The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  Cath was furious. "No deal, Charlie! Have you got that straight? That's my last word on the matter!"

  "Get the hell out o' here!" Angie yelled.

  He held on to his anger. He knew he couldn't lose. "You'll rue the day you spoke to me like that, Cath Scaife. You'll be bankrupted within the year. Then you'll come begging—pussy and all!”

  He strode out of the shed.

  Angie cursed under her breath. "One of these days I'll kill that Charlie Gibb!"

  "Not if I kill him first!" Cath hissed through clenched teeth.

  Luke watched them thoughtfully from the nearby doorway. He didn't like the look of things on this farm. He hoped his knee would have recovered by the end of the week and he could move on.

  10

  The Coach and Horses Inn stood to one side of the green in a village a few miles from Birch Hall. The inn dated back to the mid-eighteenth century and had been an important coaching inn on the Great North Road between London and Scotland. In recent years the A1 had been moved a few miles to the east and straightened to speed up the increasing volume of traffic and the inn had lost its primary source of custom. It was frequented now only by locals and was never busy except at weekends.

  Early one weekday evening, Sy and his two assistants sat drinking beer at a corner table in the public bar. The room was otherwise empty. George, the barman, emerged from the cellar where he had been changing barrels, just as Phil Yates and Harry Rooke entered and walked up to the bar. George wondered if they would object to him serving gypsies, an unofficial policy that had become the norm in the few surviving local pubs. But he didn't mind as long as they caused no trouble. He hoped for the best and reached for a glass.

  "The usual, Phil?" he asked with a smile.

  "Make it a double, George. Get one for yourself. I'm in a good mood." Then, almost as an afterthought: "Orange juice, Harry?"

  "Why not?" Harry concurred.

  Phil and Harry sat at a table with a view of the village green. Sy, carrying a half-full glass of beer, approached them.

  "I'd like a word, Phil," he said quietly.

  "I'll give you two," Phil replied with a condescending smile. "For old time's sake."

  The two men held each other's gaze, the air between them becoming charged with mutual loathing.

  Sy maintained his deadpan expression. "Gypsy traveller was asking 'bout you."

  "Oh, yeah?" Phil's features showed complete indifference.

  "Yeah," Sy echoed. "A real Rom. Black blood: the kaulo ratti. Best horseman I ever seen."

  Phil's eyes narrowed. "Mebbe you ain't seen 'em all." He ground the words out as if each syllable was barbed.

  Sy took a drink of his beer. The tension between the two men became electric. Harry shifted slightly so his seat was facing the gypsy.

  Sy's gaze darkened and seemed to acquire a deeper intensity. "He said he knew all about your T'ang horses."

  Phil was visibly shaken by the gypsy's words and unable to hide their impact. "What else did he say?" he managed at last.

  "He sent you his regards. For old time's sake."

  Phil was rattled. He struggled to regain his composure. "Did this real Rom give you

  his name?"

  "He said you'd remember him. Seems he knows you real well."

  Still holding Phil's eye Sy raised his glass to take another drink. There was a moment, as the gypsy's eyes hardened, when it seemed he might just as easily have smashed the glass into Phil's face. Before he could make another move, Harry stood up with surprising speed and seized the gypsy's wrist. Sy's two assistants got to their feet, their hands on the knives sheathed on their belts. Phil was on his feet too.

  "Game over, sport," Harry growled.

  George intervened. "No trouble in the bar! Take it outside please!"

  Harry let go of Sy's wrist. Unhurriedly, without any visible sign of emotion, the gypsy took a slow drink of his beer. He still held Phil's eye, ignoring Harry completely. "You wanna cast your mind back a-ways Phil. Mebbe you’ll remember him then. He told me he was gonna be looking for you.

  Sy finished his drink, placed his empty glass in the middle of Phil’s table, then

  moved to the door with his two assistants.

  He turned in the doorway. “Kushti bokt.”

  The three gypsies left the public bar. As soon as they had gone, Phil's features creased with suppressed emotion. He tossed back his whisky, caught George's eye and raised his glass. The landlord brought him another double.

  "Everything okay, Phil?" George asked with a look of concern.

  "Everything's fine, George." Phil forced a smile. "It was just a guy who dislikes me. A sad case, really." He laughed to prove it was a matter of no significance. "Resentful of my success, I s'pose."

