Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  For an instant he froze. Then the cogs started turning again. There was nowhere to hide so he would have to bluff his way out.

  As the door banged shut, he nipped across the room, grabbed and uncapped a half-full bottle of spirits and gulped a hasty mouthful, sloshing a little down his shirtfront for good measure.

  Letting himself out on to the landing, he slammed the door behind him, then turned and gave a theatrical ‘Shhh!’.

  Leo sprang up the last few steps, clearly furious, to be met with a smile of pure innocence.

  ‘Whoops! Wrong door,’ he said, slurring his speech and leaning forward confidingly toward him.

  He patted Leo’s arm and, with the extreme care of the somewhat less than sober, made his way past him and started across the landing.

  He almost made it.

  Leo, frowning intently, watched him for a moment or two, then with sudden fury lashed out and caught Ross’ shoulder as he passed by, spinning him round again.

  ‘What were you doing in my room?’ he demanded, eyes glittering dangerously.

  Ross forced himself to relax. ‘Wrong door,’ he repeated stupidly, looking at Leo through half-closed eyes. ‘Not my room at all.’

  Leo caught hold of the American’s shirtfront with both hands and, bearing him backwards, slammed him with vicious force into the doorpost. It caught Ross squarely between the shoulder blades, shocking the air from his lungs and cracking painfully against the back of his head. He gasped involuntarily and through the momentary haze of pain, heard the dog whine and growl on the other side of the door.

  Leo’s face was only inches from his own and as Ross’ vision sorted itself out he saw the groom’s fury relax into an equally unpleasant smirk.

  ‘Been drinking, have you, Yank?’ he said slowly, and then sniffed close to Ross. ‘Maybe you have at that.’ His grin widened. ‘Perhaps the Yankee wonder boy is having a little trouble with his nerves.’

  You can say that again, Ross thought.

  He felt Leo’s grip loosen slightly then and seized his chance. Swinging his left hand sideways to find the door handle, he twisted it open before his captor realised what he was doing.

  With a rush the German Shepherd filled the doorway, hackles up and lips bristling with a warning that was backed up by two rows of gleaming white teeth.

  Leo’s hands dropped away from Ross as if he had suddenly become too hot to touch.

  The dog growled and licked its lips ominously.

  ‘Okay, Yank. You win this time,’ Leo conceded as he backed away, eyes never wavering from the dog. ‘But if I were you I’d be careful. You may not always have your pooch around to look after you.’

  Ross felt he should say something but didn’t know what and hadn’t completely recovered his breath, so he caught hold of the dog’s collar to prevent it from following Leo and smiled in what he hoped was an intensely irritating manner.

  As Leo reached the relative safety of his own door, he paused, his confidence returning a little.

  ‘I heard your nerves were shot,’ he said, transferring his black gaze to Ross once more. ‘Now I see it’s true.’

  With a deft movement he retreated into his room and the door closed behind him.

  Ross swung away from the support of the doorpost with a painful sigh. His sleuthing effort had shown him that Leo quite possibly had something to hide – his reaction had been extreme even for someone with his quick temper – and demonstrated how close beneath the surface violence lay.

  It had also, Ross thought despondently, done little for their future working relationship.

  He wondered what twist of fate had brought the other man back so early, and why he hadn’t heard him arrive.

  ‘C’mon, boy.’ Ruffling the dog’s fur affectionately, Ross went into his room and shut the door, resting his aching head against the cool paintwork for a moment.

  All in all, he was beginning to wish he was drunk.

  10

  It was Wednesday and Ross wasn’t having a good day. Bishop had trodden on his toe at feeding time; he had spilled a cup of coffee at breakfast; Leo was smirking at him in an infuriating manner every time they passed; and he had a headache.

  It was now mid-morning. The day was cloudy but stickily hot and Ginger seemed to be in a state of nervous tension.

  When Ross went to her stable to collect her she was already tacked up and as he put out his hand to take her rein she flinched away as if he made a habit of hitting her. Concerned, he patted her, reassuring her with his voice, but she remained edgy, ears flicking back and forth agitatedly.

