BLINDFOLD

by Lyndon Stacey

  `No. Not that he's told me, and he's always been open about it in the past. I really don't understand. It's as though I've done something awful but he won't say what.'

  `Well, I'm sure you haven't,' Gideon said soothingly. `I guess one of these days you'll find out what it's all been about. I just hope, for your sake, it's sooner rather than later.'

  `Thank you, Gideon. I'm sorry for having dumped it all on you like this, but I do feel better for having told you.'

  'Gideon Blake, Agony Uncle at your service,' he announced grandly. `No problem too big, no donation too small. Or have I got that the wrong way round?'

  Mary smiled. `Thanks,' she said again.

  After tea and biscuits, Gideon left Mary tidying away the photographs and made his way out to the stables, where he eventually tracked Anthony and the vet down to one of the shires' boxes.

  `Okay, let's give it a rest for a minute or two, shall we?' someone said as he reached the doorway, and he almost bumped into two men who were on their way out.

  The younger of the two, who was fractionally ahead, looked up at him with instant recognition.

  'Gideon!' he exclaimed. `What are you doing here?'

  `I needed a photo of your dad for the portrait. You know about that, Mary says.' Gideon shook Anthony's hand, thinking that if he hadn't come looking for the boy, he might not have recognised him. He'd grown a great deal more mature in the two years or so since Gideon had last seen him, not just physically but in his manner, too.

  Now he turned and said over his shoulder, `Sean, this is Gideon Blake, the chap who worked with Sox after the accident. Gideon, meet Sean Rosetti: vet, stallion man, and useless rugby player.'

  Gideon offered his hand to the vet in turn but Rosetti grinned apologetically and held up hands covered in a mixture of horse saliva and chewed hay. `Anthony's just sore at me because I dumped him on his arse at practice last night,' he said with a sideways look at the boy. He had a deep voice that held a hint of a foreign accent, possibly Italian, which was borne out by his dark, curly hair and a pair of eyes that were as near black as made no difference. He was unknown to Gideon. The vet he'd originally worked with at the stud had retired shortly afterwards.

  `Why did he call you a stallion man? Or is that a private joke?' Gideon asked curiously.

  `Yeah, kind of,' Rosetti said dismissively, but Anthony wasn't going to let it go at that.

  `He did the AI for the shires once or twice. Artificial insemination, that is,' he explained. `Anyway, Dad used to joke that the mares all started to get randy when they saw him coming, so we called him the stallion man.'

  `This old girl doesn't look as though her mind's on sex at the moment,' Gideon said, looking beyond them to where the huge carthorse stood, eyeing them distrustfully from the back of the stable. The middle-aged man at her head he didn't recognise; presumably it was Gerald, Roly French's replacement.

  `Yes. We're having a spot of bother with her,' Anthony said, frowning. `She hates having her teeth done and she's so strong she can tow the lot of us round the box without any trouble at all. Sean reckons she's had a bad experience at some time but she's got this hooked tooth right at the back that's making her mouth sore. We can't leave it. Hey, I don't suppose you could give us a hand? You know, work some of your magic . . .'

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gideon caught the flash of a frown, hastily disguised, with which Rosetti greeted this suggestion, and declined. He had no wish to step on anybody's professional toes.

  `Oh, Sean doesn't give a stuff for all that professional courtesy clap-trap, do you, Sean?' Anthony declared airily.

  `Not at all,' Rosetti said smoothly. `I'd be glad of the help. We were going to try a twitch but if you can do it without . . .' Gideon hesitated fractionally, but if the vet was lying now, then he was a past master at it. He wondered if his own reluctance to interfere where he wasn't wanted was becoming an obsession. Perhaps he was imagining antagonism where it didn't exist.

  `Okay,' he said finally. `But I can't make any promises. A lot depends on whether she's genuinely frightened or just bloodyminded. If she's just buggering about for the sake of it, there's not a lot I can do. Except add my weight to yours,' he added, as an afterthought.

  When he approached the mare, however, there was no question of his imagining the antagonism in the stud groom's face. Gerald looked like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. He almost threw the lead rope at Gideon, muttering something under his breath about quacks as he passed on his way to the door.

