The Horse Dancer (53 page)

All the while, through the elongated hours, the man with whom she had once hoped to spend her life, the man she had pledged to love, the man with whom, in a parallel universe, she should have been wrapped in a marital bed, listening to their children sleep, shifted and murmured in the front seat, a million miles away. Perhaps wishing, in dreams, for a distant long-legged lover. Natasha lay in the dark and grasped, to her surprise, that divorce was not a finite pain after all.

‘Linda. Natasha.’

‘How’s it going? Have you sorted out your . . . family problems?’

They knew. Conor would have told them everything. Natasha regarded her creased skirt, her now-laddered stockings, painfully visible in the harsh light of morning. ‘No. Not yet.’

‘Where are you? When are you back?’

They had slept for hours, waking shortly after dawn. Mac had reached through the front seats and shaken her shoulder. When she had opened her eyes, confused and disoriented, it had been several seconds before she remembered where she was. A silent, bleary couple of hours’ driving later, they had stopped at a service station to freshen up.

‘I’m . . . not sure. It’s taking longer than we thought. Can I speak to Ben?’

‘He’s out. With Richard.’

‘Richard? Why is he out with Richard?’

‘Did nobody ring you?’

‘No – why?’

‘It’s the Perseys. They’ve settled. Their side approached us this morning and put a new offer on the table. More than she’d expected. And she’s agreed timetabled access. God only knows if she’ll stick with it, Richard says, but for now they’re in agreement.’

‘Thank God.’

‘He’s out celebrating with her now. He took Michael Harrington and Ben with him. They’re going to the Wolseley for a champagne breakfast. She’s a different woman already. I’ve told Ben to watch himself – she’s been eyeing him like a hungry lion eyes a passing wildebeest.’

Richard hadn’t bothered to call. Her fleeting gratitude that the case had been settled satisfactorily evaporated, tempered by the knowledge that she would receive no credit for it. In Richard’s eyes she was no longer part of it.

She knew, in that moment, that she would not be made partner. Not this year. Not, perhaps, for many years. ‘Lin?’ she said. ‘Is . . .’ She sighed. ‘Oh, never mind.’

A dull ache penetrated her temple. She stood in the car park of a French service station, in two-day-old clothes, rubbing it while she surveyed the vehicles that passed in a blur. How had she ended up here? Why had she not done what she advised every trainee to do and kept her client at arm’s length? How could she not have guessed that the chaos of these children’s lives was, in fact, infectious?

‘So, how are you doing?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

‘No one here knows quite what to make of this,’ Linda said carefully. ‘You’ve held your cards close to your chest.’

‘And now I’m paying for it, right?’

‘There’s a view that you could probably have handled things better.’

Natasha closed her eyes. ‘I’ve got to go, Lin,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring later.’

Mac was walking back across the car park. This was purgatory, she thought, her career ruined, her private life in tatters, she and her ex-husband destined to be stuck in a small car for the rest of their lives, bickering as they tried to justify the bad decisions they had made.

‘Oh! Natasha! I nearly forgot to tell you. We had a visitor here first thing. You’ll never guess who.’

He had stopped to say something to two older women who had just climbed out of a car. Whatever he said made them laugh, and she could see the broad smile he had not bestowed on her since long before he had moved out. Something in her constricted.

‘Mm?’

‘Ali Ahmadi.’

Natasha tore her eyes from him. ‘What did you just say?’

‘Hah! I knew that would get you. Ali Ahmadi.’

‘But that’s not possible! He’s on remand. Why has he been let out before the case goes to trial?’

Linda laughed. ‘That kid we read about was a
different
Ali Ahmadi. Did you know Ahmadi is one of the most common names in Iran? Apparently he’s basically your Iranian John Smith. Anyhow, the one you represented came in to tell you he’s got a place at sixth-form college and starts in September. Sweet kid. He brought you a bunch of flowers. I’ve put them in your office.’

Natasha sat down on a low wall, the phone pressed to her ear. ‘But . . .’

