BLINDFOLD

by Lyndon Stacey

  The stallion was unsure now. He could sense its bewilderment. It didn't know how to respond to somebody who neither fled nor tried to dominate. At least it hadn't run. If it started to race around he wouldn't have a chance, handicapped as he was. The signs were encouraging.

  Gideon relaxed. He tried to project serenity, picturing the horse in his mind, lowering its head and coming to him quietly. He was offering a refuge.

  If the animal hadn't already been thoroughly unsettled by earlier, more direct attempts to catch it, the procedure wouldn't have worked, but after what seemed like a lifetime, he heard the stallion give a deep gusty sigh and smiled to himself. The horse was as good as his now. He took a step sideways, away from the animal, keeping his movements soft and slow.

  The horse stepped warily closer, dropping its nose and blowing softly on Gideon's hands. The rope trailing from its head collar flopped against his leg. He let the horse snuffle his hands, not allowing himself to think that it might suffer another flash of temper and take a couple of fingers off.

  It didn't.

  Much calmer now, it let Gideon rub its muzzle gently with his fingers and slowly, oh, so slowly, take hold of the rope. Hoping nobody would be stupid enough to call out, he turned away from the captive horse and took two or three experimental steps. There was a momentary resistance on the rope and then he heard the muffled hoof beats of the stallion as it gave in and followed.

  Strange, but when it came to it, most tame horses were glad to be caught again. Breaking free was instinctive but after the first wild exultation had ebbed they seemed almost relieved to have order restored.

  Gideon told the horse quietly that it was a good boy. Somewhere ahead and to his right, a low voice said `Well done!' and he made his way towards it, slowing when the horse's hesitation told him he must be nearing the waiting group.

  `He's very head-shy but I think he'll be all right now if you all stay calm and don't crowd him,' Gideon said, quietly. Then, almost surprising himself, `He's in pain. Is he injured?'

  `Shut up.' The Guv'nor again.

  `Okay,' Gideon said, with a slight shrug. `Well, who wants him?'

  Somebody came quietly forward to take the rope from his grasp. He felt the horse's head go up a notch or two as control was transferred but it offered no further resistance as it was led past him and away.

  Gideon heaved a deep sigh of release, aware for the first time that his shoulder was painfully bruised, and wishing he had his hands free to rub it. He was also aware that he only had the thickness of his padded leather motorcycle jacket to thank for the injury not being many times worse.

  `Right.' The Guv'nor was speaking, back in charge. `Fetch the other one and let's get it over with and get out of here! It's all taking far too bloody long!'

  His task completed, Gideon stood still. Presumably someone would come for him before long. His knees felt shaky and he would have liked to have sat down but he could scarcely just collapse where he was. Ahead of him he heard a door open and then the low whickering of a mare and the answering excitement of the stallion.

  Why hadn't they used the mare to catch the stallion? he wondered wearily. Surely somebody could have caught hold of the rope while he was about his business, if that was what they'd intended him for anyway. Any horseman would have thought of it, surely? And if there wasn't a horseman amongst them, what the hell were they doing in possession of a stallion?

  Feeling overlooked, he began to step cautiously forward. `You! Blake! Stand still.'

  Gideon obediently stood. `You. Take him outside.'

  Somebody grasped his arm and within moments he was out in the frosty night air again. His arm was released and the door shut behind him. Only the sighing of the bitingly cold wind disturbed ' the silence. Gideon stood where he'd been left.

  Was everyone with the horses? he mused after a while. Was anybody actually watching him now or was he standing like a sucker with nobody near? He lifted his hands and rubbed experimentally at his cheekbone, just brushing the edge of the blindfold.

  `It would be a shame if I thought you were trying to get that blindfold off, when all you had was an itch.'

  Soft Liverpudlian accent. Curly's tall companion. `That would be a shame,' Gideon agreed.

  Nothing was said for a few moments then Gideon broke the silence. `Do this sort of thing often, do you?'

  `Makes a change from the pubs and clubs,' his companion replied evenly.

  `Been down south long?'

