The Horse With My Name

by Bateman

  It was the briefest of encounters. As we approached the gate, with its security cameras, she dropped my hand. She rang a bell, then waved up the drive towards the bungalow.

  ‘Your dad’s not going to be pleased to see me.’

  ‘Even with your news?’

  ‘He won’t believe me.’

  ‘Maybe not. Relax. He’s probably not home yet.’

  After a few moments there was a low hum from the gates and they began to swing inwards. I could immediately see the Ferrari, gleaming like new, sitting outside the bungalow. There was a Land Rover beside it. We walked briskly up the driveway towards where Derek, watching quizzically, waited just inside the front door. He only pressed the security buzzer to allow us in at the very final moment.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ was his greeting.

  I smiled appreciatively. Mandy, without explanation, brushed past him then led me down a long, dark corridor to a bathroomn. She showed me how the shower worked. There was really no need. I’d been taking showers for years. She got me a fresh towel. There was a bottle of Grecian 2000 and a set of pristine steel combs on the shelf above the sink. There were balms and moisturisers and gels in a straw basket. There was a half-squeezed tube of KY Jelly and a saucer of multicoloured condoms.

  ‘These yours?’ I asked.

  ‘No, the gay boys.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Have your shower. We have to talk.’

  She left me. I showered. I checked the bathroom cabinet for evidence. There was evidence of dandruff, bad breath and vitamin deficiency, but nothing I could tie in to a murder plot. I slipped into the shower and tried not to think of what Derek and Eric might have been up to in it. I concentrated on rearranging the facts to fit into what I had revealed to Mandy. The water was hot and it was great. It wasn’t the sort of shower where you would find a chicken drumstick in the plughole. I was thirty minutes under it and only came out when there was a bang on the door and a shouted enquiry from Mandy after my health.

  I towelled off. There was a choice of a nice silk bathrobe or my own street clothes. I chose wisely. Just in case Derek was feeling lonely. I am not particularly homophobic. But gay ex-cops with guns frighten the pants off me. Metaphorically speaking. I combed my hair with my fingers. I was all thumbs. I was nervous. I had to talk truth with Mandy and all I had was half-truths.

  I pre-empted. ‘Tell me about the car,’ I said as she showed me into the lounge.

  ‘No, tell me what you’re up to,’ she countered.

  ‘Tell me about the car. It may have some bearing on what I’m up to.’

  She pondered that for several moments. While she did I investigated her father’s drinks cabinet. It was well stocked. She said, ‘Make yourself at home.’ She followed it up with ‘In need of Dutch courage?’

  ‘Just tell me about the car.’

  ‘Like I said, the brakes were cut. If you tried to drive me home like you said you did then the likelihood is you didn’t lose control because of your own deficiencies as a man.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  Derek appeared in the doorway. He looked sniffily across at me. ‘Are you after anything in particular?’

  Something a little fruity. A different time, a different place. ‘Just a little drinkie,’ I said. I produced a bottle of white wine and two glasses. ‘Staying?’ I asked Derek.

  He shook his head. ‘I was just going to say, I’m popping down to the shop. Get something nice for tea. Don’t be opening those gates for anyone, okay?’

  Mandy nodded absently. Derek withdrew. A couple of minutes later I heard the car leave. I poured two glasses of wine and offered one to Mandy.

  ‘I told you. I can’t. I’m riding on Saturday.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Waste not want not.’

  I sat on the sofa with the two glasses and began to sip. She settled into the armchair opposite and folded her legs beneath her. They were nice legs. She had showered. She was wearing a virgin-white towelling dressing gown. Her hair was damp and combed back. As all this was registering she said suddenly, ‘Please tell me what’s going on. I’m worried about my dad. He’s not normally like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘With the guns and the security and always looking over his shoulder. We’ve only had those gates a few weeks. They’re a right pain in the hole.’

  I took another sip. I licked my lips. ‘I don’t really know where to begin.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘Okay. At the beginning. Like all good stories. I just hope this one has a––’

  ‘Just tell me, will you?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘You must know your father has made a lot of enemies.’

