The Horse With My Name

by Bateman

  ‘I . . .’ I looked from one to the other. I looked at my hand. The flesh was bubbling. Fuck! ‘Water . . . please . . .’

  Jimmy thought for a moment, then nodded at Oil Paintings. He snarled, then lifted what was left in the pint glass and threw it over my hand. I shuddered again.

  ‘Now,’ Jimmy snapped, standing over me again, ‘talk or melt.’

  As threats go, it was right up there in the top one.

  I took a deep breath. There was nothing to lose by telling them what little I knew, and a life, possibly two, to be gained.

  ‘I don’t know anything about money–– Wait, wait, wait! Let me finish!’ Jimmy hesitated. ‘Just let me finish. I’ve been working for her, but besides some loose change there’s never been any money about the place. I know youse have all fallen out over some scam or something, but whatever money’s been ripped off you, it’s either gone . . . or it’s in a horse.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Dan the Man?’

  ‘Of course we’ve––’

  ‘There’s your money.’

  ‘Talk sense, cunto.’

  ‘Okay. Listen. Listen. He’s running in the Grand National, day after tomorrow, right? Owned by Geordie McClean, Irish American Racing, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He’s her ex-husband.’

  ‘We know this, what the fuck has this got to do––’

  ‘The horse is worth millions if it goes to stud, right?’ Jimmy and Oil Paintings nodded warily. ‘But there’s this dispute over who owns it, right? The way I see it, Geordie gave Hilda the horse as a gift, to try and win her back, but maybe volunteered to train him up . . . Meanwhile, okay, meanwhile . . . Hilda’s boyfriend managed to lose whatever money he ripped off youse, so Hilda needed cash to pay off his debts. Okay? With me?’

  ‘We’re not fucking stupid,’ Oil Paintings hissed.

  ‘Okay . . . So she’s no money, can’t shift a white elephant like this fucking house, so all she has is Dan the Man. Only Geordie’s been training him all this time and has realised how good a horse he actually is and won’t hand him over.’

  ‘Is this going somewhere?’ Oil Paintings growled.

  ‘Shhhh,’ Jimmy the Chicken said, ‘go on.’

  ‘So big fight. Now if Hilda knows her name’s on the paperwork, there’s nothing to stop her going to court. But if it’s joint names, then it’s a bit murkier. She also knows that whatever Dan the Man’s worth at stud, it’ll double or triple if he wins the National. Plus . . . plus, you ready for this?’ They nodded. I prepared to draw one of the women I loved into their sights. ‘Hilda’s also having a bit of a tug of love with Geordie over their daughter . . .’

  ‘This is getting like fucking Emmerdale, Jimmy,’ Oil Paintings whined.

  ‘Shhhh,’ Jimmy said again.

  ‘She’s a jockey as well,’ I continued, ‘but Geordie’s never really going to let her ride in the National like he promised, so Hilda bargains her help for a free ride on Dan the Man in the big race.’

  Jimmy’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean her daughter stole Dan the Man from Geordie McClean,’ Jimmy said, ponderously, ‘so that she could ride it in the National. And she’s hoping to treble the asking price when it comes to stud.’

  ‘Succinctly summarised,’ I said.

  Jimmy looked across at Hilda. ‘Is that the way it is?’ he asked. There was a drip of saliva, but no other response.

  ‘So,’ I said, pushing my luck, ‘if you wait until the National’s over, Hilda’ll be flush and you can get your money back. I’m sure she’ll give you interest. And expenses.’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘So where would the daughter be now?’

  I shrugged. ‘On the way to Aintree, I suppose.’

  Jimmy looked at Oil Paintings. ‘Liverpool ferry,’ said Oil Paintings. ‘Direct route.’

  ‘So, uhm,’ I said, ‘you can let us go now.’

  He smiled down at me. ‘Now what the fuck would I want to do that for?’

  ‘Because . . . well. I told you how to, ahm, get your money back.’

