Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

He bowed his head, shock numbing his senses so that the rain ran, unfelt, down his neck and inside his shirt. It was a moment or two before he realised that beneath his hands the dog’s ribcage was moving slightly.

  With urgency born of hope, Ross gathered the huge, limp form into his arms and slipped and slid his way back up the path to the yard. Somewhere on the way, the wind blew his hat off and whirled it away into the darkness. He hardly noticed, heading straight for the shed where the Land-Rover was housed. It was obvious the animal needed immediate veterinary attention and a journey in his own open-topped jeep was plainly out of the question.

  Wishing there was a light in the shed, Ross laid the dog in the back of the Land-Rover, removing his coat to cover him with. He retrieved the ignition key from the ledge over the doorway and climbed into the front. Before he could fit the key into the ignition, however, a beam of light caught him directly in the face.

  ‘What the hell?’ he gasped, throwing up his hand to shield his eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ a voice demanded. ‘Ross?’

  ‘Roland!’ Ross was equally astounded.

  The beam of light dropped and a flash of lightning through the doorway illuminated the unmistakable features of the Colonel’s son. He too was hatless and, unsurprisingly, drenched.

  ‘Out of the way!’ Ross shouted above the drumming of the rain on the tin roof. He gunned the engine.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Roland flashed his torch round the interior of the vehicle. ‘Oh, hell! What happened? No. Forget it. You get going. I’ll ring Roger and let him know you’re coming. Go!’

  Ross switched the lights on and accelerated out into the downpour. The headlights stabbed out bravely through the shining rods of rain as he drove up the lane but it was like looking through frosted glass. The windscreen wipers scraped frantically at the screen but could make little impression.

  Ross drove craned forward in an effort to see more clearly, his knuckles white on the wheel. Twenty-five miles an hour seemed suicidal. He did forty.

  Water was cascading along the sides of the road and flooding across it in places. Trees tossed and swayed in the gusty wind and small branches littered the tarmac. The twelve or so miles to Roger West’s house took an eternity, and Ross prayed he hadn’t missed his way in the chaotic darkness. He’d only been there once before.

  The vet, alerted by Roland’s call, had switched on an outside light and when Ross drove up was waiting in the doorway of the small animal surgery that his partner normally occupied during working hours. A flash and simultaneous crack of thunder as Ross opened the door of the Land-Rover proved that the storm was at its peak, directly overhead.

  ‘Go on through!’ Roger shouted as he stood back to let the American and his sorry burden go by. ‘Lord, what a night!’

  It seemed a lifetime that Ross stood making pools of rainwater on the grey linoleum while Roger examined the battered and bedraggled animal on his operating table, occasionally darting questions at Ross. The dog had regained consciousness at some point during the wild drive but he had neither the inclination, nor perhaps the ability, to move. Blood mingled with the water running out of his fur.

  Now that the need for urgent action on Ross’ part had passed, so had the sustaining adrenalin. Into its place crept a miserable resignation.

  From somewhere in his past, a line from Kipling repeated on his consciousness: Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware, of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

  How true, he reflected, but a lesson never learned. He’d been stung before and still he had come back for more.

  Well, never again.

  Roger was looking up, his expression sympathetic. Words were not needed.

  ‘If it’s that bad, end it.’ Ross was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

  The vet pursed his lips. ‘There is a chance. Just a slim one but I’m willing to try . . .’

  The dog raised its black muzzle and gazed through pain-filled brown eyes at the two men. Blood oozed in the wet fur and his legs lay limp on the tabletop.

  ‘What d’you think’s wrong with him?’ Ross asked.

  ‘It’s hard to tell, exactly,’ Roger said. ‘I would’ve said he’d been hit by a car but you say he was nowhere near the road. However, his injuries suggest he’s been hit by something and probably more than once. There’s one gash here, on his head, but he’s also got several broken ribs and there are massive contusions. There may be internal damage and his spine may be affected.’

  ‘Are you saying he’ll be paralysed?’