‘I know. We should have checked. Who’d have thought there’d be two of them? Nice, though, isn’t it? Restores your faith in human nature. I could never quite see him as the violent type. Oh, and I gave him back that little horse pendant we meant to send him. I hope you didn’t mind. He was happy to take it.’

‘But – but he lied about the distance he’d travelled. He still caused me to misrepresent his case.’

‘That’s exactly what I said to Ben. As the interpreter was in we got the file out and asked her to have another look at the translation notes. And she came across something interesting.’

Natasha didn’t speak.

‘Ali Ahmadi indeed said he’d travelled nine hundred miles in thirteen days, but not that he
walked
it. That was what we – the interpreter too – all assumed. Before he left, Ben asked him – oh, you wouldn’t believe how well his English has come on! Unbelievable! Anyway, Ben asked him how he’d got so far. He explained that he’d walked some of the way, got a lift on a truck for some, and then he held up that little horse. Some of it he’d ridden. Mule or something. But that’s the thing – he never lied to you.’

Natasha lost the thread of whatever else Linda was trying to tell her, where she had put the flowers, when she would call again. She lowered her exhausted head onto her hands and thought about a boy who had held her hands in a heartfelt gesture of thanks, a boy who had travelled nine hundred miles in thirteen days. A boy who had only ever told the truth.

When she looked up Mac was standing a few feet away, two polystyrene cups in his hands. He glanced away abruptly, as if he might have been staring at her for some time. She shut her phone.

‘Okay,’ she said, taking her coffee from him. ‘You win. Head for Saumur.’

She had taken a wrong turning. She stared again at the little map, already worn soft from repeated foldings, which didn’t seem to explain why the route that should have taken her past Tours and a few miles to the lairage Thom had booked had somehow led her into a never-ending industrial estate. For some miles she had been travelling roughly alongside a railway line, but as Thom’s map didn’t show the railway she had little idea if she was heading the right way or not. She had trusted her gut, trusted that at any moment now there would be a sign for Tours, or some other landmark. But it hadn’t come, the verdant landscape slowly morphing instead into something reminiscent of the edge of London, a concrete expanse with vast, empty sheds, car parks, huge posters for Monoprix or Super-U, whose corners flapped desolately from their hoardings. Periodically a train would pass in a roar, causing Boo to flinch, and then there was silence, broken occasionally by a passing car.

The sun had begun to dip in the sky, the temperature dropping, and she was losing confidence as to whether she had correctly judged the direction in which she was moving. She halted, stared again at the map, then at the sky, trying to work out if she was still going south-west or in fact south-east. Clouds had gathered over the sun, making it harder to read the shadows. She was hungry, and regretted not having stopped at one of the friendly-looking markets she had passed through. She had been so impatient to keep moving. And so sure that by now she would have reached the stables.

The scenery had become bleaker, the buildings blank-eyed, apparently unoccupied for some time. She appeared to be heading into a sidings: the track had split and become more tracks, each with lines of stationary carriages, shuttered and graffitoed, a web of pylons and cables above her. Uneasy, Sarah decided to go back the way she had come. She gave a long, weary sigh and began to turn Boo.

She spun round in the saddle to see five bikes, scramblers and mopeds, two with a passenger riding pillion. A couple wore helmets, the rest bareheaded. Smoking, hard-eyed. She knew these young men as she had known the boys on her estate.

She didn’t want to speak. She knew her accent would mark her out as English. She turned away from them and walked on, steering Boo to the left. Something told her she couldn’t ride through them. She would hope they lost interest and went away.

Her legs closed involuntarily around Boo’s sides. A well-trained horse will detect even the faintest tension in its rider, and this movement, with the slightest increase in pressure on the reins, caught Boo’s attention.

One roared past. She could hear the others behind her, catcalling, talking to each other. Her face impassive, she rode on, realising she had no way of knowing if she was walking into a dead end. The industrial estate was enormous, comprising warehouse-size buildings and deserted car parks. Graffiti scrawled in red and black on the walls told of the lack of activity, perhaps of hope.