  George returned to the bar, relieved Phil hadn't bawled him out for serving gypsies.

  "Someone's been talking," Harry said quietly.

  Phil's mobile, lying in front of him on the table, rang twice. He glanced at it. "Guess who?" he replied with undisguised venom.

  * * *

  Tam's Volvo Estate was parked up next to the Mercedes in the farthest corner of the inn's car park. The dealer was looking forward to getting rid of the T'ang horses and being paid. They had already cost him a beating by Luke and a visit from the police, who had turned his house inside out just for the hell of it, because they couldn't find any evidence to pin the heist on him.

  Tam climbed out of the Volvo as Phil and Harry approached. His face bore the marks of Luke's assault.

  Tam smiled painfully. "Phil! Harry! Good to see ye."

  "Looking well these days, Tam." Harry smiled at Tam's discomfiture.

  Tam shook hands with the two men. "It's dangerous times we's living in."

  "Weren't they ever?" Phil replied. "Let's see 'em, Tam."

  Tam raised the rear door of the Volvo, removed the heavy curtain material that was covering his cargo, and revealed the four crates marked SCOTTISH RASPBERRIES. He

  prized open a crate for Phil's inspection. "Packed with loving care by yours truly." He took the figurine from its box and handed it to Phil.

  Phil stared in wonder at his new acquisition, a T'ang Sancai-Glazed terracotta sculpture of a Caparisoned Horse with the horse's head slightly turned and the mouth a little open.

  Tam pointed. "See the wee turn o' the head and the open mouth? Collectors would kill for that, ye ken."

  "Oh—what a beauty!" Phil exclaimed in delight. "Absolute quality, eh? And what do we get in these sorry modern times? Cheap copies—nothing to compare!" He kissed the figurine and replaced it in its box. "Be perfect in my bedroom, watching over me all night." Phil's chronic insecurity, for the briefest of moments, was banished from his mind. Tam's voice brought it back.

  "That wee chappie would be on the market at 190K." Tam gestured at the boxes in the back of the Volvo. "Six-forty in total, as I said it would be. We agreed three-twenty, gents, as I recall." He smiled as ingratiatingly as he could.

  His smile was not mirrored by either Phil or Harry.

  "Give me your car keys, Tam." Harry demanded icily.

  "Eh?" The Scotsman was dumbfounded. He swallowed his rising fear. "What seems

  to be the problem, gents?"

  Harry pocketed Tam's offered keys. Phil pointed a handgun, fitted with a silencer, at the dealer.

  "Jesus and Mary save us!" Tam exclaimed.

  "They won't," Harry replied laconically.

  "But we had a deal!" Tam looked at them imploringly.

  Phil stared at the Scotsman in cold fury. "Sure. We had. Unload the boxes."

  Tam, at gunpoint, took the boxes from the Volvo and put them carefully in the boot

  of the Mercedes.

  "Phil, please…" The dealer was on the point of pleading.

  "Shut up!" Phil snapped. "Get in the Merc. We're going for a ride."

  * * *

  Harry drove slowly through thickly-wooded lanes. Phil, as usual, occupied the passenger's seat. Tam sat appr
ehensively in the back.

  Phil opened his window. "Listen to that birdsong. Springtime in England, or what's left of this sad old country. Magic, 'ey, Tam? I love it. When I was a boy I'd sit on the steps of the waggon and just listen."

  Tam, his throat clogged with fear and his mouth dry as a vacuum cleaner's dustbag, was unable to speak. Phil rested his arm on the open window, letting his hair blow freely in the draught.

  He suddenly closed the window. "Who d'you tell, Tam?"

  Tam's voice was no more than a husky whisper. "No one. I swear it. On my mother's life."

  "She died ten years ago, Tam," Harry said stonily.

  "Someone knows more'n they should." Phil turned in his seat to glare at the Scotsman. "Someone knows about the T'ang horses, Tam. Someone fucking knows!"

  Tam shook his head. "I didna breathe a word." He tried unsuccessfully to lick his dried-out lips with his bone-dry tongue. "I didna. Not even in my sleep. I'd be getting mysel arrested if I had."

  The dealer had a point. Phil changed tack.

  "Who did the climb, Tam?" Phil asked. "Who got it on TV and all over the goddamn papers?"

