by Jojo Moyes
'It won't be up to us, Mac. They'll just decide we're incapable of taking care of her, and if they think she's at risk of disappearing, they'll apply for court proceedings to put her in secure.'
The girl's eyes were wide over the scarf.
'Is that what you want?'
Sarah shook her head slowly.
'Come on,' said Mac. 'Let's calm down. Sarah, we just want you to stick to the rules, okay? We need to know where you are.'
'I'm fourteen.' Her voice was quiet but defiant.
'And you're in our care,' said Natasha. 'You asked to come here, Sarah. The least you can do is play by our rules.'
'I'm sorry,' she said.
She didn't look sorry, Natasha thought. 'Tomorrow,' she said, 'Mac will be taking you in before registration and handing you over to your teacher. And one of us will be at the school gates when you come out. Until you prove to us that we can trust you to be where you say you are.'
Mac stood up, went to the cupboard and pulled out a bag of dried pasta. 'Okay, we'll leave it there and trust that this won't happen again. Sarah, take your coat off and sit down. You must be hungry. I'll make us some food.'
But Sarah turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen. They heard her tread heavily up the stairs and the door of her bedroom close emphatically behind her.
There was a short silence.
'That went well.'
Mac sighed. 'Give her a chance. She's having a tough time.' Natasha swallowed some wine, let out a long breath, then looked at him. 'Does this mean it isn't the time to tell you that money has been disappearing from the jar in my room?' She wasn't sure he'd heard her. 'Quite a lot. I just noticed that the level has dipped. And I remember tipping four pound coins into the top of it the other night. Yesterday they were gone.'
He carried on pouring pasta on to the scales.
'Oh . . . no . . .' she said.
'I didn't want to say anything,' he said, 'but I remember dropping a fiver out of my jeans pockets on to the coffee-table the other night, and making a note to myself that I'd pick it up in the morning. When I came down it was gone.' He went to the kitchen door and shut it silently. 'You think it's drugs?' he asked.
'I don't know. I've never suspected her of being high.'
'No . . . she doesn't seem . . .'
'It's not clothes,' she said. It was one of the things Natasha had found almost endearing. Sarah seemed uninterested in fashion and celebrity magazines, spent no more than ten minutes in the bathroom each morning. 'She doesn't have a phone, to my knowledge. And she doesn't smell of cigarettes.'
'Something's up.'
Natasha stared at her wine glass. 'Mac,' she said, 'I have to tell you something. When I first met her, she was being held for shoplifting.'
He stopped what he was doing.
'It was just a packet of fish-fingers. I bumped into her in a supermarket. She swore she was going to pay for it.' I've been fooled again. I thought I was doing a good thing. Stupid, guilty, middle-class liberal. I'm totally out of my depth. 'I'm really sorry,' she said. 'I should have told you.'
He shook his head. She realised, with gratitude, that he wasn't going to make a big deal of it. 'Do you think . . .' she said, tentatively '. . . that we have--'
But Mac interrupted her. 'I can't do it tomorrow,' he said, finally tipping the pasta into the boiling water. 'But give me a day or two and I'll follow her. See what she's up to. We'll get to the bottom of this.'
Ten
'What a spirit and what mettle; how proudly he bears himself - a joy at once, and yet a terror to behold.'
Xenophon, On Horsemanship
For two days Sarah was a model of obedience. She allowed Mac to accompany her to the classroom, albeit bristling with resentment, and was there, scuffing her shoes, at the school gates when he arrived to pick her up. But the beauty of teenagers, thought Mac, was that they always assumed they were cleverer than everyone else. And Sarah was no exception.
On day three, as he dropped her at school, he told her he didn't have time to run inside with her, and would she be okay going in by herself? He saw the brief glint in her eye, quickly suppressed, then he waved, accelerated away as if he was in a hurry and drove around the block. He pulled up by some garages, counted to twenty, then drove round slowly and back on to the high street past the school. Pupils were still streaming in through the gates, bags slung low over their shoulders, shouting at each other or gathered in huddles round mobile phones. And, sure enough, there was Sarah, heading in the opposite direction, half walking, half running up the road towards the bus stop.
