by Sam O'Brien
He started his tour with the paddocks nearest the barns, where the mares grazed. As he slowly walked among them, they glanced up from the lush, green pasture before lazily resuming their grass-picking, occasionally snorting at their baby foals frolicking in delight with the sun on their backs. Then on to the pregnant mares, who ambled around gingerly, waiting for their big day. A nice bunch – pity they were in foal to moderate stallions.
Oliver worked his way around the farm, checking the fences and water troughs, scanning the empty paddocks for weeds and rabbits, and ended up in the thirty-acre field which was overlooked by the main house.
He paused to turn his face to the sun and savour the rays. Then he switched his attention to the nine yearling colts in the paddock. He saw them over at the far end, playing about near the water trough. They were a lovely bunch; he was sure there was a classic winner amongst them.
A rabbit scurried from its hiding place in long grass, startling the young athletes. The big dark bay – almost black – horse led the group in a dash around the fence line. Oliver smiled as they passed him. He never tired of watching horses gallop around, regally displaying their magnificence. When he watched them intently, the outside world faded into oblivion. He observed everything, from the way they extended their delicate limbs, to the way their feet hit the turf underfoot, to the way they carried their heads and how fluidly they moved and breathed with each stride.
Oliver could watch horses for hours, and on long summer evenings he frequently did; it was always interesting, and helped him to understand something else about athletic potential. He had become so good at it now, he could predict without fail how each horse would train, run, and what distance they would prefer. And, of course, usually how much ability they would have. In fact, he never put a horse on his list unless it showed him sufficient athletic potential when he viewed it at the sale.
Oliver loved the big black colt and was impressed that he was not only the established leader of his peers, but also that he was so active in the paddock. The animal simply loved to run. Handy really, given his raison d’etre.
The familiar ringing broke his concentration. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he glanced up at what he knew was the master bedroom window and saw the usual figure standing at the glass.
“Morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?” said Oliver cheerily.
“What the fuck are you doing standing in a field with your thumb up your arsehole?” was the reply.
“I– I’m checking the paddocks and looking at the colts.”
“I don’t pay you to stand around. Did you tell the robber we don’t want him anymore?”
“What?”
“Oh Jesus! The farrier: did you fire him?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Good.” He hung up.
That afternoon, Oliver was mixing a batch of horse feed when he heard Diarmuid’s quad-bike zoom through the yard and down the lane.
Oliver stuck his head out the door. “Slow down!” he roared after him.
There was no response from the young man, or the pretty girl riding pillion. Oliver shook his head despondently.
As he swept up every last spilled morsel of feed to deny the mice a feast, Oliver heard the quad in the paddock and the colts thundering along the fenceline.
He dashed outside and saw Diarmuid chasing them, beeping the horn, showing off to his companion.
“Not again,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of this shit.” He hurried to the paddock, vaulted over the gate, and stood in the field waving his arms.
The yearlings were galloping flat out along the far end. Diarmuid sped after them. The big black colt led the bunch and skidded as he reached the corner, almost losing his footing. Oliver put his hand to his mouth as he braced for an accident. A few other horses stumbled and slipped as they made the turn. Diarmuid seemed not to notice. He kept gunning the bike along.
The last colt of the group was panicked by the noise of the engine and the horn; sweat formed a white lather on its neck. Its front legs went from under it as it tried to turn, and the animal’s eyes bulged as wide as Oliver’s as it realised it would hit the fence. Four hundred kilos of galloping thoroughbred slammed into the wooden post and rail barrier. There was a loud, sickening crack, and a tangled mess of horse and fence. Diarmuid skidded the quad to a halt inches from the stricken horse.
Oliver sprinted across the field, desperately hoping the colt was unscathed. As he got closer, he could see the front legs lying at unnatural angles and the panicked snorting of a horse in terrible pain. The animal began to thrash, trying to flee from the ordeal, but it couldn’t get up. Its front legs flapped about from the knees down, only held in place by skin and tendon.
The forlorn whinnying seared into Oliver’s brain.
“I suppose you’d better call the vet,” mumbled Diarmuid, pale, shocked.
The girl burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.
“The vet could take forty minutes to get here,” said Oliver. “This animal’s in too much pain. Run to the house and get your uncle’s shotgun.”
Diarmuid blinked, his mouth wide open.
Oliver grabbed him by the jacket. “Get it. Now. Or I’ll rip your fucking legs off.”
Diarmuid hopped over the wrecked fence and dashed for the house.
Oliver threw his jacket over the stricken horse’s head. Without sight, the animal calmed slightly and stopped thrashing.
Oliver put his arm around the sobbing girl and guided her over the fence. “Don’t look at the horse. Go inside, make a cup of hot sweet tea, and sit by the fire. Try to forget this ever happened.” He watched her amble toward the house, sobbing and shaking.
Oliver turned. The other colts were standing twenty metres away, their heads down, snorting. They could smell the fear. He was about to call the yard when he saw the four lads running down the lane towards him.
“Heard the crash,” one said. “Jaysus, look at the state of that. You alright?”
“Fine. Get the other horses into the far paddock. I’ll have to put this one down.”