  ‘He has business rivals. I don’t know about enemies.’

  ‘Believe me. He has.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I was asked by the Horse Whisperer to find out who’d put a contract out on your father.’

  ‘A contract?’

  ‘A contract, and I’m not talking recording.’

  ‘That explains the car . . .’

  ‘And the three dead Chinamen in my house.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You heard. I came down here and started asking questions. Low and behold, three Chinamen break into my house, tie me to a chair and set fire to my feet.’

  ‘Your . . .?’

  I rolled down my socks and showed her the burns.

  ‘Jesus. No wonder you couldn’t run. Why on earth didn’t you . . .?’

  I shrugged. ‘They’re not sore. I wanted to run with you.’

  She smiled hesitantly. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s complicated. The Chinese wanted to know what I knew about your father, his movements. Their English wasn’t the best.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘Luckily, one of them found my computer. They gave me a breather on the torture while they checked it out. I managed to free myself, only one of them caught on and we had a bit of a scrap as I tried to make my exit out the window. His gun came loose and we both grabbed it. There was a bit of a struggle and he ended up shot. Before I could get out the other two came for me guns blazing. I just closed my eyes and fired. When I opened them all three were lying dead. As far as I’m aware they still are. Up at the house. There’s been nothing in the papers. You can go and check if you want.’

  ‘I . . . God, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’ve been on the run ever since. That’s why my clothes were in a bag under the bridge.’

  ‘Do you still have the gun?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I threw it away.’

  She unfolded her legs, then refolded them the other way. ‘Maybe I will take that glass of wine.’

  It was gone, but I got her another.

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill my father?’ she said almost dreamily as I handed it to her. I plonked myself down beside her. She didn’t object. She moved her legs a few inches to give me more room.

  ‘Mandy. You know as well as I do. He’s hardly going to qualify for the diplomatic corps, is he? He doesn’t just step on toes, he cuts them off and chews them. He might wear the nice tweeds and Barbour jackets. But he hasn’t changed. He’s a circus-tent hustler trying to muscle into the old boys’ club.’

  ‘And I’m the hustler’s daughter.’

  I shrugged. ‘Does he owe anyone money?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Has he reneged on a deal?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Might we go through his paperwork?’

  ‘He doesn’t keep it here.’

  ‘There must be something.’

  ‘Dan – even if there was, I couldn’t. It’s up to him. I’ll have to speak to him. Obviously he hasn’t been telling me. I’m his daughter. He’s trying to protect me. I’ve a big race on Saturday, he doesn’t want me worried. There’s plenty of explanations. He doesn’t have to have done something wrong. There are a lot of strange, deranged people out there. I know, I�
�ve dated some of them.’

  We sat staring at the carpet for some time.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s got you into trouble, Dan.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s my own fault for asking.’

  ‘Still. I shouldn’t have pushed you in the river.’

  ‘You’d every right to. If the roles had been reversed I’d have pushed you in, then bashed your head in with a stone.’

  ‘You wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the Chinamen.’

  ‘That was self-defence.’

  ‘Tell that to the Guards.’

  ‘The Chinese aren’t into owning or breeding, at least not in Europe. They’re into gambling, though. And so is my dad.’

  ‘Is or was? I heard his bookie’s operation went bankrupt.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware. Someone else runs it for him, but it’s still his and still turns a nice profit.’

  ‘I must have been misinformed.’

  ‘Fuck.’ She snapped it out suddenly. ‘All I want is a simple life. Look after my horses and win the Grand National.’

  ‘It’s not your fault somebody’s after your dad.’

  ‘Well why does it feel like it?’

  I shrugged.

  I got us both another glass of wine. I sat a little closer. I had carried off my lying with aplomb. I had not been particularly deceitful. Just a slight rearranging of the facts. I was wanted for one murder and would shortly be called to account for three others. I was lying to a beautiful woman and stealthily trying to get her drunk; not so drunk that she would vomit down the back of the sofa, just enough to make her fall asleep so that I could root around for a paper trail with which to nail Geordie McClean, and all before Derek returned to conjure something up in the kitchen.