  `Long enough to know my way around.'

  `Yeah?' Gideon affected mild surprise. `So, where would you say the nearest town would be to here?'

  A low chuckle greeted this admittedly feeble attempt to draw him out.

  `Listen, pal. I may have been born at night, but it wasn't last night. Now just shut up and wait.'

  Gideon did as he was told.

  He couldn't be sure how long he stood there in the bitter wind with his silent companion. Long before there was any sign of an end to his wait, he had begun to shiver violently and was in danger of losing all feeling in his hands and feet, but eventually the barn door creaked open and a horse was led past within a few feet of him. Shortly after, another followed and he heard the unmistakable hollow sound of hooves on wood, as they were loaded into a horsebox or boxes.

  Footsteps approached, crunching on the frosty ground. Gideon's heart began to thump uncomfortably. He hoped that his being blindfolded meant he was going to be freed as promised, but he was realist enough not to be sure of it.

  The footsteps stopped in front of him.

  `You know what to do,' the Guv'nor said quietly to Gideon's escort. `Just give us all some breathing space and make sure no one sees you. And you,' he said, leaning close to Gideon. `You'd do best just to think of this as a bad dream - one you were lucky enough to wake up from. Remember, we know where you live but you know nothing about us. Best let it stay that way. Understand?'

  Gideon felt he probably did. At any rate, he wasn't about to argue.

  There followed a journey which was essentially the same as the first, except - presumably - in the opposite direction. Gideon was seated next to the rear doors of the van, with Curly close beside him having an amusing time opening the door a crack occasionally and threatening to push him out. His tall friend had taken the precaution of cuffing Gideon's hands behind him again before they had set out, and with the road noise and the rushing of the wind, he felt desperately exposed in the open doorway.

  After a while, Curly's companion caught sight of the baiting in his rear-view mirror and put a stop to it.

  Gideon sent him a silent blessing.

  Presently, after bumping for a hundred yards or so along an unmade track, the vehicle swung round in a semi-circle and stopped, engine still running.

  `You've not far to walk,' the voice from the front informed him, `but I'm afraid we can't take you any closer. We don't want you calling the boys in blue, do we?'

  Gideon didn't see that an answer was called for, and he couldn't think of a polite one anyway.

  `I've been admiring your boots,' the soft voice went on. `I should think they'd fit me just fine, we're much of a size. Curly, would you do the honours?'

  For a moment Gideon considered baling out voluntarily for the sake of keeping his boots but the idea died a death. He wouldn't exactly be able to sprint away, blindfolded and with his hands behind his back. He began to have second thoughts about the blessing so recently bestowed.

  `I hope they pinch, you sonofabitch!' he muttered uncharitably. `So, he does have feelings,' the tall one observed as Curly got to work.

  Gideon simmered with helpless frustration. The boots were favourites of his, bought in America for a small fortune some six months before and now just nicely worn in. It wasn't only this, however, that depressed him, but the prospect of a hike of indefinite length over frosty, stony ground, with feet clad only in socks. It was ironic that half an hour ago he had been far from sure that he would be freed at all and now he was quibbling over
the theft of his boots. It was a bit like being picked up at sea and then moaning because your rescuers weren't going your way, but the thought didn't appease him.

  `Well, we'll be off, then,' the tall one said. `It was a pleasure doing business with you.'

  `Oh, the pleasure was all mine,' Gideon assured him sarcastically. Then, as Curly put a hand on his arm prior to pushing him out, `What about the handcuffs?'

  `Oh, you can keep them. We've got some more.'

  Gideon's protest was cut short as Curly gave him an unnecessarily hard shove that pitched him helplessly out of the back of the van. He landed heavily on his shoulder and the side of his head on what felt like hard-packed gravel.

  The van moved off promptly, as if they were afraid that he would somehow climb back in, but as Gideon rolled on to his back and sat up, he heard it stop again, a little way off. He felt a moment's sharp panic. Was Curly coming back to fulfil his earlier promise, after all?

  `The key's in your back pocket, pal,' the soft voice called. `Have a nice walk.'

