by Stacy Gregg
Issie shook her head. “It’s fine, Mum. I just had a tough day.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs Brown looked worried.
“Things aren’t going very well with Flame. He went bonkers today in the ring.” Issie sighed. “Plus I had a fight with Aidan at the show. I don’t think we’re speaking any more.”
“A fight?” said Mrs Brown. “What about?”
“It was, well, it wasn’t a fight really. He just said some things…” Issie paused. “Mum? Do you think I’ve changed since I started working for Ginty?”
“Is that what Aidan said to you?”
Issie nodded. “I just feel like my life has suddenly got really complicated. It used to just be me and my horses and Stella and Kate, but now I’ve got all this pressure on me.”
Mrs Brown put her arm around her daughter. “Do you remember your first day at pony club? I think you’d only had Mystic for a couple of weeks and you were so excited to be in your new uniform with your own pony. The look on your face! I’d never seen you so happy. You loved that grey pony so much, you couldn’t stand to be apart from him. After the rally was over you didn’t want to come home. You would have stayed at the paddock all night with him if I’d let you. As far as you were concerned, it was just you and your horse, and the world didn’t matter. And now here you are four years later and it’s not just you and your pony any more. You’ve got responsibility for a whole stable-full of horses and suddenly it’s all serious and frightfully grown-up…”
Mrs Brown paused for a moment. “But I still see the same look in your eyes, Issie. It’s that look you had when you rode for the first time. It proves that no matter how complicated your world has become, the girl that you are inside is still the same.” Mrs Brown smiled at her daughter. “You love horses as much as you ever did, and that will never change. No matter what anyone says.”
Issie collapsed into bed exhausted at nine o’clock, thrilled that tomorrow was Sunday and for once she didn’t need to set the alarm for 6 a.m. She had somehow been talked into working a seven-day week for Ginty, but at least tomorrow the trainer had agreed to let her have a lie-in and she didn’t have to start work until eight. She was determined to leave Dulmoth Park on the dot of four so she could head down to the River Paddock to give Blaze and Comet some much-needed exercise. She had been neglecting her horses lately because of work, and she needed to make time for them again.
Her lie-in never happened. Instead, she woke up at two o’clock in the middle of the night, startled from her sleep by noise down below her bedroom window in the garden.
It was Wombat. The blue heeler pup always slept downstairs, on a dog bed on the back porch by the French doors. It was a common occurrence for the pup to wake Issie with his fussing and whimpering because he’d found a hedgehog curled in a prickly ball on the lawn.
Issie knew that she’d better get out there straight away and get Wombat. Not that the hedgehog needed her help. Wombat was usually the one who usually came off the worst in these tussles and ended up with a bleeding snout for his troubles!
She got out of bed and slipped on her jods and a pair of trainers, grabbed her Dulmoth Park sweatshirt, which was sitting on top of her laundry pile, pulled it on over her pyjama top and padded downstairs.
In the kitchen, Issie stared out through the glass of the French doors looking for her pup. She could hear Wombat growling, but when she scanned the lawn she couldn’t see him or his prickly prey. All she saw outside were the shadows of the big trees that spread out over the lawn. She reached up a hand to open the top lock on the door when she saw something that made her freeze. That was why Wombat was growling! One of the shadows was moving! It was a big shape too — much too big to be a dog. Issie didn’t move. She watched the shadow move closer, and then, as she recognised the silhouette in the moonlight, she let out a sigh of relief and began once again to frantically work the lock.
The moment she stepped outside, Wombat ran to her. The hackles on his back were raised and he was still growling, a low threatening rumble coming from his throat. Issie smiled at the dog’s devotion to protecting her, and crouched down beside him, one arm hugging his neck as she gave him a reassuring pat.
“Shush!” she told the dog. “Don’t growl, Wombat. You’ll wake Mum.” Then she looked up at the shadow standing on the lawn in front of them. “It’s OK. It’s all right, boy, he’s not dangerous.”