  Roger shrugged. ‘It’s a strong possibility. It may be only temporary, I can’t tell. He could possibly make a full recovery, though at this point I’d have to say that that was doubtful.’

  Ross nodded, digesting the information. His throat ached with grief.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Roger asked gently.

  Ross watched his dog for a moment longer, then turned away, unable to bear the unshaken trust in those beautiful eyes. ‘You decide,’ he said. ‘Make a clinical decision. I can’t think straight. You decide and send me the bill.’

  ‘Ross, I can’t do that!’ Roger protested. ‘It’s your dog. I need your permission, your written permission, strictly speaking.’

  ‘You have my permission to do what you think is best,’ he said, making for the door. He knew he was shirking the responsibility and wasn’t proud of himself. But equally, he trusted the vet to do the right thing by the dog.

  ‘Don’t you want to stay, in case . . . ?’ Roger delicately left the question unfinished.

  ‘I have to get back, to check on the horses. Let me know what happens. Send me the bill.’

  Ross stepped forward and gently fondled the dog’s ears. He bent and kissed the top of the sodden head, then left the surgery and went out into the storm. Within seconds he was back in the Land-Rover.

  For a moment he sat and stared through the rain-lashed windscreen with unseeing eyes. He hadn’t realised how fond he’d become of the dog. Stupid to let himself get so attached.

  To Ross it felt as though his life was predestined to go round in circles and he never seemed to learn from his past mistakes. He got bitten and he just went back for more. What did that say for his character? he wondered, as he started the engine. He supposed it denoted either a lack of intelligence or monumental stubbornness. He wasn’t sure he liked either analysis.

  The image of the helpless dog haunted him and he pressed his eyes with the palms of his hands, running his fingers up through his dripping hair. Deliberately, he smothered the grief with anger. Putting the vehicle in gear, he drove out of the yard on to the treacherous roads again.

  Who could do such a thing?

  Had someone been in the yard waiting for the dog, or had it surprised someone bent on other unlawful business?

  Leo was being watched, wasn’t he?

  Was it Franklin’s Mr X who’d clobbered the dog?

  And what of Roland? What could he possibly have been doing in the yard at nearly midnight in such weather?

  Ross remembered Roland sitting fondling the dog while they talked, earlier that day. The dog had trusted him. Could someone befriend an innocent creature and then viciously attack it just hours later? Wearily, he had to admit that he didn’t know any more but if he ever found out who was responsible . . .

  He hit the steering wheel with a clenched fist as he drove.

  By the time Ross returned the Land-Rover to the shed by the Scotts’ cottage, the worst of the storm was over. Thunder still rolled in the distance but it grew fainter all the time and the rain had settled to a steady downpour. Wonderful healing rain to wash away the dust and soften the ground. Wonderful relief for showjumpers’ legs.

  He put the ignition key back on its ledge and sloshed across the yard to the tackroom. The door was secure. One by one, Ross checked all the horses again, reflecting that if Roland had been up to no good, he had certainly left the way clear for him.

  All appeared to be peaceful and in ord
er. The Scotts’ cottage was still in darkness. Ross was grateful that they were heavy sleepers. He felt he could do without either Bill’s acrimony or his wife’s sympathy at that moment.

  He climbed the stairs to his room feeling lifeless and drained of emotion. Even the anger had abated a little, drifting away with the receding storm.

  The light was still on in his bedsit. Roland lay sprawled on the sofa, a towel draped round his neck and his hair spiky from rubbing. It was the first time Ross had seen him in a less than polished state. It made him seem far younger and somehow much more likeable.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

  Ross felt he was past knowing who was genuine or not. He shook his head. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘I left him with Roger but I don’t think there’s much he can do. He’d probably be paralysed anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. How did it happen? Did something fall on him in the storm?’

  ‘I think somebody clubbed him,’ Ross said bluntly, watching Roland closely for a reaction.