  He came a little closer. He spoke more quietly, but somehow the threat seemed greater. He put his left hand over my burned one, and each time he made a point, he gave it a little squeeze. ‘Well, Dan Starkey, Horse Whisperer, whoever the fuck you are, it’s like this. Much as I would love to hang around until fuck knows when, that’s not really very practical. Y’see, I’m a betting man. I know my horses. I know my jockeys and I know my fucking courses. Now Dan the Man’s a good horse, sure he’ll maybe fetch half a million at stud, but he’s not a great horse, which is what you need to win the National. It’s the hardest fucking course in the world. Not only do you need a great horse, but you need a fucking great jockey as well, not some little girl’s barely run a race in her life and’s only up there because Mummy promised her. See?’

  I nodded. He squeezed again. I held in the scream as best I could.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’ll happen. That girl will think she’s doing okay right up to Beecher’s Brook, she tries to get him over that fuckin’ fence she’ll not only break her own neck, but more importantly, she’ll break Dan the Man’s as well. And then Dan the fucking Man will be worth exactly nothing. So where’ll our money be then?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘It’ll be off to the knacker’s, won’t it?’ I nodded. ‘Like I say, I’m a betting man, and I’ll give you this tip for nothing, don’t bet on Dan the Man even starting that race on Saturday. I’ll take my half a million now, thanks very much.’ He nodded at Oil Paintings. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘we’ve a ferry to catch.’

  Oil Paintings grinned at him, and turned for the door. As Jimmy the Chicken went to follow I said, in retrospect stupidly, ‘What about us?’

  Jimmy paused. ‘Good point,’ he said. Abruptly he shivered. ‘Is it my imagination,’ he asked, ‘or is it cold in here?’

  I looked to Oil Paintings. ‘No, right enough,’ he said, ‘it is a bit nippy.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jimmy, smiling down at me, ‘why don’t we light a fire?’

  23

  Maybe it was the intense heat, or the overpowering smell of burning petrol, or maybe the crack of the windows as they exploded; whatever it was, it brought Hilda round. Her head moved slowly up and her red eyes surveyed the inferno with a kind of resigned relief. She had been tortured to within an inch of death, and now it was coming anyway. The house was burning around us, the bad guys were away, it was all going to end. There was nothing left to say.

  Except there was, of course.

  Her eyes settled on me. As they did, I looked away. I was going to die, and die secure in the knowledge that although I had come to first rescue, then chastise Hilda for betraying me, I had instead failed miserably to save her then managed to betray her daughter to the bad guys. Killed two birds with one stone, even. My only hope was that Hilda was so far gone she wouldn’t be aware of it. I looked up at her again. A melted woman with her legs spread. Her eyes were hard and alive and burning into me with as much vigour and vim as the flames that were now licking across the floor toward us.

  ‘You . . . told . . . them . . .’

  ‘I had to, Hilda.’

  ‘You . . . have . . . killed . . . my daughter . . .’

  ‘This isn’t the time to be scoring points, Hilda, but you might have told me.’

  There was a loud crack from above and I ducked down as best as I could as part of the ceiling fell away, crashing to the floor behind me and momentarily dousing the flames that had crept as far as the base of my chair.

  I tugged at the ropes, but they were expertly tied. In a movie we would have shuffled our chairs across the floor, got them back to back and then untied each other before making a dramatic charge through the flames as the building crashed around us. Except we would have been younger and better looking, my companion would not have been hideously scarred and I would not have been on the verge of tears.

  The flames
were at the base of her chair and were beginning to bite into her legs.

  ‘You . . . have . . . to . . . save . . . her . . .’

  ‘Hilda . . . oh Jesus . . .’

  Her legs were on fire. Her whole body was shaking.

  ‘You . . . have . . . to . . .’

  ‘Hilda. Fuck sake!’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Hilda . . . Hilda . . .’

  She was burning alive.

  She screammmmmmmmmmmed . . .

  I screamed.

  And then she was burning dead.

  Oh fuck! I prayed to every god there has ever been. A second section of the ceiling gave way and crashed down on to Hilda, knocking her backwards and engulfing her completely in the flames.

  She was gone.

  Swallowed up.

  Consumed.

