The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  Cath shook her head. "We're still thinking about it. Your offer's with our legal advisers," she lied, playing for time. "They'll be getting back to us."

  She sensed that Phil didn't believe her. His manner became more insistent. "You don't seem to understand that I'm doing you a favour. No more money worries. I pay the bank. You keep the farm. I bring in a few horses. We're all winners."

  No, you're the winner, Cath thought. A legal share of the farm would accompany the clearing of the debt. It would be the thin end of the wedge. He would want more fields, accommodation for stable lads. He would do up the cottages, erect more buildings, level and resurface the yard. He would remove the orchard, the goats and the pigs, and bring in more horses. And every move he made would involve a greater share of the business until he owned it all. He had done it before with other poor souls; she knew the sad stories.

  "I'll let you know," she replied. "Please leave so we can get on with our work. I don't want any more hassle!"

  Phil and Harry made no move. Angie surged forward and yelled at them. "You heard her! Piss off!"

  Phil wasn't used to being shouted at. He didn't like it one little bit. His face

  darkened. Harry stopped leaning on the car and stepped forward to join him.

  "You'd rather the bank foreclose? They will. Then we'll buy the place for a song and you'll be the poorer."

  Cath realised that would be their next move: a deal with the bank. They would force her to sell to avoid legal action. There would be no rival offers. They would get the farm, like they had with Birch Hall, well below its paper value. Should she agree just to get him off her back? She would still be able to buy another house and a small market garden. Before she could calm her whirling thoughts Harry weighed in.

  "If we pay off your debts, you'll obviously owe us. No one's denying that. But we can sort this out as generous business partners, or you can fight us, though I can tell you now you'll be wasting your time and the little spare money you might be able to raise. We'll give you forty-eight hours to make up your mind."

  Phil and Harry got in the Mercedes and drove away. Angie rounded on Cath in fury. "Why the hell didn't you tell 'em—we don't want 'em here!"

  Cath was on the brink of tears. "Don't you start as well! Ain't as simple as you think." She sat down suddenly on a bale of straw. "If he buys our debts it won't be long before he owns the whole farm and kicks us out. That's just the way he is. But I can't pay off the bank and he knows it. I can't win, can I? Whatever I do or don't do, this place is lost!" She got to her feet wearily and set off towards the house. "I've had enough of all of you. I didn't wed Matt to end up like this!"

  Angie hurried after her. "Mam? Mam—we can fight this! Talk to me! Please!"

  Mother and daughter disappeared into the farmhouse as Luke, deeply preoccupied, stepped from the shadows of the tractor shed. He was about to approach the house but ducked back into the shed as Charlie Gibb appeared in the yard.

  Charlie strode to the farmhouse door and hammered on it furiously. There was no

  response. He rapped impatiently on the kitchen window. "I've seen you with that Phil

  Yates! He'll have you out! Wanna sign with me!" He battered on the door. "No good hiding

  in there! Ain't no future without me! If I'm a partner here you'll be safe with me. I'll be a good farmer. I'll be kinder to you than the bank or Phil Yates!" There was still no response. Charlie turned angrily away and set off back towards the sawmill.

  * * *

  The sawmill yard was packed as an agricultural auction mart with tractors, stacks of raw timber, new field gates, cut fence posts, hydraulic log splitters, fork lifts and winches.

  Charlie strode through the yard and went into the mill. Luke, still slightly lame, followed him through the boggy willow wood, then into the yard. Charlie seemed to have vanished. Luke entered the main cutting floor of the sawmill. There was nowhere for him to hide, so he abandoned any idea of concealment.

  The place seemed completely deserted. Machines, belts, blades and benches all stood idle. The wind whistled through gaps in the brickwork high above his head. Curtains of dust hung in the sunlight. The smell of sawdust reminded him of circuses he had visited as a boy with Ambrose, who had been buying up horses that were past their best for the ring.

  The scale of the sawmill was awesome. A vast network of beams and rafters rose above him like the construction scaffolding for a new ocean liner. Flights of open wooden

  stairs disappeared into the mesh of woodwork above.