  It was minimal. His eyes narrowed slightly and a muscle tightened in his jaw. ‘Oh, hell,’ he said, quietly but forcefully. ‘Why? Why would somebody do that?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘You tell me,’ he said, wondering if Roland could, if he chose to.

  ‘Not Leo again, surely?’

  Ross shrugged, unable to say why it couldn’t have been. How had life ever got so damned complicated? he wondered wearily, shivering a little with delayed shock and the cold sogginess of his clothing. The stockman’s coat he had dropped in the shower cubicle in the bathroom, saturated as it was with rain and the dog’s blood. He’d see to it in the morning.

  Roland was quick to notice. ‘Get dry. I’ll make you some coffee,’ he said briskly. ‘Move on. Put it behind you.’

  Ross turned obediently, then stopped. There was one thing he had to know.

  ‘What were you doing in the yard?’

  Roland spooned coffee into mugs. ‘I was watching the storm from the house. I saw torchlight and came to investigate. I found you.’

  Ross changed into dry clothes and accepted coffee, which he found to be liberally laced with his own whisky. Hazily, he wondered where Roland had found it. He would have to be more careful, with his reputation; though hiding the bottle was even more likely to be seen as an admission of guilt.

  He couldn’t win.

  The liquid restored him halfway to life, and halfway was all he cared to experience for the time being.

  After a period of brooding silence, Roland drained his mug. Patting Ross sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed, he announced his intention of returning to the main house and his bed. ‘Have to get my beauty sleep, don’t you know?’

  Ross thanked him, but he was out of the door before it occurred to the American that that was the first time in the past hour or two that Roland had affected his upper-class-twit persona.

  So, it was just a front. Lindsay was right. And one that had to be consciously maintained, too.

  Hot on the heels of this discovery came the realisation that he hadn’t been carrying a flashlight when he’d searched the yard. Therefore, either Roland had seen the light carried by whoever had attacked the dog – in which case he had certainly taken his time coming to investigate – or he was lying.

  On the whole, Ross hoped it was the former. He had, admittedly, borne the appearance of someone who had rushed out in a hurry, hatless and wearing only shoes rather than boots in the torrential rain. But why so long? Ross must have been in the yard for a good ten minutes before he’d found the injured animal and he had seen no light.

  Too depressed to think straight, he finished his coffee and fell into bed.

  14

  Midway through the next morning the O’Connell horses arrived.

  The six-year-old grey with the deep chest and long, plain head went by the name of Saxon Blue. He stood at the top of the horsebox ramp with head upflung, gazing at his new surroundings, then strode steadily down into the yard. His companion, the brown gelding with the fence fetish, was known as Trooper Joe.

  Ross watched them as they were safely installed in their new quarters; neighbouring boxes for reassurance as they had come together. After a certain amount of whinnying from them and the resident horses they seemed to settle.

  With all the excitement generated by the arrival of the new horses, nobody appeared to notice the absence of the dog, which habitually kept to shady corners out of everybody’s way. Ross was relieved. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it just yet. In his experience, well-meaning sympathy was a bitch for re-opening wounds.

  When the inevitable questions came, he had decided to let it be known that the dog had been hit by the haybarn door swinging in the wind. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he personally had shut and bolted the door the previous evening when the storm was just starting, he might have considered that a plausible explanation himself. That fact and the telephone call he had received at breakfast time.

  He missed the dog more than he would have expected. Theirs had not been a demonstrative relationship, indeed the animal had rarely even wagged its bushy tail, but it had always been around and Ross realised that he had made a habit of talking to it as he passed by.

  Later in the day, Ross took some tack to the saddler’s to be repaired and phoned Franklin from the car park.

  Franklin greeted his call with pleasure swiftly followed by wariness.

  ‘Hello, Ross. Is anything wrong?’

  He briefly related the events of the night before. ‘They didn’t go after the horses,’ he finished. ‘This was either payback for me, or getting rid of the dog before Mr X makes his next move.’

