‘Ah, but everybody reports on the favourites. I wanted to do an article about the others. After all, there can only be one winner, but there wouldn’t be a race at all if it wasn’t for the also-rans. People who keep horses for the sheer love of the sport are the real backbone of the industry.’ Ben laid it on thickly, mentally gagging on the syrupy words.
‘Well, of course, everybody likes a winner; we wouldn’t do it otherwise,’ Rackham said, unbending a little. ‘But, as you say, it’s the horses themselves that are important when all’s said and done.’
A voice hailed him from the top of the broad sweep of stairs and Rackham pulled the door a little closer, his body blocking Ben’s view of the interior almost completely. ‘Look, it’s really not the best moment …’
‘Of course, I’m sorry. Some other time, maybe? The thing is, I’m on a bit of a deadline here.’
‘This evening, perhaps? I could meet you at the yard. The horses are with Belinda Kepple at Wincanton – but then of course you’d know that. I usually look in at evening stables; six o’clockish. Can you make that?’
‘Certainly. I’ll be there. Thank you.’
The voice called again and Ben caught sight of an unmistakably feminine pair of legs descending the stairs before Rackham nodded his dismissal and withdrew, pulling the door smartly shut in his visitor’s face.
Ben turned away, smiling to himself. Whoever that had been on the stairs, he was prepared to lay odds it wasn’t Mrs Rackham. Those legs and that slightly husky voice had belonged to a female far younger than the doctor, and his demeanour had smacked of someone with a guilty conscience. He wondered if Rackham’s wife was away temporarily or for good. Perhaps his sins had finally caught up with him. Either way, Ben reflected, the good doctor wasn’t letting her absence get him down.
Deprived of the chance to interview Rackham immediately, Ben found himself with no excuse not to return to the cottage and make a stab at clearing his daunting backlog of mail. And there was always the bookkeeping to do.
If they were positioned tidily, it was just possible to fit two cars on the small rectangle of gravel in front of Dairy Cottage. However, the cream, 1972 VW Beetle that was occupying this space when Ben got back, was parked diagonally across it. Leaving the Mitsubishi on communal ground, he went across to open his front door and, raising his voice to compete with the strains of Madame Butterfly, called out, ‘Lisa?’
‘Ben! I’m in the bath.’
‘You’ve parked the stegosaurus across both spaces. Where are the keys?’
‘On the hall table,’ came the response, to the accompaniment of watery sounds. ‘Sorry.’
Having repositioned the vehicles, Ben returned to the cottage, turned the radio down, made two mugs of coffee and took them into the bathroom.
‘Coffee?’
The large, white-tiled bathroom was foggy with fragrant steam, and Ben crossed to open a window.
‘I’ll catch my death!’ said a voice from the huge, corner bath, with a theatrical shudder.
‘Nonsense. Fresh air is good for you.’ Ben turned to survey the bather fondly.
Up to her chin in bubbles, Lisa Nelson, his girlfriend of eighteen months or so, reached out a frothy hand to accept the mug. On the rounded side of slim, she had shoulder-length, dark blonde hair, blue eyes and good – if unexceptional – features that were lifted to beauty by her dazzlingly sweet smile.
‘Join me,’ she invited.
Ben shook his head. ‘Too cold with the window open,’ he said, and then stepped back smartly as she threw her wet sponge at him. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you had a tour this weekend.’
Lisa worked for a company that organised select holidays in the south-west of England, taking in sites of cultural and historical interest. Small groups of wealthy tourists were put up for two or three nights at a time in country house hotels, from where they were collected by guides like her, who showed them the best that the area had to offer. This meant that she was, like Ben, away for days at a time, sometimes returning to the cottage and sometimes to her parental home in Hampshire – whichever was the closer.
‘Yes, I have. I worked all day yesterday and did a garden visit this morning, but this afternoon’s trip was scuppered by some protest group making a nuisance of themselves. Management decided to implement Plan B, so my lot joined up with Natasha’s group and did Stonehenge instead.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Actually, I think most of them were quite pleased, but it means finding somewhere else for them later in the week when they should have been going to Stonehenge. Oh, well.’
‘So who was protesting, and where?’ Ben asked, only mildly interested.
‘Some animal rights group. We were taking our lot to the open day at Belinda Kepple’s stables – you know, the racehorse trainer, just outside Wincanton. Unfortunately these animal liberation people got to hear about it and apparently they were marching up and down outside the gates, chanting slogans and waving banners. The open day was going ahead but management thought it was an unnecessary risk, besides spoiling the experience somewhat.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know which group it was, would you?’
‘No. Not the foggiest. I was told, but it wasn’t one I’d ever heard of.’
‘It wasn’t ALSA, by any chance, was it?’
Lisa frowned. ‘It could have been. Something about animals and sport, I think, if that helps. Why? Is it important?’
‘It might be.’ Ben finished his coffee. ‘I think I might just go over there and have a look-see.’