  Luke wandered around, fascinated. Without warning a gigantic sawblade, inches

  from his hand, screamed into life. He recoiled in shock and surprise. A moment later a blade behind him started up, with the voice of a shrieking demon. He turned, momentarily confused and vulnerable. More blades sprang into life, as if controlled by a workforce of ghosts. Alarmed, he backed away from the blades and left the mill.

  High up in the sawmill loft Charlie keyed codes into his mobile that turned off the

  sawblades. He clapped his telescope to his good eye. "There's something going on here that I don't like," he muttered. "Something that might be bad for Charlie." He picked up Luke's figure in his telescope as he limped through the stretch of boggy woodland back to Cuckoo Nest. Charlie moaned softly to himself, an eerie chilling wail. "Who is he, eh? What's he doing at Cath Scaife's? She's up to something and I'm gonna find out what. Ain't no one gets one up on Charlie Gibb!"

  * * *

  As soon as darkness had taken silent possession of the farm, Luke crossed the stackyard and tapped on the window of the farmhouse kitchen.

  "I thought it was time we did a bit o' strong rockering," he said with a frown as Cath opened the door. "We need to talk honest and plain. That okay with you?"

  She let him into the kitchen before she replied. "I don't see why not." She bolted the door behind him and drew the curtains over the window. "I'll take a look at your knee as well while you're here."

  Angie came in from the scullery carrying two plucked chickens. "You can eat here with us tonight. May as well have it while it's hot."

  Luke sat, as before, with his foot on a milking stool, while Cath examined his knee.

  "It's a lot better. Just don't overdo it." She applied more oil and worked gently on the

  cartilage, then rebandaged the knee.

  He watched her in silence while she worked and while Angie took the legs off the

  chickens and put them in the oven. When Cath had finished, he looked at her accusingly. "What kind o' crazy place is this? Folk coming and going and yelling all day? I'm s'posed to be resting."

  "It's turned into a bit of a war zone, I'm afraid," Cath replied apologetically.

  "That Sawmill Charlie—the guy's a total psycho!"

  "There's others even worse," Cath replied.

  Should she say more? He couldn't possibly have any interest in their problems. In a day or two he might be moving on… She glanced at him. His features framed an unspoken question. She took the plunge:

  "We had a visit from a local big shot called Phil Yates." She felt his leg tense under her fingers at her mention of the name.

  "What kind o' big shot?" he asked.

  She met his gaze. "There's only one kind of big shot, ain't there?"

  He laughed. "Guess that's true. What is it with this one?"

  "Phil Yates wants to pay off our debts and use the place for his horses. It's his way of getting a stud cheap. That's the way the man is—he wants the place without having to pay the market price for it."

  "Why doesn't he just rent the paddocks?" Luke asked. "That way you'd still be the

  boss."

  "Ever tried doing a deal with the devil? Bit by bit, year on year, he'd take the place over. We'd be strangers on our own land. I couldn't bear it. I'd sooner do a deal with Charlie Gibb."

  Angie's eyes flashed with fury. "Not while I live here! I don't want Charlie Gibb pawing me about! I'd rather we sold up and left the place."<
br />
  "We've got to do something," Cath admitted. "The bank could force us out at any

  time. They say there's no future for this kind of mixed farming, but I don't want to change things—and I don't want to see the place cash cropped so it loses its heart. Matt took out the bank loan the year before he died. It was his dream to start a small riding school. It meant new buildings, improved access and, of course, the horses. Before we could get started he died and a farmer down the road stole the idea. He's got a thriving riding school now, and we've got nothing."

  Her revelation set Luke thinking. "Why don't you bring this Phil Yates in as a

  partner? You got the land, he's got the money. Can't you work something out?"

  She shook her head sadly. "He's like a worm in an apple. He eats your world away from the inside. He's poison. No one comes off best with Phil Yates."

  As they ate their evening meal, the three of them together around the kitchen table,

  Luke pondered Cath's words. They confirmed what Sy had told him: Phil Yates was a nasty piece of work, a man who usually got what he wanted and who didn't like losing. That sort looked for their opponents' weaknesses and used them like weapons. Anyone with debts or illegal interests was easy meat, bullied and blackmailed into submission. Under the guise of offering solutions they destroyed lives beyond repair. And Phil Yates owed him. It seemed it might prove tricky to get paid for the T'ang horses after all.