Mac prayed she wouldn't turn around, but she was already too focused on where she was going. Damn it, Sarah, he told her silently. Why are you so determined to sabotage your own future? He watched as she leapt on to a bus, registering the number and its destination. The wrong direction for the hospital, he noted. The social worker had taken her to see her grandfather the previous week and had mentioned its location. Mac had promised to take her this weekend, and had written down the address. So where was she headed?
He sat in his car behind the bus, no longer able to see her, but trusting he would catch sight of her when she jumped off again. He allowed two cars to cut in front of him, to make himself less conspicuous, but the rush-hour traffic ensured that cars and bus made little headway.
Please let it be a boy, he willed, fiddling with his radio. If it was, they could invite him round, talk to them both. A boy would be manageable. Timetabled. But not drugs. Please don't let it be drugs.
For twenty minutes the car crept across London and on to the City. He drew fierce protest from white vans, shouting at him for failing to go faster, and rude gestures from smart women who might have known better. When it got bad, he pulled in for a few seconds and let people pass, wondering at the number of tickets he was going to get for repeatedly edging into the bus lane. He had come so far now that he couldn't afford to lose her. It started to rain as he reached the edges of the Square Mile, and he strained to catch sight of her dark uniform among the suited City workers with umbrellas who jumped on and off the bus at each stop. Here, where the population grew denser, it was increasingly hard to tell. Several times he wondered if he had already missed her, if he was on some wild-goose chase, but he stayed where he was.
Finally, where the glass towers of the financial district began to morph into the grimier buildings, residential blocks of flats, he caught sight of her. She skipped off the bus, ran around the rear of it, and leapt on to the island in the middle of the road. Mac held his breath, knowing that if she glanced to the right she would see him. But her attention was on the traffic going the other way. She let go of the railing and ran across. Before Mac realised he was now facing the wrong way, she was off down a side-street.
'Shit,' he said aloud. 'Shit, shit, shit.' He wrenched the car out from behind the bus, throwing up a hand of apology as the vehicle behind him screeched to a halt, and shot through an amber light on the crossing, so that a woman pedestrian thumped the side of his car in protest. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' he muttered, accelerating as fast as he could towards the roundabout. He skidded around it and back on to the main road facing the opposite way, peering through the windscreen as he tried to spot her. He drove until he saw the little side-street she had disappeared down, then realised, as he began to indicate, that it was one-way. The wrong way.
Mac hesitated for just a moment. Then he accelerated down it, praying he could get to the next street before anyone came the other way. 'I know . . . I know . . .' he shouted at the moped, who careered towards him, its rider shouting obscenities from under his helmet.
And then, at the crossroads, there was nothing. He could see no cars and no people, just a row of lead-stained Victorian buildings, the entrance to a car park, a block of flats. On his left he could make out the high street, a cafe and an Indian takeaway briefly obscured by a bus. On impulse, he turned right, driving slowly now on the cobbles, glancing down each street he came to in search of a girl in
school uniform. Nothing. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air.
Mac pulled on to the lane, and into a parking space. He sat there for a moment, cursing himself. Cursing her. What the hell am I doing? I'm chasing a schoolgirl I hardly know across London, and for what? In a few weeks she would be gone anyway. If she wanted to wreck her life with stupid boyfriends or drugs, was that really his problem? Her grandfather would get better, he would straighten her out, and they would all get on with their lives.
His phone was ringing. He reached down into the passenger footwell, discovering that his erratic driving had sent his belongings flying out of his pockets and on to the floor. It took him a couple of minutes to locate it.
'Mac?'
Maria.
'Hey,' he said.
'Don't say it, you wanted to ring me but you're trapped under large piece of furniture.' Her voice was bruised with hurt. He didn't take it personally - she used that tone if her tea was the wrong colour. 'You were going to ring me about lunch.'
'Christ,' he said. 'Sorry, sweetheart. I've got caught up in something. I'm not going to make it.'
'Is job?'