‘Good Lord! You must be hard up for news,’ Lisa exclaimed. ‘Do you have to go? I’ve got to go back this evening for the theatre, but I thought we might spend some quality time together this afternoon – if you know what I mean …’
‘Sorry. Hold that thought though, I shouldn’t be long,’ he said, leaning over the edge of the bath to kiss her.
Lisa lifted her face to accommodate him, but at the last moment substituted a large handful of foam, and then squealed as he threatened to duck her.
‘I might not be in the mood later,’ she called as he went on his way, wiping soap bubbles from his chin. ‘Especially after you stole my bacon from the fridge!’
By the time Ben got to Wincanton the road outside Belinda Kepple’s stables was empty of any protesters. A couple of bright orange, printed leaflets had blown against the hedge, and he picked one up. It was indeed from ALSA, and the content held no great surprises. Full of righteous zeal, it urged the good people of England to lobby their local MPs to ban all forms of sport and entertainment that involved the exploitation of animals. It listed several incidents in which racehorses had had to be destroyed, and preached at length about the cruelty of forcing any creature to work or perform: from circus animals through to greyhounds and riding horses, even sheepdogs. The message ended by calling on all compassionate people to join the crusade and bring some hope to the lives of thousands of helpless creatures.
At the bottom of the leaflet there was also a website address where, it was suggested, monetary donations could be made to help further the cause.
Ben pocketed the note thoughtfully and then looked up to find that he was being watched fairly closely by a burly policeman and his equally burly German Shepherd dog.
‘The fun’s over, mate. You might as well go home,’ the policeman told him.
‘And the open day?’
‘Cancelled.’
Ben looked back down the road to where the Mitsubishi was parked, at a discreet distance, then back at the dog handler. The German Shepherd licked its lips, eyeing him intently.
‘Bet you were flavour of the month, exploiting one of God’s creatures as you do,’ he said with amusement, nodding towards the dog.
The policeman had obviously been born without a sense of humour. ‘If you’d just move along please, sir.’
‘You don’t happen to know where the group were going when they left here?’
Man and dog took a step forward, the
dog looking a little too eager for Ben’s liking. He held up a hand. ‘OK, I’m going.’
Back in his car, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment or two. Where would the protesters go after so resounding a victory? Somewhere to celebrate, perhaps? It was just possible, he supposed, that that somewhere might be Wincanton. It was worth a try. Reversing the vehicle into a convenient gateway, he set off back the way he had come.
Ben had only visited Wincanton once before but he struck lucky straight away. He pulled into the car park of the first of its half-dozen or so pubs, backed into one of the few remaining parking spaces, and the first thing he saw was a young lad of not much more than thirteen or fourteen, with a handful of familiar orange leaflets and a collecting box. Ben switched the engine off and sat back in his seat.
On the face of it, it didn’t seem likely that he would learn a lot from someone as young as this lad, but there had been times in his journalistic career when a youthful contact had provided a wealth of useful information. People tended not to notice when kids were around. They were easily overlooked. Many a frank discussion had been overheard by a youngster and repeated, almost verbatim, to Ben’s receptive ears.
It was worth a try. But where were the others? In the warmth of the pub having lunch, or around the town, spreading the word?
With a mental shrug, Ben stepped out on to the tarmac. The lad had given up his position by the door and now sat on one of the deserted picnic tables, looking cold and fed up. He was a lightly built child, and Ben wondered whether he had overestimated his age.
Ben looked away to get his jacket and lock the vehicle and, when he turned back, trouble had arrived in the shape of four older and far bigger boys who had surrounded the lad with the flyers. Ben guessed the collecting box was probably the object of the newcomers’ interest, but they had plainly decided to have a little sport with the youngster first.
He started to walk over.
Still too far away to catch what was being said, he could nevertheless see that the boy was very frightened. He’d scrambled over the table to get away from the bullies, but this had left him trapped between them and the wall of the pub. The boys approached, swaggering, and the gaps between them decreased until they were virtually shoulder to shoulder.
Drawing closer, still unseen by any of the players in the drama, Ben judged that the older boys were in their late teens, and two of them were quite sizeable. He seethed, inwardly. Mikey had been bullied at one of his schools, due no doubt to his academic difficulties, and the experience had blighted his life for several long months. Ben had been furious when he found out, and that same fury rose in him now.
Where were the other ALSA members? They should never have left a young lad on his own with a collecting box; it was asking for trouble.
‘Everything all right, Kenny?’ Ben had no idea what the lad’s name was, but tried it on the premise that the bullies might be deterred if they thought he was connected to the boy in some way.
All five youngsters turned to look at him; the ALSA boy with a dawning hope, the others with varying degrees of insolence.
‘Fuck off,’ one of them said, dismissively, before returning his attention to his victim.