  "This Yates guy live round here or a way off?" Luke asked the question as casually as he could. He didn't want them involved with his manhunt.

  "He owns a Jacobean mansion called Birch Hall. It's a big house about a mile this side of the motorway," Cath told him. "He's been there a couple of years. Before that he was living near Newmarket, so the gossips say."

  He knew the Yates place already. He had driven past its imposing gateposts in the BMW on the day before the car accident and had wondered who it belonged to. "I've dikked the place. It's a fair spread. How come a travelling farrier could get to buy a spot like that?"

  "There've been all kinds of rumours," Cath said, "mostly about race fixing. But nothing's ever been proved. Folk say he got Birch Hall cheap because the owner was facing charges of horse doping. How Phil Yates's legal people got him off is a mystery. But they had him in a corner, and he had to sell cheap."

  Luke smiled his thanks across the table. There was something unexpectedly complicit in the way Cath smiled back.

  He's after Phil Yates, she thought. They were on the same side.

  14

  Luke did not return to the cottage. He waited until the bedroom lights had gone out in the farmhouse then started Cath's old Land Rover and drove away as quietly as he could. Half an hour later he drove past the entrance to Birch Hall. The minor road that ran past the Hall was quiet. It was not used much since the local road layout had been changed when the route of the motorway had been altered. He pulled the Land Rover into woodland and doused its lights.

  It was a night of new moon and starlight. A keen-sighted observer might have spotted Luke's figure flitting across the road into the grounds of the Hall. He kept at a distance from the house, studying the layout of front lawn, gardens and outbuildings. Gradually he drew closer, noting the open curtains on the ground-floor windows and the well-lit interiors. Evidently the occupants felt confident of uninterrupted privacy.

  He observed the lights and cameras on the corners of the property and was careful not to get too close. He disappeared into the shadows to the east of the house front to watch a Mercedes pull away from the drive and over the front lawn. The vehicle stopped in rough grass at the edge of woodland on the southern limit of the lawn.

  Intrigued by this activity, he circled the lawn and moved closer. The boot of the Mercedes was open, and the large figure of Harry Rooke, , wearing a head torch, was carrying small wooden crates down a flight of steps into what Luke guessed was an old ice house. He wondered at first if the place contained a secret weapons stash, but the crates looked familiar. Harry muttered to himself as he worked, and Luke was able to catch a few angry words:

  "This whole damn thing's getting impossible. The man's going to overreach himself and we'll all go down! It's happened to civilisations, and it happens to people who don't learn. All this guilt and paranoia. Can't he just enjoy his life and be satisfied? The sooner he finds that guy the better!"

  Two Dobermans had ridden across on the back seat of the Mercedes, and they sniffed around on the grass near the car. As Harry carried the last crate down the steps there was a hint of movement in the bushes at the edge of the woodland. The Dobermans

  growled. Harry locked the ice house door and hurried up the steps. The dogs whined, sniffing the air. Harry shone his torch at the dogs. "What's up, lads?" The Dobermans began to bark.

  The bushes swayed in the gentle night breeze, revealing the merest hint of a figure. The dogs took off after it. Harry jumped in the Mercedes and followed.

  The dogs raced across the front lawn and reached the drive by the steps to the main entrance. Harry followed them, sounding his horn. He glimpsed a running figure in his headlights for a split second, then lost it again. He sounded his horn continuously.

  Brian and Steve appeared on the front steps. Harry left the Mercedes and ran towards them.

  "Intruder!" he yelled. "Follow the dogs!"

  The three men ran after the Dobermans.

  Luke's fleeing figure raced past shrubberies, ornamental ponds and ranges of outbuildings at the back of the house. Two hundred yards behind the dogs pursued. Security lights came on. Luke's flying shadow played fleetingly across the walls of the outbuildings.