  It was closing in on all sides. I looked down. The legs of my chair were burning. I could keep my feet raised, but for how long before they too were alight?

  Seconds.

  Face it, Starkey, you’re toast. Just as you like it, black.

  I could feel my arse burning through the seat of the chair.

  And then snap and thump as the cheap legs of the chair gave way and I was suddenly on my arse on the red-hot floor. The sudden collapse had extinguished the flames closest to the chair, but the reprieve only lasted for brief moments. As they bloomed again I was fleetingly in a position to make use of them. The pause in their intensity and my position on the ground allowed me to stretch my wrists back into the fire without burning the rest of me first.

  I held them there . . . one, two, three . . . Jesussssss! Then back out. I strained against the smouldering rope, but it wouldn’t give. I plunged my wrists back into the flames again, screaming as they burned into my flesh . . . hold it, hold it, hold it! The rope was on fire, it must, it must . . . I pulled hard and it snapped suddenly.

  My hands were free. I rubbed my wrists against my jacket for relief from the pain, then turned my attention to the rope holding my feet together. Another crash from above sprayed me with burning shards of wood. Then they were free and I was up.

  I looked about me desperately. Which way? Which way!

  To the door, stupid. No, to the window.

  Sheets of flaming death, either way.

  Just get fucking out!

  I closed my eyes. I put my jacket over my head. I screamed and I ran into the flames.

  I was hissing in the swimming pool.

  I was smouldering and black, and after a fashion, alive. Hilda’s mansion was crashing in the background. There were sirens. I cried tears of relief and anger, but not for long.

  I dragged myself reluctantly out of the pool and limped away across the lawns to the perimeter wall. I barely had the strength to pull myself over it. I sat bedraggled on the crisp grass on the other side, breathing hard, alternately cursing and praising God. I ducked down behind a tree as the first of a series of fire engines sped past.

  When it was clear, I tumbled down the bank and hurried along to where I’d left the car. I could see in the distance a police car sitting with flashing lights close to the entrance to Hilda’s mansion, and a cop trying to hold back the small crowd of onlookers who’d come to enjoy the spectacle.

  I’d left the keys hanging from the branch of a tree overhanging the footpath beside the car, but it took several minutes to discover which branch.

  I got them, opened the car door and slipped in behind the wheel. As I put them into the ignition a hand landed on my shoulder and I jumped, banging my head off the roof.

  ‘Nice fire,’ a familiar voice said.

  I turned to look at Mouse in the back seat. ‘Jesus wept,’ I said.

  ‘Nice to see you too, Danny boy.’ He leant forward out of the darkness. His familiar oval face and perky smile.

  I should have kissed him, but: ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ had to suffice.

  ‘As your luck would have it, a wee doll stormed into the office trying to sell me an exclusive about a journalist on the run and all sorts of murder and mayhem in the horsey world. I put two and two together and got you.’

  ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘Typing.’

  I sat back and sighed. I was hurting. ‘Are you going to run . . . ?’

  ‘No, of course not. How much of it is true?’

  ‘Off the record and allowing for standard female journalistic exaggeration?’ He nodded. ‘Oh, about a hundred per cent.’ I started the engine. It was agony to turn it with my burnt hand.

  Mouse couldn’t help but notice the agonised expression. ‘Do you want me to drive?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, never the brave soldier. He squeezed forward between the seats as soon as I’d moved across to the other side. As he reached beneath the seat to move it to a better position he glanced across at the fire. ‘I hope she’s insured,’ he said.

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Oh. God.’

  ‘I know.’ I glanced at the clock on the dash. Nine thirty. ‘What time’s the last sailing of the Liverpool ferry?’

  ‘What am I, Captain Birdseye?’

  ‘Mouse.’

  ‘Ten, I think. What’s––’

  ‘Then get this fucking wagon moving. The big place where the boats are.’

  ‘The docks.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  He got into gear and pulled out. Another fire engine was arriving. ‘Do you want to tell me what went on in there?’ Mouse asked.

  ‘No. Just watch the road.’