'Not exactly.' He leant back in his seat, ran his hand over his head.
'Is your ex-wife again. You two are making mad, passionate love all night and you no longer have the energy for me.' She started to laugh.
'It's nothing to do with Natasha.'
'In Poland, Natasha is most popular name for prostitute. You know this?'
'I'll tell her. I'm sure she'll be glad to hear it.'
Maria shouted at someone, then returned to the phone. 'Is very sad for you. You won't see me for two weeks.'
'No?' Was that Sarah at the other end of the narrow road? He peered out, but when the girl turned she was pushing a pram.
'Have got major-major job in Caribbean. I told you.'
'You did.'
'For Spanish Elle. Guess who is shooting.'
'Maria, you know I don't know one fashion photographer from another.'
'Sevi. Everyone knows Sevi.'
He'd have to ring Tash and tell her he'd lost her. They'd decide whether to call the social worker.
'He did cover shoot for Marie Claire this month.'
Perhaps he could ring the school and say she had an appointment. Then he'd force her to tell him where she'd gone.
'Marie Claire,' she repeated, for emphasis.
'They must have mislaid my copy at the newsagent this month.'
'You are very sad man. Very many bad jokes.'
'Maria, sweetheart,' he said, 'I have to go. I need to make a call.'
'Are you becoming homosexual?'
'Not today, no, but I'll give it some thought.'
'My sister has married homosexual. Did I tell you this?'
He had stopped listening. A large brown horse was emerging through a pair of wire mesh gates further up the road. It jumped slightly at a dustbin, then skittered sideways as it came down the cobbled road towards him, its hooves clattering on the hard surface. He squinted as it got closer; the inside of his car was steaming up. But there was no doubt about the identity of the rider. He was electrified with shock.
'Maria - got to go. Ring me from wherever and we'll sort something out.' He shoved the phone into his pocket, and then, as the horse was a good twenty feet away, opened his door quietly and climbed out. Sarah's hair was tied back, her slender frame perched lightly on the huge animal, her school sweatshirt clearly visible. It jumped sideways again, but she didn't seem to move. He saw her reach down and stroke its neck, as if reassuring it.
Mac shut his door and moved swiftly to the boot from which he pulled out his Leica, his eyes barely leaving the girl on the horse. He locked the car, and began to walk down the road behind her, watching as she sat quietly, apparently oblivious to the noise and chaos of the city around her. As they turned the corner, he saw she was headed for the park.
He thought for a moment, then reached for his phone and dialled the number, stepping into a doorway so that his voice did not carry on the wind. 'Is that the school office? Hi . . . yes. It's the guardian of Sarah Lachapelle here. I'm ringing to say she's got a doctor's appointment this morning and won't be in. Yes, I'm very sorry . . . I know I should have called earlier . . .'
Until Papa had become ill, almost half of Boo's training had been done from the ground. Papa had long-reined him, standing behind him, encouraging him to understand the various pressures of his hand and rein as instruction; to adjust his balance, to bring his hindquarters further under him, to bend to the left or right. Sarah would be positioned at his head or shoulder, reinforcing whatever her grandfather instructed with gentle pressure or voice, sometimes a faint shiver of a schooling whip. This way, Papa had explained, Boo could learn without having to cope with her loss of balance as well. Papa always made it sound as if she was a liability, that her presence made life harder for Boo. She had long since stopped taking it personally.
He had once owned a horse called Gerontius, who had been long-reined for three years before anyone was allowed to sit on him. It is not a substitute for training, he would tell her. It was the foundation of training. All the 'airs above the ground,' the sauts d'ecole, stemmed from such building blocks. They could not be bypassed.
That was all very well, Sarah thought now, but she needed to ride. She sat, allowing him to stretch out a bit, chiding him with her voice as he startled at street-lamps, traffic cones and drain covers, obstacles he wouldn't have blinked at six weeks ago. She had been forced to stay away for two days: two days in which he might have been fed and watered but would not have stepped outside his stable. For an intelligent, fit horse like Boo, it was tantamount to torture, and she knew she was likely to pay for it.
