The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  Hirst shrugged. "Fifteen years and he ain't come forward. That guy's a phantom."

  "Mebbe so," Harry replied with a frown, "but the bastard's bigger than all of us." He felt a pressing need to move the subject forward. "How's the manhunt?"

  "Not a whisker," Hirst admitted. "He's holed up someplace. But he'll come out. And we'll be waiting."

  Sy and Luke, in smart farmers' caps and all-weather jackets, watched them from the crowd.

  * * *

  Charlie, in his floppy hat and eyepatch, crossed the sawmill yard with a determined expression and a chainsaw.

  He talked to himself as he walked. "I'd make the place pay. I'd be a good farmer."

  He climbed on a tractor, stowing the chainsaw in the cab. Then he hitched up the tractor to a crop-spraying rig. "I know what you're up to, Phil Yates," he cried. "But you ain't gonna beat Charlie Gibb." He drove out of the yard.

  An hour earlier Charlie had watched the two women leave on their regular Saturday provisioning trip to the town, the daughter looking unhappy and angry. Of the gyppo he could see no sign. When he arrived in the Cuckoo Nest stackyard he noticed the Citroen Estate was no longer in the lean-to. He wondered if the gyppo was using it. Maybe he'd bought it and moved on. The important thing was he had the place to himself for a few hours.

  He sprayed the Cuckoo Nest paddocks with grass killer, up and down, up and down, laughing as he drove. Then he attacked the fence posts with the chainsaw. He didn't cut all the way through, so the fences still stood up. He emitted his eerie high-pitched laugh as he worked.

  "Think you can get ahead of me, Phil Yates, eh?" he yelled above the noise of the chainsaw. "Ain't no one smarter'n Charlie Gibb!"

  Then he drove back to the sawmill, detached the crop-spraying rig from the tractor and swung himself up to the loft, where he clapped his telescope to his good eye and settled down to watch the farm. Still no sign of the gyppo. He must have bought the Citroen and gone.

  * * *

  Racegoers packed the bar of the Winning Post hotel, which stood across the road from the racecourse entrance. Phil, in jubilant mood, bought drinks for everyone.

  "Drink up! Come on, guys—they're on me tonight!"

  Dot, already drunk, lurched unsteadily at the bar. Harry spotted her and pushed his way through the crowd.

  "Get some coffee," he growled into her ear. "It's a big moment. Don't let us down."

  She clung to him for support. "What's Phil so scared of, Harry? He wakes in the

  night. He's so touchy. What's going on with him? You can tell your little sister."

  Harry shrugged. "Search me, sis. I'm only the goddamn teaboy."

  He knew if he told her the truth it could be curtains for them all; she would never condone their past violence. Better for her to believe their success was all down to good luck.

  Dot persisted. "You're with him all the time. You must know what's bothering him. I just wanna help him."

  He was no longer listening. He was watching Maureen and Phil laughing with the

  drinkers at the bar. He noticed the sudden withdrawal of her fingers from his hand when she realised he was looking.

  As Phil raised his glass to the landlord, he saw two smartly-dressed gypsy travellers staring at him from the far end of the bar. He recognised Sy from their encounter at the Coach and Horses. He knew Sy was a Boswell, but the other guy was not known to him. For a moment he wondered—could it be…? They were staring at him intently. He imagined he could feel their eyes boring into his brain! He grabbed Brian's arm and pointed, with the idea of sending his minder to ask them their business. But when he turned back to look, they had gone.

  "What's up, boss?" Brian asked.

  "Those two gyppos stood at the bar—did you see 'em?"

  Brian shook his head, noting Phil's unease and recalling his recent talk on the

  subject with Steve. "I saw no gyppos, boss."

  "If you do see 'em, let me know, right? They ain't having free drinks on me tonight!"

  Brian cast a glance around the room, but there was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like a gypsy. "Sure, boss, I'll let you know." Privately he wondered if Phil was seeing things.