  Still talking quietly to her, he led her out into the yard. As they reached the doorway, Leo strolled by with a bucket and haynet. Ginger started nervously, throwing her head up, and the nearside rein pulled off the bit ring and came away in Ross’ hand.

  He cursed, caught hold of the mare’s bridle and then looked closely at the stud billet fastening. It appeared undamaged. Whoever had cleaned it last had obviously not fastened it properly. If that had come undone while he was riding . . . And on Ginger, of all horses!

  He re-attached the rein, checking the other one and making a mental note to have a word with Sarah, under whose care Ginger came.

  He rode the chestnut mare into the school, trying to be patient and calm with her. Much to his annoyance, Bill came and stood leaning on the gate, watching. After twenty minutes or so of suppling exercises, during which Ginger contrived to remain totally stiff and uncompromising, Ross turned his attention to the scattering of low training fences in the centre of the arena. Both he and the mare were soaked with sweat and equally determined not to let the other dominate.

  Ginger approached the smallest of the obstacles at a grudging and uncomfortable canter. Six feet away she dug her toes in and came to a ragged halt. Ross circled the mare away and back to the fence, coaxing a fraction more speed from her. She flattened her ears crossly and refused again, her body rock-hard with tension.

  Ross sat still, regarding the fidgety, foxy ears, his legs moving with the rhythm of her breathing, and tried to puzzle out her odd behaviour. There was nothing to be gained from trying to bully her when she was like this. After a moment he patted her sweaty neck and she flinched away from his hand. She had been badly frightened at some point, that was for sure, but why was she so moody?

  Suddenly, Ginger threw up her head and ran back a few paces, jerking Ross rudely to attention. Bill was halfway across the school towards him, a lunge whip in his hand. The mare snorted, regarding the whip with horror.

  ‘Stay back!’ Ross called, urgently.

  Bill appeared not to hear. ‘Thought I’d get behind her with this. That’ll make her think,’ he suggested, indicating the whip with its six-foot thong.

  ‘No!’ Ross said sharply. He could feel Ginger’s rising panic. ‘Just leave her to me.’

  ‘You don’t seem to be making much of a job of it,’ Bill grunted but he stopped, nonetheless.

  Ross ignored him.

  ‘One good crack’d soon get her going,’ the ex-jockey persisted. ‘I wouldn’t touch her with it.’

  ‘She has a phobia about whips,’ Ross explained with fragile patience. ‘Believe me, it would do far more harm than good.’

  ‘You’re too soft on her. She needs a firm hand.’

  ‘She’s completely spaced out! She needs to go back to square one and be brought on slowly,’ Ross argued. ‘And even then I don’t think she’ll ever make the top. She hasn’t got the temperament for this game.’

  ‘Well, one of you hasn’t, that’s for sure,’ Bill agreed, turning away.

  ‘What in hell do you mean by that?’ Ross demanded of his departing back.

  The little man didn’t answer. He didn’t have to and they both knew it.

  Ross seethed inwardly, annoyed at himself for rising to the bait and knowing as he did so that Bill’s words had only hit home because his self-confidence was already badly dented where Ginger was concerned.

  Stiffly, he dismounted,
aware for the first time that his back was bruised. Memories of the previous night nagged at him for the umpteenth time that morning. It was worse than physical pain to have given Leo a feeling of power over him, however false its basis. With his already shaky reputation, the rumour that he had hit the bottle could spell death to his career. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision but one that with hindsight he bitterly regretted. Better by far to have faced Leo on equal terms and taken the consequences there and then.

  Easy to be wise now.

  He went to work on Ginger again, leading her over a pole on the ground, then walking her over a raised pole. She relaxed slowly and by the end of half an hour he was riding her over crossed poles at two foot six. He called it a day, supposing he had achieved something, though it gave him little satisfaction to finish up where he’d intended starting.

  ‘She’ll have to do better than that tonight,’ Bill observed as Ross led the weary horse back into the yard.

  ‘I’m not taking her tonight,’ he said shortly. ‘She needs more work. I’ll take Clown instead.’

  ‘More work, huh?’ The stable manager gave Ross a long, hard look. ‘If you say so.’