Wombat didn’t seem convinced. He pressed himself against Issie’s legs, the growl still rumbling through him as he stared at the shadowy shape standing right in front of them.
“Wombat! Don’t be a silly puppy!” Issie tried to coax the dog forward as she walked into the darkness towards the shadow. “Come and meet Mystic.”
Mystic didn’t seem at all concerned by the blue heeler’s antics. He stood calmly on the lawn, illuminated by the moonlight, waiting for Issie to come to him.
Issie stepped forward with Wombat trailing anxiously behind her. She wasn’t certain what it was about Mystic that had the pup so rattled. Could Wombat remember Mystic from that night in Australia with the wild dog? Probably not — the pup was barely conscious when Mystic had arrived to save them. Maybe Wombat simply wasn’t expecting a horse to appear in the back garden in the middle of the night. Or was it because the pup could sense somehow that this horse had an otherworldly quality to him, that he wasn’t really supposed to be here at all?
Issie remembered her own shock the very first time she encountered Mystic here after the accident. She understood that her pony shouldn’t be here, but at the same time she knew he was real. She never for a moment questioned Mystic’s return. All she knew was that each time she saw him her heart soared to have her pony back with her once more.
There was a catch, of course. Mystic’s arrival tonight meant that there was trouble. So, overjoyed as she was to see the grey gelding, Issie knew that there would be a darker reason for this late-night visit.
“Come on, Wombat,” Issie cooed. The blue heeler had finally summoned up his courage and joined Issie on the lawn. Now he reached up his snout so that he was nose to nose with the pony. Mystic gave a stomp with his front hoof and Wombat leapt back again, cowering against Issie’s legs. Issie giggled.
“He won’t hurt you, Wombat,” she said, “but you better stay here. Mystic and I have to go now.”
Wombat was well-trained. He knew exactly what Issie meant when she said ‘stay’ — he just chose to ignore her. If there was an adventure afoot then he was coming too! As Issie led the grey pony down to the gate at the end of the back lawn, Wombat disobeyed her command and ran after her. He caught up by the time they had reached the back gate.
“OK,” Issie sighed. “Have it your way, Wombat. I don’t have time to argue.” She let the pup go through the gate ahead of them, then guided Mystic through and asked him to stand still as she climbed the gate rungs and threw herself on to his back.
The pony waited expectantly as she arranged herself comfortably and grabbed a tangle of his thick mane in her hands. The mane wasn’t for steering purposes, it was only to help her hang on and keep her balance. Not that she was the one doing the steering. Mystic would decide where to go. The grey pony had turned up tonight for her and he alone knew where they were heading.
As they set off at a trot along the narrow road that ran behind her house, Wombat was following them determinedly, running alongside Mystic. The dog’s mouth was hanging open in that wide grin that pups get when they are enjoying a run, and his dark eyes shone brightly. He was excited by this night-time adventure. Issie was excited too, but there was a sense of foreboding as well. She had no clue as to why Mystic had turned up tonight. And she had no idea what was in store.
A little further down the road they reached an intersection, and when Mystic turned left Issie realised they must be heading in the direction of the pony club. She didn’t understand why they’d be going there. Blaze and Comet were both grazing at the River Paddock.
Her confusion became even greater
when they reached the club gates but Mystic didn’t turn down the gravel driveway. He kept going past the club, cantering along the grass verge.
The road beyond the club gates was familiar to her. It was the same route she took every morning on her bicycle when she rode to work. She understood where Mystic was taking her now. They were going to Dulmoth Park.
Mystic was far faster down this road than Issie was on her bike and they were at the gates in just a few minutes. The entrance was shut tight, but Issie knew the code off by heart. She leant down from Mystic’s back to punch the letters into the blue-lit keypad. Wombat raced eagerly through the entrance ahead of her as soon as the electronic gates glided open. She followed after him on Mystic, heading towards the black outline of the stables in the distance.
The main door to the stable entrance was open. Issie slid down from Mystic’s back and left him at the doorway as she walked inside.