  Gideon ignored him. Everyone was entitled to their own opinion, after all. He concentrated on the horse instead.

  When he, Anthony and Rosetti finally shut the door on the mare some twenty minutes later, they all felt the satisfaction of a difficult job well done. With Gideon's help, they had managed to keep her calm enough for the vet to clip off the worst of the hook and rasp smooth the remainder, pausing occasionally when she showed signs of stress.

  `We could have done with you earlier,' Rosetti said with feeling, as he rinsed his various rasps in a bucket of water and put them away. `The mare in the end box clamped her teeth on the rasp and wouldn't let go. That's a new tactic on me! And old Queenie just puts her head up so high that I can't reach. They're a cunning lot here.'

  `You were right about Rosie, though,' Gideon said. `She was frightened. I expect somebody jabbed her with the rasp sometime and she hasn't forgotten. The trouble with that is that the more they play up, the more likely it is they'll get hurt again, and so it goes on.'

  `Give the old girl a sedative and have done with it,' Gerald muttered as he emptied away the water the vet had used. `I don't hold with all this alternative mumbo jumbo.'

  Rosetti disagreed. `Oh, no, I'd much rather do it without using drugs, if I can. For one thing, it's not always easy to judge the right amount to give, especially with these giants. I mean, too little and you might as well not have bothered; too much and you can have them falling over on you, and that's not funny!'

  The groom mumbled something under his breath and stomped off, carrying an armful of headcollars, ropes and buckets.

  `I don't know why Dad ever took him on,' Anthony said, watching him go. `He's such a miserable old bastard and not a patch on Roly when it comes to the horses. I don't think Dad

  really likes him. He does a lot more of the work himself these days.'

  `He must know his job, though, surely,' Gideon protested. `Your dad would never have taken him on if he hadn't got the relevant experience.'

  `Oh, yes, he knows his job all right, and he knows all the textbook stuff, word for word almost, but he hasn't got the feel for the horses that Roly had. I mean, Roly could tell if something was wrong with one of the broodmares long before anyone else could see anything, even Dad.'

  `You've been spoilt, having Roly,' Gideon agreed sadly. `He was one in a million. You won't find many with that kind of horse sense.

  At the farmhouse, Mary, showing no traces of her earlier distress, was reheating some home-made pasties and it required very little persuasion to induce the two visitors to stay to a late lunch.

  The group broke up some three-quarters of an hour later, with Rosetti saying that he was due at a nearby riding centre for routine vaccinations. During the course of the impromptu meal, he had told Gideon all about his newly built equine surgery, of which he was obviously very proud.

  `You must come and see it sometime,' he suggested as they parted. `It's not far from here. I'll give you the guided tour.'

  `I'd love to,' Gideon told him truthfully, and left the stud feeling pleased with his new and renewed contacts. The only cloud to mar his enjoyment of the morning had been Mary's worries about Tom, and he really couldn't see what he could do about that.

  As he was more than halfway there, Gideon decided to call on Naomi and Tim at the Sanctuary to see if there had been any further developments in their troubles. There was no answer at reception so he wandered across the yard and up the concrete walkway towards the aviaries with the old stabl
es on his left and the newly erected wooden buildings on his right, still reeking of creosote.

  He could see Tim and Naomi two-thirds of the way along, leaning over the half-door of one of the old stables that housed the larger inmates. His sister turned and waved in greeting as he approached, then put a warning finger to her lips. Obediently, Gideon stepped quietly up to the door and peered over.

  Inside, kneeling in the thick golden straw, was Jez, wearing what looked like school uniform and completely absorbed in the task of bottle-feeding a fawn that was not much bigger than a large cat. A small area of the stable had been penned off with boards and infrared lamps installed to keep the youngster warm. They watched in silence until, the bottle emptied, the fawn took a few tottery steps away from the tousle-headed child and sank, exhausted, into the straw. Jez looked up at them with a radiant smile and climbed carefully to her feet so as not to alarm the tiny creature.

  `Did you see?' she demanded excitedly once they were well away from the stable. `She drank it all! That's much better than yesterday, isn't it? D'you think she'll get better now?'