The horses were led slowly away and Diarmuid returned with the weapon.
Oliver grabbed it and checked both barrels. He offered the gun back to Diarmuid. “Your mess, you end the misery.”
“I-I, no . . . But . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. Didn’t think so,” Oliver spat. He braced the butt against his shoulder and pressed the muzzle to the horse’s head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gorman trotting towards him, shouting.
Oliver squeezed the trigger.
Gorman arrived at the scene. He was livid. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Oliver kept his eyes on the blood seeping into the ground. “Dealing with your nephew’s disaster.” He glared at the young man and handed him the weapon. “You made me kill a horse. Right now, I feel like using the other barrel on you. Clean it and put it away before I change my mind.”
Gorman was speechless for once. Diarmuid skulked back the house. Oliver phoned the local fox hunt to come and remove the carcass.
“They’ll be here in an hour, and I’ll be gone tomorrow,” he said to Gorman. Then he turned his back on the scene and walked to the yard, wiping the tears that formed in the corner of his eyes.
That evening, sitting in his house on the stud with only a bottle of wine for company, Oliver surfed the internet. He perused the usual racing websites, and even checked out the classifieds, but no decent jobs were available. He even considered logging on to a chat room, but dismissed the idea as sad, and figured what nice girl would bother with a desperate, lonely, workaholic in cyberspace? He wondered where Rebecca was. Probably married with kids by now, and a practising vet in Kentucky or Colorado.
After an hour or so, he put the name Marco Romano into a search engine, as he had done a few times over the years, especially when he felt down. The results appeared on the screen. He clicked on a site with Mafia-related stories and news cuttings. Occasionally there was an old photo
of Marco posted on a site, but he was mostly unmentioned, except for a small piece a few years ago speculating about how, after the sudden death of his boss in prison, Marco was the front runner to take over the family. Since that news item, there were no updates on the Jersey family.
Oliver often thought back to that mad night. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He had never told his parents or brother about it. He just couldn’t bring himself to listen to the lectures, criticism and judgments.
He turned off the computer, poured a glass of wine, and wondered just what he was going to do now. He had to do something on his own terms. What was needed was a new start, to strike out on his own. Richard had managed to find investors for his first business, so why couldn’t he? He knew he could do the job; he didn’t doubt his own ability. Despite the years of Gorman’s bullying, Oliver knew the horse business better than all but a handful of people, and could see every single mistake that all new owners made.
It was time to stand up and make a mark. Time to be a man and start something himself. He mulled over an idea for an hour or so, then looked at his watch: nine-thirty. Richard would still be at his desk, no doubt. He found the phone and dialled.
It rang only once. “Hello,” Richard blurted, quickly and sharply.
“Hi, Rich. How are things?”
“Frantic, Ollie. Mental. What’s up with you?”
“Well, I need to talk. Can I come and see you tomorrow?”
“What day’s tomorrow? Sunday? Yeah, sure. Come for lunch. We might even go out on the boat. That is, if your boss’ll let you off the leash for a whole day.”
“Huh, he won’t have a choice this time. I’m tired of his shit. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”
“Great, see you then. I suppose I’d better send a driver to collect Mother and get her up for the day as well.”
“I’ll bring her. It’s on my way.”
“If you want. But I can easily send my driver.”
“No, I’ll do it.”
“OK, whatever. See you.”
Oliver hung up. Great, he could tell them both at the same time.
He drained his glass and went to bed.
Chapter 8
It was a beautiful, sunny morning as Oliver pulled into the long driveway of their family home. As he drove along, he could see the houses being built just behind the bordering hedgerow. The unstoppable suburban sprawl of the so-called ‘Celtic Tiger’ was at their doorstep.
He stopped the car in front of the large Georgian farmhouse where he had grown up. It used to be immaculate when his father had it painted every three years, but it hadn’t seen a lick since he died and it was flaking badly in places.
As Oliver approached the door, his mother emerged with a smile lighting up her painfully thin face. Evelyn McMahon was a quiet, reserved woman, who had brought up both sons in the old-fashioned way – lacking in displays of affection – and who was always required to do her husband’s bidding and share his points of view. When he passed away four years ago, her friends and Oliver had expected her to open up and start to live her own life. Instead, she had seemed to fade away, as if life did not really interest her anymore.
“Oliver! What a lovely dinner you made the other night; the leftovers kept me going for days!” She frowned suddenly. “You look even more tired today. Everything alright? How’s work?” Evelyn was well-spoken and her sons spoke in the same clipped, though slightly old-fashioned tones. It was the one reason she had agreed to send them to the monastery boarding school, even though she had missed them desperately during term time.
“Oh, the usual. Gorman’s such a shit–”
“Language, Oliver.”
He smiled through the rebuke and kissed her on both cheeks. She hugged him stiffly.
“I wish you would find something more rewarding to do. Farming all but killed your father. Well, that and the cigarettes, but it was the constant slogging that broke him.”
“You know I don’t farm like that, Mum,” he shrugged resignedly. “Still, you’re right. I do need to find something better to do. In fact, I’m in the process of making some changes.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ll, er, I’ll tell you both during lunch.” Changing the subject, he gestured towards the hedge. “Those shitty, awful boxes they call houses are going to look right into your garden. It’s such a pity Dad had to sell that land.”