  Listening to the van pull away and breathing a choking lungful of exhaust fumes, Gideon nevertheless sent up a prayer of thanks to the stars.

  His first impulse upon regaining his feet was to feel in his pocket for the key, but even as his fingers located it he realised he had little hope of using it successfully with his hands still behind his back, and stiff with cold into the bargain. It was more than likely that he'd drop it and, judging by the size of it, once dropped - in the dark and on an uneven gravel surface - it would stay dropped. Much better, if he could manage it, to get his hands in front of him, remove the blindfold and do the job properly. Carefully he palmed the key and closed his fist around it.

  Bending forward, Gideon then attempted to slide his joined wrists down over his hips and buttocks, feeling the muscles in his back and chest strain with the effort. The pull of the metal bracelets on his wrists was intensely uncomfortable but he persevered and, with a groan of relief, made it.

  His hands were now behind his knees. He knew he'd been able to step through his hands as a teenager but he was somewhat bulkier these days. After a pause to breathe he emptied his lungs, balanced on one socked foot and dragged the other through from front to back, his shoulders taking the strain this time. A sharper pain in'his right shoulder bore witness to the damage the horse's teeth had done. The second foot was slightly easier and he stood up straight, feeling justifiably pleased with himself.

  The irony was that if he'd been wearing his boots, with their inch or so of heel, he doubted very much if he would have succeeded in stepping through, and he would have found it exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to have taken them off with his hands secured behind him. They weren't always easy at the best of times.

  Lifting his joined hands, Gideon removed the blindfold, wincing as it pulled clear of his left eye where blood had run from the gash on his brow and done a painfully efficient job of sticking the material to his skin.

  Blinking, he looked about him.

  It was a fairly clear night with a moon that was a little more than half-full. Against the starry sky he could make out the shapes of trees surrounding him and see where the gravel track stretched away towards the road. There wasn't enough light to be of much help in undoing his handcuffs but twisting one hand to touch the other bracelet, he could feel the small hole that presumably accommodated the key. This done, it was a relatively simple task to release himself.

  Feeling much happier, Gideon snapped each cuff shut once more and stowed them in his jacket pocket. The key he returned to the back pocket of his jeans, wondering as he did so just when the tall man had put it there.

  A growing numbness in his feet reminded him that he had far more urgent concerns. The temperature was well below freezing and the ground frozen hard. He had at least a hundred yards to cover before he reached the road and no idea how much further after that. He thought he might possibly be in the lane that led to the old gravel pits just outside the village of Tarrant Grayling and, if so, his gatehouse home was going to be some threequarters of a mile away. The spectre of frostbite reared its ugly head.

  Peering at the lighted dial of his watch he discovered it was

  almost three in the morning; hardly the best time to try and hitch a lift on what was never a busy road.

  With a heavy sigh, Gideon began his trek, trying to console himself with the fact that he had at least been left with his jacket, but in reality swearing bloody revenge every time his unprotected feet located a sharp stone.

  The walk was a very long one.

  TWO

  THE SUN WAS UP and shining through the gothic arches of his bedroom windows when Gideon eventually surfaced the next morning. He lay motionless for several minutes, enjoying the warmth and hoping that sleep might reclaim him, but the hope was shattered by the trilling of the telephone on the floor beside his bed. With a groan he put out a hand and located the handset.

  `Yes?'

  `Gideon? It's Pippa. Are you running late or had you forgotten?'

  Gideon's brain felt woolly. `If you give me a clue what we're talking about, I'll tell you whether I've forgotten or not,' he offered helpfully. Pippa Barrington-Carr and her brother Giles lived half a mile away at Graylings Priory, and were not only his landlords but also very good friends.

  `Riding? This morning? Ten o'clock? You were going to try out the mare,' she prompted with a pardonable touch of asperity. 'Ah,' Gideon responded, vaguely recalling an arrangement made two days before; a lifetime ago. `Is it ten already?'

  `Quarter to eleven,' Pippa informed him, not in the least taken

  in.