She heard a motorbike being revved up, and her heart thumped.

‘
Allez-vous en
,’ she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
Go away.

They began to laugh. ‘
Allez-vous en!
’ one catcalled, mimicking her voice.

Dark was encroaching now, Sarah began to trot. She sat very upright and heard the motorbikes skidding and revving behind her. There were more lights up ahead. If she could get back on to a main road they would have to leave her alone.

One of the bikes had come up next to her, then dropped back. She felt her horse tense, his ears flicking, waiting for a signal not yet given. She rested her hand on his neck, gleaning comfort from him, trying to keep from him her rising panic. They’ll go in a moment, she told him silently. They’ll get bored and leave us alone. But the bike skidded in front of her. Boo stopped abruptly, his haunches dropping, his head shooting up into the air. Two more bikes swung round so that three were now facing her. Her scarf was up around her face, her hat jammed over her eyes.

Someone threw a cigarette on to the ground. She sat very still, one hand unconsciously stroking Boo’s shoulder.

‘
Putain! Tu ne sais pas qu’il est impoli d’ignorer quelqu’un?
’ The youth had a north African appearance. He cocked his head at her.

‘
Je . . . je dois aller au Tours
,’ she said, trying to stop her voice quavering.

‘
Tu veux aller au Tours . . .
’ The laughter was unpleasant.

‘
Je te prendrai au Tours. Montes à bord.
’ He patted his seat, and they all laughed.

She glanced from one to another. ‘
Rien
,’ she said.
They were after her bag.

‘
Il est trop plein pour rien
.’ One of the boys, pale-skinned, his shaven head tucked under a baseball cap, had climbed off his motorbike. She tried to keep her breathing steady. They’re just like the boys at home, she told herself, showing off to each other. You just have to show them you’re not afraid.

The boy walked slowly towards her. He was wearing a dirty khaki jacket, a packet of cigarettes in the top pocket. He stopped a few feet away, eyed her, and then, without warning, leapt forward, yelling, ‘Rah!’

Boo snorted and jumped backwards. The boys laughed. ‘Easy,’ she murmured, closing her legs around him again. ‘Easy.’ The boy with the hat took a drag on his cigarette, and moved forward again. They wouldn’t stop now, she guessed. They had scented some new game, some fresh torture. Discreetly she scanned the distance, trying to establish the best route past them, the way out. They would know this area, would have spent hours doing what they were doing now, revving bikes around it, killing time, looking for weak spots to plunder and destroy out of frustration and boredom.

‘Rah!’ This time, she was ready for him, and Boo flinched, but did not jump. She had him firmly between leg and hand now, telling him silently not to move, refusing him the chance to feel fear. He was uncertain, though. She could see his eye glancing back, his arched neck tensing, could feel his mouth at the end of the rein, playing anxiously with his bit. And as the bikes revved again, she knew what she had to do.

‘
S’il vous plaît
,’ she said, ‘
laissez-moi la paix.
’

‘
Renvois-moi et je te laisserai la paix
.’ He gestured towards her rucksack.

‘
Hé! Putain! Renvois-le, ou j’en fais du pâté pour chien!
’ The north African boy had said something about horsemeat, and the word was all the spur she needed. Sarah gathered Boo up, her legs quietly signalling her instruction. He refused to hear her for a few seconds, still transfixed by anxiety, then training took over, and he began to trot obediently on the spot, his legs lifting carefully, rhythmically, two at a time in an exaggerated version of
piaffe
.

‘
Regardez! Un cheval dansant!
’ The boys began to catcall, the bikes revving, drawing closer, closer, briefly distracted by what she was doing. Sarah bit down on her fear and tried to block out the noise, concentrating, building Boo’s momentum, building a secret core of energy at his centre. His head dropped to his chest, his legs lifting higher. She felt his anxiety, her heart constricting at his trust in her, that he was prepared to do what she asked of him, despite his fear. She heard one of the boys yelling something else at her, but the noise was lost in the pounding of blood in her ears.