up the abuse allegations, while Harrington and the solicitor work on Mrs P behind the scenes, trying to get her to agree to access in return for a better financial deal.’

 

 

‘The wife will get what she wants,’ Conor said bitterly. ‘She’ll never have to lift a finger again and a perfectly good father will get his name slung through the mud. I never thought you’d play dirty.’

She nudged him. ‘It’s the only way I’ll be able to keep the child with its mother. Come on, Conor, it’s divorce. You’d do exactly the same if you were me.’ She squinted across the room at the wall-mounted mirror. ‘Is my hair all right? Harrington reckons there’ll be press outside for this one.’

‘It’s fine.’

She couldn’t afford to get any of this wrong. It was vital not only to win the case but to use it as a showcase for Michael Harrington. His offer hung in her consciousness, ever present, a little gift to herself in moments when she felt overwhelmed by the mess that was the rest of her life. Would it be so bad to cross the divide? Surely it would be better to move away from all that day-to-day contact with clients. She thought of Ali Ahmadi. If she moved to Harrington Levinson she would be unlikely to make a mistake like that again.

She had not mentioned the offer to Conor. She didn’t like to admit to herself why that might be.

He touched her foot with his. ‘I’ve not got much on this morning so after I’ve dropped you I’ll take your stuff home for you.’

He had surprised her. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. I never said I’d unpack it, mind. Don’t expect me to morph into house-husband mode just yet.’

‘Thanks, Conor.’

‘No problem, Hotshot. As I said, I’ve nothing much on for an hour or so.’

‘I meant for having me to stay.’

He studied his shoes, then looked up at her a little strangely. ‘Why are you saying that? You’re not a guest.’ He frowned. ‘Are you telling me this is just temporary? That I’m a stopgap?’

‘Don’t be silly. But I don’t know how long I should stay, to be honest. I haven’t had a chance to get my head round any of it. I just don’t know if I should go straight—’

‘—from the frying pan into the fire.’

‘I didn’t say that. But you did make the point that we were both a mess, as you so delightfully put it.’

‘Matching messes. Counsel, please get your facts straight.’

Natasha realised she was at the head of the queue for coffee. ‘Oh. Sorry. Decaf skinny latte, please.’

‘Otherwise known as a Why Bother,’ said Conor. The girl at the counter smiled wanly at him, as if she’d heard the witticism only several hundred times a day. ‘I’ll have a double-shot
macchiato
.’

‘Let me get this case out of the way, Conor. I can’t think about anything else right now.’

She waited for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she reached into her bag. determinedly cheerful. ‘I’ll get these,’ she said. ‘Least I can do, seeing as you missed breakfast for me. Do you fancy a muffin?’ Then she looked into her purse.

She couldn’t see him. She skidded into the yard of the furniture factory and around the corner to where the delivery vans shielded the car park from public view, her breath coming in short bursts, the rain running down her face so that she had to keep wiping her eyes to see clearly. She slid off. Boo was sweating, shaken by the last two day’s events, chilled by the now heavy downpour, and she had to pull on the reins to get him to walk forward behind her.

‘Ralph?’ she called.

There was no reply. Around her the blank windows of the office block looked down with disinterest, her voice muffled by the hiss of the water The shutters of the furniture factory were still down. There would be no one at work for another half an hour.

She stepped forward, peering behind a parked van. ‘Ralph?’

Nothing.

She wiped the rain from her face, her confidence waning, the adrenalin of the last half-hour seeping away. Just a girl standing in a car park, waiting for trouble.

He wouldn’t come. Of course he wouldn’t. She had been naïve to think he would. In fact, he might have told Sal where she was due to meet him. She stilled for a minute, observing that if Sal’s men came behind her she would have boxed herself into a cul-de-sac.

She forced down rising panic, tried to think strategically. Could she do this without a saddle? Could she do it in this stupid blinkered bridle? The answer was straightforward: she had little choice. She couldn’t risk waiting here for whoever might be about to find her. She gathered her reins in her left hand, preparing to vault back on to Boo’s back.