  ‘Swell. How is it you tell a wee girl not long out of school all the facts, but you don’t think of confiding in me?’ I looked at him. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. It’s glaringly obvious.’

  I smiled through the pain barrier. ‘If you would just lose the ’tache.’

  He shook his head, and drove. The docks were less than ten minutes away. As he drove I said, ‘You didn’t think of coming in and rescuing me or anything?’

  ‘I’m a watcher, not a doer, Dan, you know that.’

  ‘So what did you see?’

  ‘Three guys leaving in a car. Then four guys following the three guys.’

  ‘Tell me about the four guys.’

  ‘They were Oriental.’

  ‘Certain?’

  ‘They were pulling rickshaws.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  He wasn’t the sort to jump lights. If he was really pushed he might rev the engine a bit. I drummed my fingers on the dash and cursed at him. He gave me a lot of guff about doing his best and and how it wouldn’t help anyone if we were both flattened by a lorry or stopped by the cops. He didn’t understand, but there was nothing I could do.

  He said: ‘I’m here for you, aren’t I? How many of your other friends are here? Come to think of it . . .’

  ‘Just step on it.’

  ‘I’ll step on you.’

  He did increase the speed a little. He went through two lights in a row on amber and stopped indicating when he was overtaking pensioners. In his own mind he was probably Mad Max.

  He said, once, with real feeling, ‘Are you okay?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m never having another barbecue again.’

  For no sane reason he said, ‘I saw Trish the other night.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She was having an argument with some guy with a beard. He slapped her and got thrown out of the pub for his trouble.’

  ‘I hope you went after him and killed him.’

  ‘No, Dan, I’m a––’

  ‘Watcher, not a doer. So what else did you see?’

  ‘Them hugging each other, later. It warms the cockles of your heart.’

  ‘I’m going to warm his cockles over the fucking––’

  The ferry. Up ahead. Brilliantly lit. And pulling out.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Mouse, slapping the wheel.

  ‘Fuck!’ I said, slapping the dash.

  We screeched to a halt.

  Actually, we indicate
d and pulled over, braking gently a hundred yards short of the entrance to the ferry terminal. And he didn’t say fuck, he said flip. I had a best friend who said flip and wouldn’t break the speed limit even if it was a case of life or death. Even when it was more than that. It was life and death. I got out of the car and kicked one of the tyres. A security guard checking vehicles in the short-stay car park opposite looked over. I ignored him.

  Mouse got out and stood beside me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, kicking another tyre, although relatively gently, and glaring critically at the car, ‘more power in a fart.’

  I nodded. What was the point?

  We sat on the bonnet. The docks had been transformed in recent years. They were bright and modern and there were restaurants and bars and live entertainment nearby, where previously they’d been dark and dilapidated and there’d been live ammunition. And I kind of liked them the old way. There was something romantic about the abandoned warehouses, the bricked-up terraces and the dank streets, particularly when you’d lost your virginity around here, thanks to three bottles of cider and a pasty supper. Particularly when her name was Patricia.

  She let men slap her, then hugged them.

  Me, she slapped back.

  I loved her still, but now there was someone else. For both of us.

  The ferry was already fading from sight. It was modern, all enclosed. It had a McDonalds and a four-star restaurant and a kids’ club and there was no smoking. I’d only ever been on the old one where smoking was compulsory and hot and cold running vomit was virtually guaranteed.

  ‘Remember the old ferries?’ Mouse asked. ‘Hot and cold running boke. They were disgusting.’

  I smiled. ‘Great minds think alike.’

  ‘Fools seldom differ.’ He sighed. ‘So who’s on the ferry?’

  ‘Hilda’s daughter. Three hoods, four Chinamen and a horse called Dan. It’s not serious. I just don’t want her killed.’

  ‘Patricia hears, she will be.’

  I shrugged. ‘Patricia can go fuck––’

  And then stood stunned as my eyes fell on a Land Rover and horse box emerging from the short-stay car park. It paused for just a moment at a junction at the end of the slip road to allow another car to pass by, then turned right towards the exit from the ferry terminal; but a moment was all I needed to get a clear glimpse of Mandy at the wheel.