  When Phil looked again towards the end of the bar, he saw a familiar figure staring back at him. It couldn't be Tam McBride—but yet it was! It was no lookalike, it was Tam himself! But it couldn’t be possible for Tam to have recovered so quickly, he must have died from his injuries out in the woods – and therefore, Phil realised with a shock, this was his ghost!

  Have I gone mad, he thought? Was the past coming back to destroy him? He recalled his recent nightmare—was the spirit of Tam McBride after vengeance? He grabbed Maureen's arm. "See there! There!" He pointed towards the end of the bar. "D'you see that guy with curly grey hair?"

  "What, Phil? Who?" Maureen was alarmed by his agitated state.

  Phil was still pointing. "There! There!" The conviviality had drained from his face. He looked anguished, his eyes starting from his head. He turned to the landlord. "That man will not drink at this bar tonight!"

  "What man, Phil?" the puzzled landlord asked.

  Phil pointed. "That man. That—"

  But the figure at the end of the bar had disappeared.

  Phil suddenly clutched at his throat and collapsed.

  * * *

  An hour later the doctor had gone from the master suite at the Winning Post and Phil, heavily sedated, was asleep. Dot and Harry sat in armchairs at his bedside. They drank

  strong coffee.

  She stared anxiously at the sleeping figure. "What's happening to him, Harry? Is he really ill? Did he have some kind of attack?"

  He winced at her choice of words. He tried to reassure her. "The doctor said nervous exhaustion. Nothing to worry about. It's been one helluva day. Three horses and three wins—it's pretty amazing!"

  "Mo said he was waving his arms and talking nonsense. D'you think someone spiked his drink?"

  He shook his head. "What would they gain from it? I think he's just stressed. The media's given him a rep it's hard to live up to."

  But it was nothing to do with that, Harry knew. Phil had made money too quickly and, some might say, too easily. Like all such insecure folk, Phil thrived on media attention. The real problem was his brother-in-law's ingrained superstitious nature that created monsters from the dark that might rob him of his wealth. The sooner he could rid the world of Luke Smith and Tam McBride the better—and present Phil with their heads on a gilded platter.

  "Get some sleep, sis. I'll sit with him a while." He handed her his room key. "Tell Mo to shove up."

  When she had gone, he took Luke's mugshot from his pocket and stared at it. He had to make that guy his priority. Unlike Phil, he had no problem eliminating trash. As far as he was concerned, he would be doing the world a favour

  16

  Cath and Luke dressed in the early daylight that flooded in through the cottage windows. They embraced and kissed.

  He studied her. "Y'know, you should grow your hair. You'd look really something with it longer."

  "D'you think short hair makes me look butch?" She had never asked the question before and was curious to hear his answer.

  "Not one little bit. You're a beautiful rawni. But you'd look even better with it longer." He added, with a touch of pride, " our juvals always keep their hair long."

  "I had it long once," she admitted. "I don't think it would suit me so well now."

  "Why not? Try it, just for me."

  "Mebbe I will."

  He caught her look of anxiety. Puzzled, he let the subject lapse.

  "You know, I've gypsy traveller blood in me," she confessed with a self-conscious smile. "The Taylors from Cumbria and the Prices from Wales. It's a few generations back. I suppose that makes me a diddekai."

  "I knew it!" he exclaimed. "You don't get healing skills like yours in the gorgio world. Least not any more. They had them way back when they were poor like us and lived in the villages, but th
at's gone long ago. You've kept your skills 'cos you're still out here in touch with the earth." He beamed at her. "How far back did you have the blood?"

  "My grandfather was a Price," she admitted. "He married a herbalist called Janet Strange. I feel ashamed for letting the bloodline down."

  "Don't! The Stranges have our blood." He laughed. "You're almost a poshrat!"

  He grabbed her suddenly and hugged her. "Welcome back!"

  She felt a warmth and comfort in his embrace she had never known before, not even with Matt. She found she was holding him tightly, reluctant to let go. Eventually they pulled apart and looked at each other, their eyes filled with mutual approval.

  "Fancy bacon and eggs?" she suggested.