‘You don’t have to shout, Circus Girl.’ Ralph stepped out from a doorway and sauntered towards her, pulling his hood over his head. ‘Bloody hell,’ he observed, looking at the horse.

She ran towards him, tugging the reluctant Boo behind her. ‘Did you bring it?’ she demanded.

He held out his hand. ‘Plastic first.’

‘I’m hardly going to stiff you, Ralph.’ She reached into her pocket, pulled out a wad of notes.

‘Where’s the card?’

‘Couldn’t get it, but here’s twenty pounds.’

‘Get lost. You think I’m a mug?’

‘Fifty.’

‘I could sell the saddle for more than that. One fifty.’

‘A hundred. That’s everything I’ve got.’

He held out his palm. She counted the money into it. Sal’s money. She was glad to get rid of it.

‘Where’s the saddle?’

He pointed towards the doorway, busy recounting the notes. She asked him to hold Boo while she put it on, her breathing still rapid as she drew up the girth. Then she took off the blinkered bridle, hurled it over the wall into the wasteland beyond, and put on Boo’s own.

‘I tell you what, girl.’ Ralph stuffed the cash into his jeans pocket. ‘You’ve got some bollocks.’

She placed her foot in the stirrup and sprang on to her horse’s back. Boo walked backwards, eager now to be off again.

‘Where you going to take him? Sal’ll be after you, you know. No point trying around Stepney or any of the Whitechapel yards. I’m guessing you could try south of the river.’

‘Not round here. Listen, Ralph, I need you to do one more thing for me.’

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head. ‘You got plenty out of me, Circus Girl.’

‘Go to St Theresa’s. Tell my granddad . . . tell him Boo and I have gone on our holidays. He’ll know where I mean. Tell him I’ll ring him.’

‘Why should I do anything else for you? Man, you got me up at a quarter past six this morning. That’s virtually illegal.’

‘Please, Ralph. It’s really important.’

He patted his pocket and sauntered off down the road. ‘I might,’ he said, his oversized trainers loose on his twelve-year-old feet, ‘but I’m a busy man . . .’

‘I can’t talk now, Natasha. I’m about to leave the house.’ Mac dropped his photographic bag on the hall floor.

‘My credit card, Mac, is it on the coffee-table where I left my bag last night?’

Mac bit back his response: she had left home and could hardly expect him to go chasing around after her loose bits of handbag stuffing. He peered around the doorway. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Nothing on it.’

There was a brief silence. He could hear chatter in the background, the clinking of cups. ‘Bugger,’ she said.

He lifted an eyebrow. Natasha rarely swore. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Is she there?’

‘No. I looked in. She must have left before us.’

‘She’s taken my credit card.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You’re on her case again. You’ve probably put it down somewhere.’

‘No, Mac. I’ve just opened my purse to find one of my credit cards missing.’

‘And you’re sure it’s her?’

‘Well, it’s hardly going to be you, is it? I’m telling you, Mac, she’s taken my bloody card.’

‘But she won’t know the pin number.’

She heard a muffled conversation, then Natasha returned to the phone. ‘Damn. I’ve got to get to the court. I can’t possibly be late. Mac, can you—’

‘I’ll pick her up from school later. I’ll talk to her.’

‘I don’t know whether to stop it.’

‘Don’t stop it now. She’s hardly going to spend it in the canteen. Let me talk to her first. I’m sure there’ll be an innocent explanation.’

‘Innocent explanation? For stealing my card?’

‘Look, we don’t know for sure that she has. Let’s just talk to her, shall we? Didn’t you say she wanted to buy some stuff for the old man?’

There was a long pause.

‘Yes, she did, but that doesn’t make stealing acceptable.’

He began to protest again, but she interrupted: ‘You know what, Mac? These kids may have had tough lives but they’re not always the victims.’

He hung up and stood in the hallway. He had felt irritated by Natasha’s comments at first, had forced himself to bite back his instinctive response. He didn’t remember her being so cynical about her clients. He didn’t like her for it.

He was about to pick up his camera bag when he remembered Sarah’s odd composure the previous evening, the way she had elected to stay in the living room while he had gone off to make supper. He had believed she was being diplomatic. He still believed that.