It had started to rain harder, and Sarah held up an arm, asking the traffic to stop as she crossed the road. Boo had caught sight of the grass now, and she felt his energy build beneath her. The rain would empty the park, allowing her room to work without interruption. But the horse was excited, possibly too much so. After his confinement, his hooves would react to that springy surface as if to an electrical charge.
Listen to me, she told him, with her seat, her legs, her hands. But there was something exhilarating about knowing such power was just waiting to be unleashed.
Levade, a little voice said, inside her head.
Papa had told her she was not to try it, that it was too ambitious a movement. Levade asked the horse to shift its weight on to its back legs, keeping at an angle of thirty-five degrees. It was a test of strength and balance, a transition to the greater challenges of classical dressage.
But Papa had done it. She had done it from the ground. She knew Boo was capable of it.
Sarah breathed in the damp air, wiping the moisture from her face. She trotted Boo in small circles, halting, then moving forward, forcing him to concentrate on her, creating an invisible arena between the park bins, the bollards and the long edge of the children's play area. When she was sure he was warmed up, she began to canter, first on one rein, then on the other, trying to hear her grandfather's instruction: sit deep, hands still, legs back a little, more contact on the outside rein. And within minutes she was lost, transported from the endless frustrations of living by someone else's rules, of the money she owed, of the sight of Papa, frustrated and unhappy in a bed that smelt of chemical pine and old people. It was just her and Boo, locked into their paces, working until they steamed under the fine mist of rain. She brought him back to walk, and loosened the reins, allowing him to stretch out. He no longer jumped at the noises of the street, or at the three double-decker buses: hard work had relaxed him, grounded him. Papa would be pleased with him today, she thought, running her hand along his wet neck.
Levade. Would it really be such a sin to test him a little? Would Papa ever have to know? She took a deep breath, and gathered up the reins again, urging him into a slow trot, which she gradually restricted until he was in piaffe, lifting his hooves rhythmically on the spot. She straighte
ned her back, trying to remember Papa's instructions. The hind feet must come under the horse's centre of gravity, the hocks almost sinking to the ground. She leant back a little, her legs encouraging him, telling him that his energy must go somewhere, holding him back with the faintest pressure on her reins. She clicked her tongue, a series of instructions, and he tensed, listening to her, his ears flicking. He couldn't do it, she realised. She needed a second person, someone to explain to him from the ground. Then she felt his rear sink beneath her, and for a moment she panicked a little as if it would unbalance them both, but suddenly his front end was rising in front of her and she leant forwards to help him, feeling him quiver as he tried to maintain it. They teetered there, defying gravity, Sarah regarding the park from a new, heightened angle.
And then he was down. Caught off-guard, she collapsed on to his neck and he shot forward, bucking once, twice with exuberance so that she struggled to stay on.
Sarah pushed herself upright and laughed. She felt a great bubble of elation rise inside her, and clapped the horse on the neck, praising him, trying to convey to him a sense of his own magnificence. She reached down and put her arms around his neck. 'Clever, clever horse,' she said again, watching Boo's ears flick, listening to her approval.
'Impressive,' said a voice behind her. Sarah twisted in the saddle. Her stomach lurched.
Mac's jacket was dark with moisture. 'May I?' he said, then strolled forward and stroked Boo's neck. 'He's hot,' he observed, drawing back his hand and rubbing his fingertips together.
She couldn't speak. Her thoughts dissolved, and sick dread flooded her.
'Have you finished? Shall we head back?' Mac gestured towards Sparepenny Lane.
She nodded, her fingers tightening on the reins. Her mind raced. She could go now. She could just urge Boo on, and the two of them could fly across the park towards the marshes. She could go miles before he could catch her. But she had nothing. Nowhere to go.
She walked slowly back to the yard, Boo stretching his neck down, apparently wearied by the intense work, her own posture now defeated. She studied Mac's back as he walked, unable to detect anything from his demeanour.
She halted in front of the gates. Cowboy John appeared from his shed and opened them. 'Taken a shower, Circus Girl? You're drenched.'