  ‘God, Ross. I’m sorry!’ the businessman exclaimed, genuinely upset. ‘If I could only get my hands on this bastard! I’m not normally a violent man, but just this once! You didn’t see anything, of course . . .’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Ross thought fleetingly of Roland but stayed quiet. He had no real evidence against his boss’s son, and besides that, he even liked the guy, in spite of his oddball affectations.

  ‘I suppose it’s not possible Leo could have given McKinnon’s men the slip?’ he said after a moment. ‘I mean, this is just his style, isn’t it? He never liked the dog and we all know what he thinks of me.’

  Franklin sounded doubtful. ‘It would certainly have been the night for it,’ he allowed. ‘But that’s assuming Leo knew he was being watched, and unless McKinnon’s men have been very careless, there’s no way he could have. Those men are professionals, Ross. I can’t see an amateur like Leo catching them out.’

  ‘It does sound unlikely,’ he agreed. ‘The thing is, I had a phone call this morning. Somebody wanted me to know that what happened to the dog was no accident.’

  ‘They called you?’ Franklin was surprised and not a little alarmed. ‘Oh, God, Ross! I’m sorry! I feel responsible for all this. After all, I got you into it.’

  ‘No way!’ he protested. ‘It’s as much my fight as yours now. This guy has made it personal.’

  ‘No use asking if the voice rang any bells with you, I suppose?’

  ‘’Fraid not. And he wasn’t so helpful as to give me his name. I wouldn’t have described it as an Irish accent, though. It was kinda muffled. Hard to hear what the guy said at all.’

  ‘And the dog?’ Franklin asked. ‘Have you heard from Roger yet?’

  ‘I called him this morning but he still couldn’t say one way or the other. He made it through the night but it’s still touch and go. Roger didn’t sound too hopeful.’

  Cutting through Franklin’s sympathy with the excuse that the mobile phone’s battery was low, Ross said goodbye and switched off, sitting for a moment in thought.

  ‘Be careful,’ Franklin had said as he disconnected. Ross would be careful. Had to be, if he wanted to get through this with his career intact.

  Oakley Manor and the horses had become his life now; became more so with
every day that passed. The trouble was that if his mystery caller was to be believed, his life might be the price he had to pay.

  Somehow, somebody had found out that he was trying to help Franklin. ‘Your dog is dead, Yank,’ the harsh, indistinct voice had told him that morning. ‘And if you don’t learn to mind your own business, you could be next!’

  The big show of the weekend was on the Sunday and when Darcy Richmond arrived late Saturday morning with the intention of taking Sarah out to lunch, Ross gave her the afternoon off. Delighted, she hurried off to change.

  ‘She’s a good kid,’ Ross told Franklin’s nephew as he took him to see the two new horses. ‘She works her socks off here.’

  ‘She loves her job, I know that,’ Darcy told the American. ‘She never stops talking about it.’ He smiled, showing that he didn’t mind. ‘Well, sometimes she does,’ he amended, with a cheeky wink.

  Ross smiled in return, thinking again what a strange pair Darcy and Sarah made.

  Having duly admired the new arrivals, they made their way out into the sunshine once more.

  ‘Jeez! What’ve you been up to?’ Ross asked, seeing Darcy’s face properly for the first time. His left eye bore signs of a fading bruise of quite impressive proportions.

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ Darcy laughed, looking at Ross’ grazed cheekbone, legacy of his encounter with Leo. ‘Although Uncle Frank told me about that.’ He put his fingers up to touch his own marked face. ‘You ought to have seen it a couple of days ago. I’d like to say I got it fighting for a lady’s honour but the sad truth is that I ran into a friend’s racket, playing squash.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Ross said as Sarah emerged from the cottage, washed and changed. ‘Now, don’t forget. Back by six to help get the lorry ready.’

  Barely had Darcy’s silver Nissan swept out of the yard than something much heavier was heard approaching. There was the sound of rapid braking as the two vehicles passed in the long driveway, and then shortly after, a massive, gleaming new horsebox nosed into the yard, dwarfing the older one in the way a touring coach would dwarf a minibus.