It was even darker in here than it was outside. The cavernous space of the main corridor was full of echoes as the horses moved restlessly in their stalls. At her side, Wombat gave a low growl.
“It’s OK, boy,” she reassured the pup. “No need to get spooked, it’s just the horses.”
There was a tremble to Issie’s voice as she spoke to her dog. It was creepy in here at night. She would have turned on the lights, but they were at the other end of the corridor by the feed room. The corridor was almost pitch-black and Issie kept imagining that she saw things moving in the darkness.
When she was halfway down the corridor, she was suddenly convinced that there was someone standing in the shadows by one of the stalls watching her. She spun round to confront them, her heart racing, only to realise that it was a pitchfork leant up against the wall.
“Ohmygod!” Issie clutched at her chest with her hands. Then she leant down and whispered to Wombat. “I’m being silly and freaking myself out. There’s no one else here—”
She stopped in mid-sentence. A light had just been switched on in the feed room at the far end of the corridor! This wasn’t about spooking at shadows any more. There was definitely someone else here!
Beside her, in the darkness, Wombat began to growl again. It was a tremulous growl, much more anxious than the low rumble he’d made in the backyard at home. The dog had seen the light come on too, and now he could hear noises at the far end of the corridor. Whoever was in the feed room was crashing and banging about. What was going on?
The deep rumble in Wombat’s chest became louder and then the blue heeler gave a warning bark. “Shush!” Issie said. She put out a hand to hold the dog back, but Wombat was too quick. Before she could get a hand on him he was running towards the feed room.
“Wombat! Wait!” Issie ran after him, but the dog was twice as fast as she was. His barking echoed down the corridor and Issie felt a sick wave of panic rising up in her. Wombat had no idea what he was dealing with! The pup could be in terrible danger!
“Wombat!” She raced down the corridor and ran panting through the doorway.
The room was empty. The only sign that anyone had been there at all was the storage locker shaped like a treasure chest — the lock on the lid had been forced and the box was wide open. Wombat was standing beside the treasure chest and his eyes were glued to the stack of horse blankets in the corner of the room. He was snarling, his teeth bared.
“What is it, Wombat?” Issie’s voice came out wobbly. She could already see what the dog was growling at. There was a figure crouching low, cowering behind the horse blankets.
“I can see you back there!” Issie said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice as she spoke again. “Don’t move. I’m going to call the police!”
“No! Please. Don’t! Issie — it’s me!”
The figure emerged from behind the horse blankets. Issie could see that it was a girl immediately, but it wasn’t until the intruder pulled back the hood on her sweatshirt that Issie saw her face.
It was Verity.
Chapter 12
Verity! Wombat stopped growling as soon as he recognised the girl and his tail began to wag. Issie, on the other hand, remained utterly defensive. She saw no reason to trust Dulmoth Park’s former head groom.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Issie said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know it looks bad,” Verity walked closer towards Issie, “but really, I can explain…”
Wombat began to growl again as Verity edged close and Issie started backing away. She was shuffling backwards nervously, heading for the door, when she looked down and saw a bottle lying on the floor. “How did this get here.” Issie began to say. Then she realised that there were more bottles just like it scattered on the ground beside the storage chest. “Ohmygod!” Issie murmured.
The chest was like a vet’s clinic — it was absolutely full of bottles of pills, syringes and tubs of liniment! Bottles and vials of fluid were strewn everywhere. Verity had obviously been rummaging through the contents when Wombat had interrupted her.
“What is all this stuff?” Issie asked.
“Phenylbutazone, capsaicin, pep pills…Ginty’s secret medicine stash,” Verity replied.
“Ginty’s medicine stash?” Issie was confused. “What do you mean? You’re the one who was injecting Tottie! And using the liniment! I saw you. Ginty fired you for it!”
“Is that what you think?” Verity looked at Issie as if she were a total idiot. “Oh man, this is so lame. You really don’t know what’s going on here at all!”
“What do you mean?” Issie frowned.