  Ross ignored him. It was becoming easier. ‘Sarah,’ he called. ‘Ginger needs sponging down.’

  She looked up from filling water buckets. ‘I don’t do her any more. Leo does. He said he’d cleared it with you.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Ross said under his breath.

  Leo appeared to take Ginger’s rein, smirking unpleasantly. The chestnut drew back nervously and her unsettled state suddenly made sense, as did the unfastened rein of earlier.

  ‘Leave her!’ Ross said sharply. He turned to Bill. ‘Did you know anything about this?’

  ‘No, nothing. And I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.’

  ‘How was I to know it was such a big deal?’ Leo demanded. ‘Sarah wanted to look after Woody, so I said I’d swap, that’s all.’

  ‘I – I didn’t,’ she protested, round-eyed.

  ‘Well, you’ll go back to doing her from now on,’ Ross told Sarah. ‘And you’ll ask me personally before you make any such changes in future, do you understand?’

  Sarah flushed fiery red and stammered in confusion.

  Ross waved a dismissive hand and turned away, running his fingers through his damp hair. Life seemed to be becoming very complicated.

  Ross arrived at the Lea Farm evening show in a mood of increasing irritation. He had offered to take Danny along, as a treat for the younger boy, and to give Leo the evening off, as a treat for himself. Unfortunately, Bill turned down the offer on Danny’s behalf and he was stuck with Leo, who now had the added encouragement of knowing that he was beginning to get to Ross.

  On the way to the show they had been followed for a stretch by a police car going about its duty and Leo took great delight in advising Ross to drive carefully. ‘You wouldn’t want to be breathalysed,’ he remarked slyly.

  Ross ignored him and Leo chuckled about it for a lot longer than was necessary.

  The crowd at Lea Farm was the usual bunch. Many of them acknowledged Ross with a nod or a wave as he arrived, and later, as he warmed Clown up in the exercise ring, a friendly voice hailed him.

  ‘Hi, Mick!’ Ross said, with pleasure, reining Clown in. ‘Haven’t seen you here before.’

  ‘It is rather on the edge of my range,’ Mick Colby agreed. ‘But I heard that all the big names were coming here now . . .’ He gave the American a sideways glance.

  ‘. . . and you thought you might learn something from watching them,’ Ross finished smoothly.

  Colby made a face and swung his horse away, laughing.

  Clown was on his toes. He hadn’t jumped in an indoor arena before and entered the ring with eyes on stalks, ogling the crowd, the jumps and the timing apparatus as though he suspected an ambush. When Ross asked him for a steady canter round the top of the arena prior to starting, the skewbald leapt into a short bouncy stride that made his teeth rattle. Expecting the worst, Ross put him at the first fence.

  More by luck than judgement they safely negotiated the first three before flattening a gate which descended with a ‘whoomph’ that excited the young horse still further. He cleared one more fence, then took three foot six of planks out by the roots, stumbled, and bucked in annoyance. Ross pulled him up sharply, touched the brim of his crash hat to signify retirement and rode Clown, jiggling and sweating, from the arena. Nothing would be gained by persevering in that manner.

  The voice behind the microphone was sympathetic and Ross was thankful that he hadn’t got Harry Douglas’ barbed comments to put up with.

  ‘Is that what I’m supposed to watch and learn from?’ Colby asked, pausing on his way into the ring.

  ‘Son of a bitch! Did you see him?’ Ross demanded, disgustedly. ‘Still, it’ll give you new boys a chance.’

  He dismounted and patted Clown’s brown and white neck as the crowd applauded Colby’s entry into the arena.

  ‘Problems?’ Franklin Richmond came up behind him.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ve got plenty of my own,’ Ross responded glibly, then remembered to whom he was speaking. ‘Oh, Lord, I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny,’ he said quickly.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Franklin was unoffended. ‘I expect you have. I’ve just seen that groom of yours sitting on the horsebox ramp, smoking.’

  Ross looked heavenwards. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he promised. ‘But to be honest, I’ve about had it with him. He’s got a serious attitude problem and if he’s not careful, he’ll be out on his ear.’

