by Jojo Moyes
'I'll do it.'
She laid her suit on the bed and held first one shirt, then another against the dark blue jacket. When they had been married, she would always ask him what he thought of the match and, more often than not, go with something else. For the first few years it had been a joke between them.
He folded his arms. 'So . . . where should I forward your post?'
'You don't need to. I'll be back every few days. Just call me if there's anything we need to discuss. What do you want to do about the social workers? Do you want me to ring them when I'm out of court this afternoon?'
'No,' he said. 'I'll talk to Sarah first. Work out when would be . . .' He could not say 'best.' Nothing was going to be best for her. 'Tash . . .'
She had her back to him. 'What?'
'I hate this,' he said. 'I know things have got a bit complicated, but I don't see why it all has to end this way.'
'We've had this conversation, Mac.'
'No, we haven't. We've lived here together for the best part of two months and we haven't had any real conversation at all. We haven't talked about what happened between us, or what the hell went--'
He turned abruptly. Conor was in the doorway. 'I thought you might need a hand with your bags.'
He had aftershave on, Mac noticed. Who the hell wore aftershave at this time of the morning?
'Is it this lot on the bed here, Natasha?'
She was about to answer but Mac interrupted: 'If you don't mind,' he said, stepping in front of Conor, 'I'd prefer you to wait downstairs.'
There was a brief, loaded silence.
'I came to get Natasha's bags.'
'You're walking into my bedroom,' Mac said slowly, 'and I'm asking you not to.'
'I don't think, strictly speaking--'
Mac turned on him. 'Listen, mate,' he said, hearing the barely controlled antagonism in his voice, 'I own this house, half of it. I'm asking you nicely to get out of my bedroom - our bedroom - and wait downstairs so I can finish having a private conversation with the woman who, theoretically at least, still happens to be my wife. If that's all right with you?'
Natasha had stopped brushing her hair. She glanced between the two men, then nodded discreetly at Conor.
'I'll put the seats down in the car,' Conor said, and walked out, his car keys jangling ostentatiously in his hand.
The room was very quiet now. In the bathroom, the extractor fan clicked off.
Mac felt his heart-rate gradually subside. 'Well, that's it, then.' He tried to smile, but it came out lopsided. He felt foolish.
Her expression was unreadable. 'Yes,' she said, her jaw tight. She began to busy herself again. 'I've got to get on, Mac, if you don't mind. But do ring me tonight when you and Sarah have worked out the time frame for everything.' She picked up her suit and disappeared into the bathroom.
There had been two trotters in this race, Sal's mare and Boo. Boo had not been expected to win, Ralph had told her; there was heavy money against him, despite his good looks, and sure enough he had come last.
From her vantage-point behind the van, she watched the jockey leap down from the sulky, grab at a rein and kick him hard in the haunch. Boo skittered sideways, his head arched backwards in pain. A moan of protest escaped her, and her feet carried her towards him almost without her realising it. Then she caught herself, ducked down, closed her eyes tightly and forced herself to focus, not to act rashly. A hundred yards away, one of Sal's men was holding the sweating mare by one rein, his hands cupped around the flame of his lighter as he attempted to put it to his cigarette.
'I swear, Sal, that's some strange vitamins you been feeding that horse,' he said, as he tucked the lighter back into his pocket.
'It wasn't my horse breaking up there.'
'Spooked by the wind. On that side we took the full force of it.'
'Like I told you up there, Terry boy, this race is over.'
Boo was dancing now, unhappy at the weight of the sulky, afraid of another thumping boot, and the man tied him roughly to the wing mirror of his truck, growling at him, his hand raised as if in threat as he walked away. She fired invisible bullets into the back of that fat head, mentally kicked him as he had kicked Boo. She thought she had never been so filled with rage. Forcing herself to breathe, she caught sight of Cowboy John, a short distance away, in urgent conversation with Sal. He was looking at Boo, his hat dripping with rain and shaking his head. Sal shrugged, lit another cigarette. John placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to steer him away from the crowd, but just as he turned, Sal was called back to the ring of men where the money was being counted.
She was calm now. She watched with the forensic attention of a hunter, with the strategic calculation of Xenophon, all the while edging forward, camouflaged by the parked cars, the vast, rough-cast pillars of the intersecting flyovers. She was a matter of feet from Boo now, close enough to see the sweat on his neck, his rain-darkened skin, close enough to assess how many straps bound him to the little two-wheeler. Don't call to me, she warned him. The men were arguing beside the grey mare, Sal claiming noisily that he was the winner, claiming Boo as his, another man disputing this. Sal's horse had broken from the trot, two, three times, he protested. He should be disqualified. There was a murmur of dissent, an equal one of agreement.
'We got to get off now,' someone was shouting, in an Irish brogue. 'Get on home. The rozzers will be up here.'
She had slipped to the far side of Boo and saw the horse craning his neck to gauge who this was, trapped by his harness, his blinkers. 'Ssssh,' she told him, running a hand down his heaving flank, and watched his ears flick back and forth in recognition. She glanced at the men, and slipped the poles through the harness, her fingers nimble on the buckles.
Their voices were silenced briefly, and she ducked backwards, behind the pillar, heart beating erratically. And then they lifted again, this time in definite argument. She peeped out, saw money being divided, disputed, slapped into palms, and knew that this was her best chance: they would not look away while money was being counted.
She had but seconds left. Her fingers were trembling as she fumbled with the straps, adrenalin pumping blood into her ears, drowning the sound of the traffic above them. I'm going to get you out of here, Boo. Three straps. Two straps. Just one. She was murmuring it under her breath. Come on.
It was as she wrestled with the last strap, her fingers slipping on the wet leather, that she heard it, the exclamation she had dreaded. 'Oi! You!'
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 al
ong 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.'
I'm not a complete imbecile Ben replied.
I'll be the judge of that she responded.
'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 naive 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.'