  Tam tried to swallow. He choked and coughed. Phil waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on the passenger's door.

  "Only guy," the dealer began, "only guy who coulda managed it. He got caught…by

  the fella wi' a shotgun. But he got away—and he got the horses." He choked again. "He risked his life for 'em, Phil. And he hasna been paid a penny." The implication hung briefly in the air that neither had he.

  Phil reached across and took his handgun from the glove compartment. "I asked who did the climb?"

  "Gyppo guy I use. No one."

  Phil plugged Tam in the leg. The Scotsman yelled with shock and pain.

  "Name, Tam. Give me his goddamn name!"

  "Luke Smith," the dealer confessed.

  Phil plugged Tam in his other leg. The Scotsman screamed.

  "You fucking stupid bastard!" Phil yelled. "You goddamn idiotic Scotch twat!"

  "I did it for ye!" Tam exclaimed with considerable passion. "I risked my life for those horses! I've been loyal to ye all these years! I was there, in the field with ye and your dad, remember? I've been a loyal friend to ye ever since. I did it for ye, Phil! I was gonna top that smartarse gyppo. I swear it! But he jumped me."

  "You're a liar," Phil said coldly. "You did the whole fucking thing for money!" He pointed his gun at Tam. "For money, Tam. Simple as that. Lucre's the only loyalty you know."

  The Scotsman's face crumpled in terror. "No, Phil. No!"

  "Shut up," Phil said quietly. He put his handgun back in the glove compartment. "Just shut up."

  They drove on in silence. Despair took hold of Tam's features.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, after passing through several miles of arable landscape, the Mercedes pulled on to a dirt track that led through a stand of tall pines. Three figures left the car, Tam climbing unaided from the vehicle and falling face down in the mud.

  The figures made their way along the track through the pines, Tam dragging himself painfully forward on his forearms, while Phil and Harry, with studied indifference, ambled slowly along on each side of him.

  Phil glanced down at the struggling Scotsman. "Not far now, Tam. Then you can take a long rest."

  Tam had stopped pleading. He had stopped talking altogether. Exhausted, sweating with effort and pain, wheezing and gasping for breath, he struggled onwards, like a self-confessed heretic compelled to undergo an intolerable penance.

  After a little under half a mile, Phil and Harry stopped at the edge of a steep-sided ravine. There was no sound among the trees except for thin scatterings of birdsong and Tam's wheezing. His efforts had generated copious volumes of mucous and saliva, that streamed from his nose and mouth and dripped from his chin. He lay in the mud and pine needles, catching his breath and blinking the sweat from his eyes. His coat was filthy, his trousers soaked with blood.

  "Okay, Tam," Phil's voice cut through the hissing of the gentle breeze in the pines, "you just take it easy now. Lie here as long as you want and marvel at the wonders of nature."

  Tam tried to talk. "Phil—"

  "Shut up." Phil pressed the silencer of his handgun against the back of Tam's head. "D'you think today's gonna be your Long Good Friday? Do you, Tam?"

  Tam remained silent, too terrified to say a word.

  Phil continued the one-sided conversation. "You know, if I wasn't a reasonable man I'd kill you now and Harry would kick your body over the edge. You'd never be found. But I can see you're the victim of your own stupidity. So I'm prepared to let you live. But only on one condition: you tell me where I can find Luke Smith. You've got till midsummer. If you fail, or if you lie about his whereabouts, you're a dead man walking. Or, in your case, on crutches. Understand me?"

  "Okay, Phil," Tam managed. "I'll find him. I promise."

  "Not a day later than midsummer. I'll be waiting to hear from you."

  Phil and Harry left Tam at the edge of the ravine and walked back through the pines.

  "I think we should have a good look in the Volvo," Phil said thoughtfully. "It'll take Tam a while to get back to it."

  "What are we looking for?" Harry asked.

  "Who knows? Anything we can benefit from. And we may as well leave him his keys. He'll be phoning his lackeys now to get them to take him somewhere to have the bullets removed." Phil laughed. "We don't want him dying of an infection, do we?"

  "I thought you'd just pop him and make an end of it," Harry said, sounding as much mystified as disappointed.

  "This business isn't over," Phil explained. "As they said somewhere in the movies, he's more use to us alive than dead. And tell Bri and Steve to clean the Merc as soon as we're back. We don't want the blood to get too dry."