  He noticed her anxiety had vanished completely. "I'd like just you. In a dish. With cream. I'd lick it all up!"

  They laughed. He was pleased to see a subtle hint of modesty at his comment. Juvals, he believed, should never indulge in excessive bawdiness, or they risked making themselves look cheap. It was something he had absorbed from talk between his father and Taiso, when they sat around Taiso's campfire years ago. He had understood it to mean that sexual longing should always be clothed in restraint. Not that he and Cath had shown much of that! But their relationship was a private matter, not on public display.

  They went downstairs. As Cath was about to leave, Angie barged in with a breakfast tray.

  "Oh—God!" Angie exclaimed at the sight of them.

  Cath smiled. "Thanks. You've saved me a job."

  Angie flung the tray to the floor. "Get it yourself!" She turned on her heel and fled.

  Cath hurried after her. "Angie—wait!"

  Luke stared at the mess on the floor. He shrugged. "Room service just ain't what it used to be." He rescued the bacon and fried bread. "Looks like I'm on short rations."

  Cath hurried back to the farmhouse expecting to find Angie waiting to confront her, but her daughter was not downstairs. She found her in her bedroom packing a travelling

  bag. "Angelica—stop this!" she exclaimed.

  Angie rounded on her mother in fury. "You stop it! You should put a red light over this farm!"

  Cath raised her hand to slap her. She caught herself in time. Mother and daughter stared at each other, both shocked. Angie flung herself on the bed weeping, as Luke appeared in the doorway eating a slice of fried bread.

  "What did I do?" he exclaimed in dismay. "I can cook my own breakfast if it would stop a war!"

  * * *

  Cath and Luke sat at the kitchen table poring over an old hardback book on gypsy travellers.

  "It's my grandfather's book. I've often looked through it. Its images have haunted me," she admitted. "Now everything's falling into place."

  It was true. The deep attraction to gypsy travellers she had felt from an early age. Her decision to have gypsies working on the fruit picking, rather than the local women Matt had always used. She remembered telling Matt she thought they would be more reliable, as the locals only came if they had nothing to do that was better paid. Matt agreed to give them a try as long as she organised it, and it worked out well. The fruit pickers were Woods and Boswells, and she had gotten to know Sy through them. They never let her down.

  "They prob'ly knew you had some of the blood," Luke said when she told him her thoughts. "Our juvals—and specially the rawnis—are canny like that."

  They looked at the photographs in the book. She was struck by the composure and dignity in the bearing of the elders and the radiant self-confidence of the teenagers and children. She told him her impressions.

  "That was waggon time," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "We all know those days will never come again. Now it's just one big struggle."

  "You'd call it the gypsy travellers' Golden Age then?"

  He nodded, too moved by the old photographs to say more.

  She felt a profound sense of loss stealing over her. It was her peoples' loss, her own loss. In gorgios' terms the modern-day plight of gypsy travellers must have been like the sweeping to power of William the First, called by historians "the Conqueror," and the establishment of the feudal system, the so-called Norman yoke. Or the apparently unstoppable enclosure movement that deprived the landless poor of the common land they depended on to eke out a living. The gorgios had paid a high price, but they had survived. But would the gypsies?

  They put the book aside, divining each other's feelings that they had seen enough images of waggon time for now. The photographs of healthy gypsy children, of vigorous groups of hop and strawberry pickers, were causing them both too much pain to continue.

  "I'm going to try an experiment," she announced suddenly. It was time to face her demons and to tackle an issue that had haunted her for years. His presence gave her the strength that had been lacking for so long.

  She spread a large-scale map of the area on the kitchen table, then suspended a pendulum above it. She had seen her mother use the technique from the years they had spent on the dry chalk lands to the east, where water diviners were in demand in the digging of artesian wells.

  He watched with intense anticipation. He didn't speak, not wishing to break her concentration. The pendulum swung back and forth for a while as she moved her hand slowly above the map. Then it began to revolve. She took a pencil and marked an X on the map.