  When I looked at her again, she was smiling. ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Her face had reddened slightly, but it could have been the wine.

  ‘No, come on, what’re you smiling at?’

  ‘Nothing. I . . .’ She trailed off. She tried to hide her smile behind her hand, but it was getting longer. Finally she dropped it away and nodded down. ‘You have an erection.’

  I followed her gaze. I cleared my throat. ‘No. It’s just the way the trousers crease.’

  ‘It’s an erection.’

  ‘It’s the trousers. I’m not that big.’

  ‘I know an erection when I see one.’

  ‘That will be down to your long riding career.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘You brought it up, so to speak.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s not an erection?’

  ‘No, I’m saying it wasn’t an erection. Now I’m not so sure. It’s all this talk of erections.’

  She giggled. ‘You get excited by talk of erections? Derek’ll be home soon if you’re that way inclined.’

  ‘I haven’t been inclined at all for a long time. Why were you looking at my trousers anyway?’

  ‘The carpet was making me dizzy.’

  ‘You can’t handle your drink.’

  ‘Perhaps you should put me to bed, then.’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  There was a clarity in the brilliantly blue eyes she held steady on me that suggested she was not really drunk at all. ‘It might be,’ she said.

  ‘Well either it is or it isn’t.’

  ‘Well it depends on whether the invitation would be accepted or not.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, of course it would be.’

  ‘Just because you want a quick shag.’

  ‘No! Well yes as well. But I really . . .’ I was about to start off with the familiar litany, the one that’s handed to every boy on the eve of puberty, promptly memorised and then destroyed. I sighed. I just couldn’t be bothered with it. It was Patricia’s fault. I decided to overturn the habits of a lifetime and tell the truth. ‘Mandy,’ I said, ‘you are lovely, but please don’t make me give you all the shit about love and romance and wanting to get to know the real you . . .’

  ‘I don’t want that. I just want to know if you find me attractive.’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’

  She shrugged and looked away. ‘I just don’t feel very, y’know . . .’

  I took her hand. ‘Let’s go to bed. And shut up. You’re beautiful.’

  She smiled meekly. I stopped her in the bedroom doorway. ‘One thing.’

  She looked suddenly unsure.

  ‘Will you wear your jockey gear?’

  At that point I made my excuses and left.

  As if.

  It had been a long time since I’d gone to bed with a beautiful woman. With any woman. I was out of practice. If she noticed she didn’t complain. She was shy but not passive, quiet but not unresponsive. All the same it was important that I lasted more than one minute, but it didn’t seem likely. As I moved above her I could feel myself rushing helplessly towards climax.

  I looked desperately to the shelves above her bed. I looked at book titles: thrillers, a whole run of Agatha Christies. I tried to picture the elderly Agatha Christie in her underwear, but it did nothing to still the rush towards . . .

  Desperately I tried to divert my attention.

  A piggy bank.

  A framed show-jumping certificate.

  A photo of her father handing over a trophy to her.

  A photo of a pre-teenage Mandy running on the beach with her mum and dad.

  I stopped mid-stroke.

  The blood drained from my face, and elsewhere besides. Instantly.

  ‘Dan . . . what’s the matter . . . what’s wrong . . . what’s . . .?’

  Her mother, laughing as she ran, so proud of her daughter, so in love with her husband, so happy with that moment in time.

  So Hilda.

  17

  ‘You’re white, you’re shaking . . . am I that ugly?’

  ‘God no . . .’

  ‘Well what then . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know. I . . .’

  ‘I am . . .’

  ‘You’re not . . . I . . . it’s been so long . . . my wife . . . my son . . . I’m sorry . . . it was going so well . . . I was about to . . . It would have been Niagara, but now I need Viagra.’

  ‘I’m so embarrassed, I should never . . .’

  ‘No . . . you should, of course you should . . . It’s me . . . not you . . . I swear to God.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But nothing. Come here.’