  Harry, Brian and Steve took out their handguns and loosed off a few rounds at the shadow. The dogs reached the wall at the northern boundary of the property. They whined and cast around in confusion. The three men caught them up. They burst through an integral door onto a footpath that led to the metalled road. When they followed the dogs to the road they saw a Land Rover speeding away into the distance.

  "Get a look at him?" Harry asked.

  Brian shook his head. "No way. It was just a shadow."

  "It was a gyppo," Steve asserted. "It had to be."

  Brian agreed. "No one else moves like that."

  "Shit!" Harry cursed under his breath.

  They leashed the dogs and walked back towards the house.

  “A gyppo?" Harry asked. "You sure?"

  "We're positive," Steve replied.

  * * *

  The panelled drawing room at Birch Hall, which was originally the main hall of the Jacobean house, was illuminated by wall lights and two crystal chandeliers. Minor artists' paintings of horses and idealised rural scenes adorned the walls. The room was comfortably furnished with reproduction sofas and easy chairs. A large TV was fixed to the wall, and a well-stocked bar occupied a corner.

  Phil, in a gaudy silk dressing gown, sat watching a DVD of Eagle's Wing, one of his favourite westerns. He had watched it a half-dozen times before because he was fascinated by the story of the struggle between two men to own a wonderful horse. Dot, indifferent to horses, was fast asleep on a sofa, her head resting on a pile of plump cushions.

  Harry strode in, and Phil hit the pause button. "What's all the racket?" he asked irritably. "I'm trying to watch a goddamn movie!"

  "We've had an intruder." Harry thought it expedient not to mention that it was almost certainly a gypsy.

  The news carried Phil to his feet. "Oh, yeah?"

  "A young guy. Fast."

  "Get a good look at him?"

  Harry shook his head. "We couldn't get close enough."

  "On his own?"

  "The dogs didn't find a sign of anyone else."

  "Did the cameras show anything?"

  "Not much more than a shadow. No clear definition."

  "Who's on tonight?" Phil asked.

  "Steve."

  "Tell him to walk round the grounds and to keep checking the cameras."

  "Of course. It's
routine." Harry didn't tell Phil that the camera on the southeast corner of the house had picked up a clear image of the intruder, but unfortunately his face

  had not been visible. If he showed the image to Phil it would result in panic attacks and more paranoia.

  He wondered again, as so often before, if acquiring the Hall had been worth it. His business partner had become a classic case of the more you have the more you fear losing. No number of new acquisitions was going to cure him. If anything, they would make things worse.

  Phil gestured at Dot. "Take your sister up, Harry. I want to see the end of the movie."

  Harry picked Dot up effortlessly and carried her to the door. Dot did not wake up.

  "She can't go on like this, Phil. We'll have to get her dried out."

  Phil showed signs of impatience. "Okay, Harry. We will."

  Harry seemed about to protest, but Phil had already restarted the film. He carried his sister from the room.

  An hour later Phil entered his bedroom and stared down at Dot in the bed. She hadn't woken up when he switched on the lights, which was unusual. For a moment he thought she was dead, and he had to lean in close to hear if she was still breathing. Relieved, he took off his dressing gown and got carefully into bed. It would be a massive inconvenience to have her die just now. He settled down and fell asleep quickly but after only a short time began to dream.

  He was running across a sepia-toned desert in an eerie half-light. It was a little like the dry Mexican landscape of Eagle's Wing. There were a few scattered rocks and stunted trees, but no sign of a dwelling. A figure appeared behind him, hardly more than a shadow, but he knew he was fleeing from it. No matter how fast he ran—and it seemed that he could hear his own laboured breathing—the figure kept pace with him.

  He reached a rocky defile but couldn't make out if there was water in the bottom. Should he try to cross? Would he drown? He agonised for what seemed like an age. The shadowy figure was closing in. Before he could make a move, a monstrous horse, like a cross between Eagle's Wing and a hideously distorted T'ang figurine, rose out of the defile and towered over him. The horse shook its head wildly and rolled its eyes. He couldn't get past it. He turned to face the shadowy figure, but it morphed into Tam McBride, who shot him in the legs. In terror and despair he turned back to confront the horse that opened its jaws and swallowed him, head first.