  `We'll have to wait and see,' Tim said cautiously. `She's still very small and young animals can quite suddenly take a turn for the worse, for no apparent reason. But, if she does survive, she'll have you to thank for it, that's for sure.'

  Jez beamed, and at Tim's suggestion, ran off to take the bottle to the surgery for sterilisation.

  `Another helper?' Gideon asked quizzically. `You'll soon be able to put your feet up and watch an army of women and children scurrying round at your bidding.'

  `Sounds good to me,' Tim agreed, and received an indignant punch from Naomi.

  `That fawn's tiny, isn't it?' Gideon said. `I don't know why but I assumed deer had their young in the summer.'

  `Yes. Most deer do but this is a muntjac fawn and they breed all year round.'

  `What happened to it?'

  `The old story,' Tim said resignedly. `Well-meaning people who find what they think is an abandoned fawn and pick it up. Some kids found this one, though God knows where; muntjacs are as rare as hens' teeth round these parts! It's a damned shame because the doe was almost certainly nearby and would have returned as soon as they'd gone. As it is, I doubt we'll be able to save it. Deer are so nervous, and muntjacs worse than most. We could do with Jez here more often. She's got a certain way with her. That fawn will take its bottle from her much better than from either of us.'

  `Children's minds are usually uncluttered. Free to concentrate completely,' Gideon suggested. `I think that's why animals trust them sometimes, when they won't trust an adult.'

  `He's doing his psychology bit again, Tim. You'd better watch it or he'll be sending you a bill!' Naomi warned, tongue in cheek. `I've heard his fees are exorbitant.'

  ' `Only if you're stinking rich or a pain in the backside,' Gideon retorted.

  He spent a couple of hours at the Sanctuary, looking at the new arrivals and helping to catch a chicken which dodged past Naomi when she went in to feed it. He also stood watching in fascination as Tim performed a delicate operation to pin the leg of a rabbit that had not crossed a road quickly enough.

  `So have you had any more trouble from your neighbours?' he asked as he handed surgical instruments to the vet on demand. `No, it's all been quiet. Nothing since that business with the helicopter. Perhaps your visit to the police did the trick and they'll leave us alone now.'

  `Ever the optimist,' Naomi remarked, busy at the sink. `I don't think they're going to be put off that easily.'

  Gideon was inclined to agree with her. He had no idea why Milne or Slade should want the Hermitage Farm land but far from withdrawing from the fray, he thought it more likely they had called a temporary halt to re-think their strategy.

  From certain things that were said, he gathered that Naomi had

  taken the step of moving into the mobile home with Tim and it appeared that Jez had become a frequent visitor too, arriving on the doorstep mid-afternoon and staying until teatime. When questioned she had told Tim and Naomi that she caught the school bus out of Chilminster and ran the rest of the way. Although Tim admitted to worrying about a twelve-year-old girl roaming around the countryside on her own, there seemed to be little they could do about it and her obvious delight in the place made it hard to turn her away.

  It was almost completely dark when Gideon finally took his leave and Jez had still shown no sign that she was preparing to do the same.

  `How are you getting home, Shorty?' Gideon asked, ruffling her curls.

  `Oh, that's all sorted,' Jez muttered evasively, ducking out from under his hand.

  `Then you won't mind telling me.'

  `She always says her brother picks her up,' Naomi put in. `Yeah, but she knows that won't work with me. Because I've met brother Joey, and I can't see him running to and fro with his kid sister every day, fond though he is of her.'

  `He does sometimes.' Jez glared defiantly at him. `And the other times?'

  `I hitch a lift. I know loads of truckers. Curly used to be one.' Gideon felt that being a friend of Curly was a damning reference for anyone, but he let it go. `Well, you're not hitching tonight,' he said firmly. `I'm taking you home.'

  Jez knew when she was beaten. `All right, but just to the end of my road,' she haggled. Joey'd do his nut if he knew I'd been with you.'