“Ginty didn’t fire me because I was using drugs on the horses,” Verity said. “She got rid of me because I wouldn’t do it any more. She wanted me to keep giving Tottie the injections. That day at the Sandilands show she asked me to inject Tottie again, and I told her it was over and I refused to be involved. It didn’t do any good of course — she must have injected Tottie herself anyway. All it did was get me fired.”
Verity stepped over towards Issie and picked up one of the glass vials out of the medicine chest and handed it to Issie.
“This is what she’s been injecting Tottie with.”
Issie looked at the bottle. It had the word phenylbutazone written on the label in big, black letters.
“I’ve never heard of this stuff,” Issie said.
“Horsey people don’t call it by its full name,” Verity said. “It’s usually just called bute. It masks lameness in horses. If you put bute in their hard feed or inject them with it the pain goes away.”
“So it cures them?” Issie was confused.
“No.” Verity shook her head. “It doesn’t cure them at all. They still have the same problems and bute won’t make them well again. It just numbs them so they can’t feel the pain any more. It stops them from looking lame — temporarily at least.”
Issie was beginning to understand. “When I saw you injecting Tottie, that was bute you were using, wasn’t it?”
Verity nodded. “Tottie has arthritis. The bute is supposed to help ease her pain. But Ginty is using too much — and she’s making Tottie jump even though she’s really lame and needs to rest. Her bones can’t take the stress. I tried to tell Ginty that we should spell her, rest her for a few weeks, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She wants to keep Tottie pumped up full of bute to mask her symptoms for the rest of the season so that Dulmoth Park can win the accumulator championship with her. After that, Tottie would be worth a fortune and Ginty could sell her on for loads of money before anyone realised she had problems.”
“So what were you doing here tonight?” Issie said. “Were you going to inject her again?”
“Ohmygod—no!” Verity was horrified. “If Ginty keeps up this regime Tottie is going to break down!” She looked genuinely distraught. “I came here to take everything in the medicine chest. I was going to get rid of the drugs so she couldn’t use them any more. She’s got to be stopped, Issie. You have to believe me—Ginty is dangerous. I’m telling you the truth!”
Issie didn’t know what to think. “Just because you and Ginty don’t agree on the best way to manage Tottie—” she began.
“Tottie?” Verity shook her head. “This isn’t just about Tottie. Issie — open your eyes! Ginty is doping all the horses.”
“You’re wrong,” Issie said defensively. “She isn’t giving bute to Flame.”
“No, she isn’t,” Verity agreed. Then she reached a hand into the chest and pulled out a tub of Ginty’s liniment. “She’s using this.”
“That’s horse liniment,” Issie said obstinately.
Verity undid the lid on the tub. “Come here then!” she commanded Issie.
“What?” Issie didn’t move.
“If you’re so sure that this is just horse liniment,” Verity said, “then you won’t mind if I put some on your hand.”
She reached out to grab Issie’s hand, but Issie pulled back from her. “No. Don’t put it on me, I know what it feels like — it’s like your skin is burning. That’s the stuff that Natasha got on her hand.”
Verity nodded. “It’s called capsaicin. Ginty uses it to make the horses pick their feet up when they jump.”
“How does it make them do that?”
“Have you ever had a really spicy meal with chilli in it and felt like your tongue was on fire?” Verity asked. “That’s the same stuff that’s in this jar. Capsaicin is made from hot chilli peppers and when you rub it on the horses’ legs it makes them super-sensitive. The slightest sensation feels like fire on their skin. Once you’ve put on the capsaicin they won’t want their legs to graze the jumps because it hurts too much.”
Issie thought back to the last show at Westfields, when Ginty had slathered on the cream in between each jumping competition.
“Poor Flame!” Issie was appalled. “No wonder he’s been freaking out in the ring.”
Verity nodded. “With some horses, capsaicin can make them pick their feet up. But it’s dangerous and other horses can just totally wig out — like Flame. It must really hurt him every time he touches a rail.”