“Yes, well . . .” She looked at her feet uneasily. “At least he put the money to good use and got some pleasure from his last years.”
“Sorry. I, um, I didn’t mean anything by it, Mum.”
She looked at her watch. “We’d better get going.”
They got into the car and continued on to Richard’s house. It was nearly two hours later when they drew up in front of the imposing, wrought iron security gates. Oliver opened his window and punched in the code. The bars parted and they drove up the avenue.
The car pottered up the long, meandering driveway, bordered by strips of freshly mown lawn and neat rows of daffodils. Beyond them was new post and rail fencing and lush, green paddocks where a few sheep grazed. Evelyn smiled as she took in the serenity of it all.
“I do love this place, Oliver, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mum, it’s beautiful. It’s a bit too well kept, though, and I bet he’s charging Little Bo Peep a fortune to keep her sheep here.”
“Now, now, Oliver. No jealousy.”
He could hear the mother’s scolding tone in her voice. She was right, though. Oliver was a little jealous of his brother, but also infuriated by him. Richard had bought this beautiful, crumbling mansion by the shores of Lough Derg as a weekend retreat from the pressures of Dublin. The ruin came with eighty acres of land and Oliver had been excited at the prospect of Richard returning it to its former glory. However, he had promptly had the unlisted building demolished and replaced with a modern, steel and glass monstrosity, visible for miles. A ‘concept house’, as Richard liked to call it. Oliver couldn’t stand ‘the concept’, and he suspected his mother was appalled as well, though she was too loyal to admit it.
Everybody wondered how on earth he had managed to get planning permission; it looked as if a spaceship had touched down amidst the paddocks and trees. The only old building was the stone stable yard, which was restored, but used only as storage for old files, dust and cobwebs, serving only to highlight the hideousness of the monster beside it.
They parked and walked across the gravel, as Richard appeared behind a glass panel front door. He was tall and lean, much like his brother, with tidy dark hair; striking in his own way, but the years of grind in an office and too much smoking had reduced his skin to a ghostly pallor, cracked with stress lines. Evelyn opened her arms and hugged him in the same stiff manner as she had greeted Oliver. “How are you? It’s so good to be here again on such a lovely day.”
He stood rigidly. “Good to see you, too, Mother.”
“Hi, Rich, long time no see.” Oliver stuck out his hand. Richard shook it limply.
“Really? I’ve been that busy, time’s a blur. Was the drive OK?”
“Yeah, but you should see what used to be the west dairy fields at home. Full of little boxy houses, pity for Mum. They’ll look right into the garden when they’re finished.”
Richard smirked. “Well, that’s progress. You can’t stop it, I supp–”
Their mother interrupted. “Come on, boys, I’m starving. What’s for lunch?”
Richard took them through the sparsely furnished house. It really needed a woman’s touch, but Richard’s lifestyle did not leave time for a wife and family. Evelyn had given up being excited at seeing Richard’s photo on the society pages with a glamorous blonde on his arm – eventually they all realized they would never be more than a distant second to his airline.
The sun beamed in through the conservatory and warmed the air. They sat around the large table and Richard poured the wine, as the woman who came to do the cooking appeared and began to place the f
ood on the sideboard.
Evelyn greeted her cheerily. “Hello, Marigold. How are you?”
The spritely middle-aged spinster answered with an enthusiastic smile. “Ah, sure I’m grand, thanks. Tipping along.”
“What are you treating us to today? I do like your cooking, but it’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasure.”
“I’ve a lovely steak and kidney pie for you, with mash and peas. Just the job!”
“Mmm, sounds delicious.”
Richard shot his cook a withering glance, which she ignored and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Mother, do you have to fraternise with the staff?” he asked, standing to serve himself.
“I’m surprised at you, Richard. Marigold’s a nice woman, and I hadn’t seen her in so long.”
He grimaced uncomfortably. “Yeah, but she should be seen and not heard. I mean, it’s just so gauche to chat amiably with my employees. Familiarity breeds contempt, you know.”
Evelyn’s jaw hung agape. “That’s an awful thing to say. I didn’t raise you to be so rude.”
“Hey, Rich, I’ll have a plate while you’re up there,” said Oliver. His brother shot him a sideways glance as he sat. Oliver smirked and served himself and his mother.
They began eating in silence, which nobody felt like breaking until Oliver decided to hit them with his news.
“I’ve got something to tell you both,” he announced.
Richard raised his eyebrow quizzically.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Well, er, look, I know I haven’t ever really discussed this with you, but, well, my job hasn’t exactly gone the way I thought it would. To be honest, it’s a nightmare. I’m stuck being Gorman’s lackey and I’m sick of it. I need to branch out on my own, do something for myself. I told him I was quitting yesterday.”
Evelyn looked at him, slightly startled. “Well, that is a shock! I thought you loved horses.”
“I’m not quitting horses, Mum, just the job. It doesn’t agree with me. I spent more time than I should have shovelling shit and taking abuse, then he and his bloody nephew take all the credit.”