  `I'm sorry,' Gideon said, genuinely so. He was properly awake now and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet, as they made contact with the floor, forcibly reminded him of every single stone and thorn he'd trodden on during his interminable journey home. The thought of pushing them into his boots ...

  Boots. Damn!

  `Look, Pippa, I had a spot of bother on the way home last night and I'm not really with it this morning. Can I catch you later? I'm sorry about the ride.'

  `Are you okay?' She sounded concerned. `You didn't come off your bike, did you?'

  `No, nothing like that. Look, I'll be over later. Tell you then. Will Giles be around?'

  `As far as I know,' she said. `Come for lunch, why not? See you about one?'

  Gideon agreed and hung up, fighting the urge to lie back down again. A full bladder helped win the battle and, wincing with every step, he made his way to the bathroom.

  When, some moments later, he turned his attention reluctantly to the mirror over the washbasin, he grimaced. On a normal morning the reflection in the glass showed Gideon a face with strong, regular features; pleasant enough, if not quite film-star material. Now his sun-bleached thatch of long dark-blond hair framed a disaster area.

  The edge of the door had left him with an inch-long vertical cut rising from his left eyebrow, surrounded by a spectacular purple bruise. With a cut and swelling below his eye too, he looked like a failed title-fight contender. Blood had run and crusted blackly. With a handful of moistened cotton wool, he set to work.

  Half an hour later, bathed and shaved and feeling slightly more

  human, Gideon made himself toast and scrambled eggs, which he ate leaning against the Aga for warmth.

  Considered in the light of day, the events of the previous night still failed to make a lot of sense. He had eventually reached home just before four in the morning to find that, thankfully, the front door was open. He was mildly surprised that Curly hadn't taken the opportunity to make his life even more difficult, but quite possibly in this age of almost universal Yale locks, he'd taken it for granted that the door would lock itself. The heavy, old-fashioned key lay inside, on the floor near the wall, where it had fallen when Gideon had been attacked.

  The stout, oaken door seemed to have survived its rough treatment with no ill-effects and Gideon had closed it behind him and tu
rned the key with something between a sigh of relief and a groan of exhaustion. On the hall table he'd found the tumbler containing the remains of the Cognac the tall man had offered ' him, and had swallowed it gratefully before giving the house a cursory check and heading for his bed.

  Now, making coffee after his late breakfast, it was hard to believe what had happened. It was almost as though, for two or three hours last night, he'd swapped lives with someone else. It just wasn't the sort of thing that happened to your average, fairly law-abiding person. His bruised face and shoulder, tender ribs and throbbing feet, though, said different. For the first time in his stay at the Gatehouse, Gideon wished he had some painkillers in the house.

  Collapsing into the one comfortable chair in the kitchen, he displaced his Abyssinian cat, who glared at him accusingly.

  `I'm sorry, Elsa. But my need is much greater than yours,' he told her.

  She refused to be mollified and after licking her beautiful lioncoloured coat, as if to indicate that human contact had dirtied it, sauntered gracefully out of the room.

  Gideon shrugged. `Suit yourself.'

  He liked the company of the cat; she was quiet and undemanding. No trouble when he was painting and a balm at times when he'd had a difficult day with someone's stressed-out horse or delinquent dog. She suited him.

  Shortly before one o'clock, Gideon rode the Norton, helmetless, up the gravel driveway that led from the Gatehouse to the Priory itself. He felt faintly silly as he turned under the stone archway into the stableyard after a journey of only two or three minutes, but it couldn't be helped. His normal preferred modes of transport for the short distance, namely his push bike or his own two feet, required rather too much pressure on his bruised soles for comfort.

  Graylings Priory was a sixteenth-century manor house that nestled in the Dorset countryside on the edge of the Cranborne Chase, near Tarrant Grayling. It took its name from a much earlier building that had presumably fallen foul of Henry VIII's reformatory zeal. Giles Barnngton-Carr, an old schoolfriend of Gideon's, had inherited it soon after his thirtieth birthday four years ago, when his parents were killed in a car crash.