  They climbed into the Mercedes and drove away through the long shadows cast by the soft May evening's sunlight.

  11

  Cath and Angie waited until it was too dark for Charlie to spot them in his telescope before setting off across the stackyard to the cottage. Cath had reasoned that if Charlie thought they were giving shelter to a gypsy traveller—and Luke's appearance was a long way from white Anglo-Saxon—they should try to keep his presence secret if they could. Charlie was unpredictable. Who could say what he might do? Start unfounded rumours? Phone the police? The less the albino knew the better.

  They arrived at the cottage in the gathering dusk with a tray of food covered by a tea towel and a large bag containing sheets and blankets. They made up the bed while Luke tucked into the food. When they returned to the sitting room they found their tenant wiping his plate clean with a chunk of bread.

  "When did you last eat?" Cath asked, amazed he had finished the homemade meat and veg pie so quickly.

  He replied with his mouth full of bread. "Sunrise yesterday. But I'm used to it. My people mostly only cook twice a day. When I'm alone on the drom—that's our word for road—I never eat till I feel safe. You only want a full stomach when you can relax. When you're travelling you need your wits—you gotta be sharp. There's always gavvers or someone wanting to hassle you."

  Cath was intrigued by his talk. "I know it's harder these days for your people to move around the country. Sy's sisters often mention the lack of stopping places."

  He seemed eager to elaborate. "Gets worse every year. The spots where we could stop are mostly gone, ploughed up or fenced off. Local folk who knew us are leaving the villages 'cos they can't afford to live in 'em no more. We only get hate from the rich gorgios who take their place. And the farm work's not there no more, 'cept from a few folk such as you. Like I said, there's foreign work gangs now doing what we did, and they work for pennies. We mostly deal in scrap metal and gryes, and a few of us make decent vongar. But a lot of us are stuck on fixed sites and don't move much at all. Some have been forced into houses and have no work and have to live on benefits. It's 'bout as bad as it can get. A lot o' young Roms don't know 'bout l
ife on the drom. They're gypsy travellers who don't travel. There ain't no dromengros, no men o' the road, no more. I try to move around as much as I can—in my motor, o' course, not like the old days with a grye and a waggon. A lot o' my people get sick real easy now 'cos the healthy outdoor life they once had has gone."

  Cath was moved by his candour and the sadness of his story. She realised that he trusted and respected them. She couldn't exactly say why, but she decided in that moment that, come what may, they must not betray him.

  "Is there no way you can give yourselves a future?" she asked, expecting to hear more depressing tales. To her surprise he smiled.

  "Some of us are buying up land, usually just rough pasture. But we can put our gryes on it and we can stop on it, 'cos we tell the gavvers and the council guys we're protecting our animals from thieving. We get moved on, but there's always someone else to take our place. Some have built bungalows to get round the no-stopping rules, but it's hard to get permission from the councils." He shrugged. "We've a long way to go."

  "Have you bought land?" Cath asked the question with no ulterior motive, but she saw him tighten up. Things were getting too personal. "You don't have to answer that," she added quickly. "I don't want to pry."

  He relaxed a little at her words. "It's okay. I've bought a few bits here and there. And I want to buy more. It's just rough land no givengros—that's gorgio farmers—are wanting, so I get it cheaper. If we can keep going like this we might get our folk a circuit. We're nothing if we're not dromengros, and we have to find a way to be dromengros again." He laughed. "Even if we have to travel in our motors and not with Open-lots."

  "What about fortune telling?" Angie asked.

  He stared at her, assessing the depth of her interest. Angie smiled, holding his gaze. "There's still a bit o' dukkerin," he continued, "but not as much. A lot of our folk are on fixed council sites and don't meet as many gorgios now. But real Roms don't feel free living like that. We need our own land, then we can move about like we used to. Like I said, some of us have made a start on that, but it's slow. A lot o' young Roms would like to help, but they've no vongar. I tell you," he fixed her with a piercing stare, "if there was only us Roms on the earth the place would be like new. Whatever folk who hate us say, it's the gorgios and travelling riff-raff that make all the mess. And look at the spoil heaps and the plastic in the sea. We did none o' that. And we could live with rhinos and elephants—we wouldn't be killing 'em for a bit o' ivory. We only take what we need for the day, like travelling folk have for thousands of years."