  "D'you know the spot?" he asked, his voice betraying his feelings. "Will we find evidence there?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. Just bear with me. I'm searching for recent burials. The closest I can get is this field. I'd need a larger-scale map to get more detail, and I haven't got one."

  He was beset by a rush of emotion. "What d'you think we'll find?"

  "I've no idea. The place isn't named on this map, but locals have always called it Hudson's Field. I s'pose 'cause Abe Hudson owned it for most of his life, back in Victorian times. The field belongs to one of my neighbours, and we're not on very good terms, so I hope he doesn't see us and start shouting."

  Angie was still sulking, so Luke helped Cath tether the goats and feed the pigs, then he donned Matt's smart all-weather jacket and best cap as he had at the races because, as they were both aware, he was still a wanted man. Then he joined her in the Land Rover, and she followed a narrow back lane for half a mile until they stopped in the gateway to a small pasture. They set off across the field, Luke carrying a navvy's shovel. An old brick barn stood in the middle of the field. He followed her into the barn. The place was empty. It had an earth floor thinly covered with wisps of old straw.

  "If I'm right so far, this is where we'll find something." She quartered the barn until

  the pendulum responded. "I've done my bit," she smiled. "Now it's your turn."

  She held his jacket and cap and he began to dig. A short while later they stood at the edge of a shallow grave. In the grave lay the skeletons of a man and a dog.

  "Old Musker and Nip," he announced solemnly. "Evidence at last."

  "There's no point going to the police, though, is there?" she cautioned. "We'd have to get past Hirst. Once word of our find gets out, he could still destroy the case. These bones don't put Phil Yates at the scene—or anyone else, come to that. It's a suspicious death, but it just looks like some old mumper and his dog."

  "Guess you're right," he admitted. "But at least we've found 'em."

  He covered the bones again, leaving a little meat and a generous sprinkling of beer on the grave. "We used always to make gifts to the dead," he explained, "even if they were buried in a Christian churchyard. We'd need one of our old rawnis to lay their spirits to rest. Taiso will know one."

  They drove on a little further and turned on to a different lane. She left the Land Rover on the verge and they walked down the lane together. The leaves of the oaks and hawthorns in the hedgerows rustled softly in the breeze.

  "I knew there were gypsies in the old stopping place," she explained, "so I drove down on the shortcut we've just used to see if their womenfolk wanted to earn some cash

/>   plucking chickens. We used to raise a lot of meat on the farm back then."

  "Is this Hob Lane?" he asked with intense interest. "I don't rightly remember the place. I only have mem'ries of the fire."

  "This is Hob Lane," she assured him. "I suppose Hob's been down here longer'n anyone."

  "Let's hope we can get him on our side!" He smiled, though his manner remained

  tense with anticipation.

  As she talked, he imagined her as a stunningly attractive seventeen-year-old, with a mass of curly black hair. She had left her Land Rover in the fading twilight at the end of the lane, shielded from view by a belt of trees.

  "The gypsies were camped in the lane by this little wood." They stood on the verge with the wood behind them. Birdsong drifted down through the trees. "I'm finding it hard to believe that violence could happen in such a tranquil spot," she admitted. "But I know what I saw." She pointed. "I could see the travellers' trailer pulled on just there."

  She watched as he walked away from her along the grass verge. The sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves faded away as he heard again the voices from fifteen years ago, voices that he would never forget…

  "Riley. Luke. Look after the gryes. And your dadu. They's all we got!"

  "Let me come with you!"

  "Your job's to take care o' your dai, my girl. She's all we got!"

  "We're only gonna nick a bit o' gorgios' grass…"

  Luke wept quietly, as the nightmare scene replayed in his mind. After a while he returned to Cath, who was still standing on the verge by the little wood.

  "Tell me what happened, Cath. Tell me what you saw." His face was filled with pleading. She took a deep breath.

  "Old Musker was putting up his bender just a few yards from where you're standing.

  I remember I waved to him…and he waved back." She struggled with herself for a moment, as the pain of the memories almost overwhelmed her. "Then they came…suddenly…Phil Yates and Harry Rooke, in Nigel Hirst's car."