  `Well, we can't have that, can we?' Gideon remarked dryly, handing her his spare helmet. `Here, put this on and do it up tight.' By the time Gideon reached Tarrant Grayling, having detoured to Chilminster to drop Jez off, it was completely dark. About a quarter of a mile down the road from the Gatehouse, the Norton started to splutter and within a very short distance, the engine coughed and died.

  Gideon cursed, remembering that he'd intended filling up with fuel on the way home. Going to Chilminster with the kid had put it out of his mind. With a sigh, he started to push the heavy bike along the road. Shortly after, to add insult to injury, the sullen skies fulfilled their promise and began to throw sleety rain earthwards. He was consequently not in the best of moods when, some minutes later, he steered the Norton off the road and over the cattle grid at the end of the Priory's drive.

  No welcoming lights shone out from the Gatehouse, although Rachel's Mini was parked, as usual, in the gravel pull-in in front of the wicket gate. He propped the bike on its stand next to the car and took his helmet off, wondering if Rachel was visiting Pippa up at the main house. Normally, if he was out late, she would turn on the outside light so he didn't fall into the shrubbery on his way to the front door. With the tall trees on the other side of the Priory drive, it was very dark at the front of the house.

  Normally? My God! She's only been here ten days or so and already she's part of my routine! he thought.

  Unwelcome thoughts of permanence were effectively banished the next moment by the discovery that he wasn't alone in his front garden.

  Somebody had just come round the side of the house and was moving about between him and the building. Gideon froze, still close enough to the hedge to merge with it. Even as he watched, eyes straining in the gloom, the figure peered into one of the dark windows. Apparently seeing nothing, it then moved to the porch and hammered on the heavy front door in frustration.

  `I know you're in there!' an unmistakably masculine voice shouted, loud against the gentle hissing of the sleet.

  Aware of an uncomfortable prickling sensation at the back of his neck, Gideon glanced around him, but if any accomplices lurked in the shadows, they were keeping themselves well hidden. The

  man at the door hammered on it once again and then stepped back, looking up at the first-floor windows. Gideon felt it was time to intervene.

  `Just what the hell do you think you're doing?' he demanded, stepping forward.

  Surprisingly, instead of the guilty start he'd expected to provoke, the intruder merely turned his head slightly and said, `Fuck off and mind your own business!'

  `No, you fuck off?' Gideon retorted. `I live here!' The ma
n turned round.

  Squinting against the sleet that seemed to have set in for the night, Gideon estimated that the man was a little less than six foot tall and fairly stockily built. As far as he could tell, it wasn't any of his recent acquaintances, but he couldn't swear to it in the dismal light.

  `So you're the bastard!'

  `Not as far as I know,' Gideon replied.

  His companion wasn't in the mood for jokes. Taking a short step forward he swung his right fist at Gideon's chin with vicious intent.

  Caught slightly unawares, Gideon side-stepped hastily, bringing his helmet up to block the punch and swinging his right foot backward to sweep his assailant neatly off his feet.

  Moves that had become instinctive in his karate days had not deserted him, and it afforded him great satisfaction to see his would-be attacker flat on his back on the soggy grass, nursing what were, no doubt, very bruised knuckles, and turning the air blue.

  The problem was, what to do with him now? Even if he'd felt it would do any good, Gideon couldn't really see himself interrogating his captive. And calling the police would no doubt entail his spending the rest of the evening at the police station giving statements and trying once more to convince sceptical officers that he honestly didn't know what was going on.

  `I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you're doing here,' Gideon said with little optimism.

  He wasn't. With more foul language the man scrambled to his feet, backing off a pace or two in the process. Gideon's rather imposing bulk still stood between him and the gate, and he clearly wasn't sure what Gideon intended, because he looked around for other avenues of escape.

  `Did Slade send you?' Gideon asked, although he really had no idea why Slade should have.

  `Fuck oil' the man said, in his endearing way.

  Gideon sighed. `Oh, sod it!' he muttered wearily, stepping to one side. `Go on, get out of here.'

  To get to the gate the trespasser was obliged to come within a couple of feet of Gideon, close enough to reveal a stud through his eyebrow and a tattoo on his neck. He edged past with an almost palpable aura of mistrust, and Gideon had to stifle a mischievous urge to stamp a foot as he went by.