  I hugged her to me. Her mother. Hilda. My brain was fit to burst. My stomach was cramped. My lungs were contracting. I couldn’t raise a breath, let alone an erection. I felt something damp against my shoulder, and realised that Mandy was crying. I hugged her harder and tried to reassure her, but nothing would work. I turned and she rested her head on my chest. As I stroked her arms I saw that there were thin scars around her wrists. Across, like an amateur, not straight up, like a professional. Good thing too.

  I said, ‘You haven’t had a happy life.’

  There was a little shrug. ‘It’s been okay.’

  ‘Your parents divorced when you were young. Acrimoniously.’

  She rubbed at her eyes. ‘That’s a big word to use in bed.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. You’re right.’

  ‘What happened, he got custody?’

  ‘No. They reached a compromise that made each of them happy. Boarding school.’

  ‘That explains the English accent.’

  ‘What English accent?’

  ‘Well now.’

  She stroked my chest. I didn’t ask about the slices on her wrists. They were self-explanatory. There is a tendency by ugly or average-looking people to presume that beautiful people don’t have problems. But they do. Sometimes bigger ones. Just that nobody believes them. I also had problems. I was being lied to on a colossal scale. People were trying to kill me because of lies. I wanted to kill someone because of lies. I said, ‘Nice picture.’ She followed my gaze up to the be
ach photo above us.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘Long time ago. Happy families.’

  ‘Tell me about your mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘I’m naked in bed beside you and you want to know about my mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t reassure me or anything.’

  ‘I have reassured you.’

  ‘Not enough.’

  ‘You’re great, you’re beautiful and I fancy the arse off you. I am a sad, inadequate individual who can’t perform. Satisfied?’

  She sighed. ‘Okay. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  We lay in silence for a while. We heard a car crunch along the driveway, then the back door opening and footsteps in the kitchen.

  ‘Derek won’t . . .?’

  ‘He knows better.’ She pushed herself up on one elbow. She sniffed up. ‘My mother,’ she said, ‘lives in Belfast. I don’t see much of her. When I got out of boarding school I came to live with Daddy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s marginally less mean and bitter than she is, and I have to live somewhere. Also, I want to ride horses and win the Grand National, and there’s a better chance of that than with Mummy. Her horses are nags.’

  ‘What happened that they split up?’

  ‘Daddy always had an eye for the fillies. He liked having sex with women he wasn’t married to as well.’

  ‘And Hilda didn’t approve.’

  ‘Well, naturally she . . .’ She trailed off. Her brow furrowed. ‘How do you know her name?’

  ‘I . . . well, I told you. I was doing a book. I’ve done a little background.’

  Her eyes narrowed. The temperature dropped. ‘You’re still doing the fucking book, aren’t you?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘All this, all this fucking seduction––’

  ‘It was hardly sed––’

  ‘Just to get fucking information . . . I don’t believe you!’ She reared up.

  ‘It wasn’t like that, I swear to God, I really––’

  ‘You’re a fucking bastard––’

  ‘There was very little fucking.’ I meant it as gentle, self-deprecating humour. But somehow it missed its mark.

  She growled. ‘And you think you’re so fucking funny. I gave you the benefit of the doubt and you were just laughing at me all the time. You sucked me into bed and made me take my clothes off and all the time you were laughing. You didn’t even fancy me. You couldn’t even keep your fucking erection. It was all fucking research. What’re you going to do, describe my tits in great detail? Describe how I move or moan or how I touch a man or how I don’t? That I’ve cut my wrists before? Oh don’t deny it, I saw you looking at them. You’re a sad fucking bastard, Dan Starkey, and I’m even sadder for falling for it.’ She threw the quilt back and climbed out of bed. I looked at her, me ashen-faced and mumbling nothings. She grabbed one of her breasts and thrust it out towards me. ‘Take a good look. Do you want a photo? Here.’ She thrust her groin towards me. ‘Interview this,’ she spat. She burst into tears. She fled into the ensuite bathroom and slammed the door. I heard the toilet seat go down, and then sobbing.