  When he reached the lorry, Leo had finished his cigarette and was tacking up Flowergirl. Ross decided to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being.

  Back at the exercise ring he discovered the Colonel, Lindsay and James Roberts leaning on the rails. He slipped off the mare and went to greet them, his eyes on Lindsay’s cotton-clad figure. She had twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head in a cool, sophisticated style. Ross thought she looked wonderful and experienced a sharp stab of jealousy seeing James standing with one arm casually circling her waist.

  He greeted his boss politely, then turned to Lindsay.

  ‘No luck with the necklace, I’m afraid.’

  She looked stricken. ‘Oh, Ross, I’m so sorry! I should have rung you. James found it this morning, and one of the earrings. They’d fallen under the seat in the MG but he had to take it out to get at them. I forgot you might be looking for them. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m just glad you found them,’ he replied.

  ‘Me too. Mother would have killed me. She gave them to me on my eighteenth.’

  ‘So, did she drag you along again?’ Ross commiserated with James. ‘You’ll have to get her interested in a lady-like pursuit, like flower-arranging or knitting.’

  Lindsay scowled at him. ‘It was James’ idea to come, not mine,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Well, I knew she wanted to come really and you know what women are,’ James said, looking over her head at Ross. ‘If they can’t do what they want to, they sulk for days.’

  ‘Tell me about it!’ he agreed.

  ‘Oh! You’re insufferable, both of you,’ Lindsay gasped, torn between annoyance and reluctant amusement. ‘Come on, Uncle John, you’re a gentleman. Take me away from these two chauvinistic louts! Ross, I hope you fall off!’

  The Colonel obligingly tucked her hand through his arm and together they turned away.

  James grinned, shrugged expressively to Ross and followed.

  Ross mounted and began to work at suppling the brown mare, thinking that he liked Lindsay’s fiance very much and at the same time wishing him on the other side of the world.

  Mick Colby appeared, having changed from his novice ride on to King’s Defender. Ross thought the old horse looked happy and well.

  Gradually, the exercise ring filled up again. Stephen Douglas rode by on China Lily and later Ross saw the big chestnut, Telamon, being ridden by a hefty, florid-faced rider he didn�
�t know. The horse looked even leaner than he remembered and just as unhappy.

  Flowergirl jumped a typically energetic round but tipped a pole into the tanbark for four faults. It was one of those evenings. The class was eventually won by Douglas, whose mare was in cracking form, with Colby taking second place. Ross didn’t see what happened to the chestnut and his new jockey, save that the horse preceded the rider from the arena by the best part of a minute.

  As Ross was walking Flo back to the horsebox, Leo appeared unexpectedly, riding Woodsmoke. A neighbouring groom was keeping an eye on the lorry, he said, in answer to Ross’ query. He wore a cat-with-the-cream smile that made Ross distinctly uneasy and he checked Woody’s tack closely before mounting.

  Franklin’s horse jumped carefully into the jump-off in the last class but Flo dropped another unlucky pole. Douglas also had a fence down and glared murderously at Ross as if daring him to find it funny. Ross just turned away.

  In the jump-off, the competition was fierce and although Woodsmoke did his best, he couldn’t find the speed to beat his younger rivals.

  Leo had disappeared in the direction of the horsebox with Flo and Ross was preparing to follow when Colby jumped off King beside him.

  ‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘Not your evening, was it?’

  ‘Can’t win ’em all,’ Ross observed, philosophically.

  ‘Don’t I know it? Hey, sorry to hear about Black Bishop. Damn shame!’

  Ross stopped in his tracks. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’ Colby looked confused. ‘I heard you’d lost the ride . . .’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. Fella on the grey told me. I don’t know who told him. It’s not true then?’

  ‘If it is, nobody’s told me,’ Ross assured him. ‘And I can do without that kind of rumour.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to scotch it.’

  ‘Obliged.’ Ross returned to the lorry, recalling Leo’s smugness and deciding not to give him the satisfaction of mentioning the matter.

  They drove home in heavy silence. As they turned off the main road into Wiltshire’s rabbit warren of lanes, Leo reached inside his denim jacket and produced a hip flask.