‘Sorry. No can do,’ Ben said lightly, but beneath his turtleneck sweater his heart-rate was climbing rapidly.
The one who had spoken swung round.
‘What?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I said, no.’
The other three turned to face Ben as well, sensing new sport. The smallest of them, a lad with a thin, spotty face, grinned nastily and said, ‘You can take him, Mal.’
Ben stopped, not six feet from the group, and tried to catch the eye of the one he’d temporarily christened Kenny, to urge him to make a run for it while the bullies’ backs were turned. But he seemed rooted to the spot.
The ringleader, presumably Mal, took a couple of steps forward and leered unpleasantly at Ben, showing teeth already stained by tobacco.
‘Well?’ he said.
Ben stared back at him, silently. He couldn’t think of any response that wouldn’t further inflame the situation.
His very stillness seemed to unnerve Mal a little. His confident snarl faltered and he glanced to his side, as if to reassure himself that the gang were still there. They were, and one of them advanced a step or two, stabbing a finger in Ben’s direction.
‘Why don’t you fuck off before you get hurt?’
‘I expect you know you’re on CCTV,’ Ben said quietly. ‘How long d’you think you’ve got before the cops get here?’
Two of the gang looked round uncertainly but the one called Mal shook his head crossly. ‘He’s bluffing.’
He was right. Ben had no idea if CCTV was operational in the vicinity, but the thought of it was clearly unsettling them.
‘C’mon, Mal. Let’s get the money and go,’ the spotty one said, and at that moment the ALSA lad made a break for it, dodging round the tables and heading away towards the car park.
He wasn’t quite quick enough.
Mal threw an arm out sideways as he passed and fastened on to the lad’s bomber jacket, swinging him round and gathering him in like a spider with a fly.
The others abandoned Ben in favour of easier prey, and the youngster squealed in fear as the collecting box was torn from his grasp and he was pushed backwards to the point where the fixed bench of the picnic table caught him behind the knees, forcing him to sit down. The thugs gathered round, Mal leaning over the lad and resting one hand on the table either side of him, his face not six inches from the boy’s own.
The youngster whimpered, petrified, and Ben saw red.
With clenched jaw he strode forward, caught hold of Mal’s shoulder and pulled him roughly away.
The ringleader staggered back, a look of incredulous surprise on his face, and Ben shoved him backwards, hard, before he could regain his balance. He stumbled back a few more strides, then lowered his head and charged like an enraged bull.
Ben sidestepped neatly, casually hooking his toe round Mal’s ankle as he passed, and his would-be assailant measured his length on the tarmac amongst the table legs.
That was all very well as far as it went but, unfortunately, the idea that by taking out the leader, you take out the gang, didn’t hold true. Ben turned his head to see what, if anything, the rest of them were going to do about this manhandling of their comrade, just as the spotty one launched himself, with a kind of primeval scream, at his back.
3
EVEN THOUGH SPOTTY was the smallest of the four, the combination of his weight and momentum, catching Ben off balance, was enough to send him crashing sideways into another of the wooden tables, and from there to the ground. The fall shook the two of them apart but, even as Ben rolled and came to his feet, the others, emboldened by Spotty’s success, joined the attack.
Ben managed a couple of wild swings with his fists before he was overpowered and pulled backwards. The hard edge of the closest bench caught him behind the knees and, with one of the lads holding each arm, his upper body was bent back over the tabletop and held there, the planking digging painfully into his ribs.
He couldn’t move.
For a moment sheer, blind panic took over. Reason went out of the window and, with no regard for the discomfort of his unnatural position and the fact that struggling would make it worse, he fought against them, writhing and kicking out blindly with both feet.
‘Christ! Hold him! The bastard nearly took my knee out!’ From somewhere in front of Ben, Mal’s voice cut through the haze, bringing him to his senses. He stopped kicking, took deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. He found though, to his dismay, that whilst he could to some extent control his breathing, he couldn’t control the muscle tremor that had set in.
At Mal’s bidding, the two holding Ben transferred their grip to pin both his wrists and his shoulders flat to the table, and he had to bite his lip in an effort to stay silent under the increased strain. It occurred t
o him, dismally, that it wasn’t the first time they’d done this; their moves were way too efficient and well-synchronised for that. He managed to get his feet flat on the tarmac and lift some of the weight off his body, but his back was arched and his stomach felt horrendously vulnerable. He tried not to think about what Mal might intend doing next.
He found out soon enough.
His feet were swept forward and, robbed of even that tenuous support, Ben’s bodyweight dropped, wholesale, on to the right angles of the table and bench. Wincing, he fought another surge of terror.
‘Ahh. He’s shaking. The tough guy isn’t so tough after all, is he boys?’
Mal came round to Ben’s right side and leaned over him, grinning and affording him a less than enviable view of the stained teeth, pale skin and eyebrow stud. He opened his mouth and put out his tongue to display another stud then laughed and, with his forearm, bounced on Ben’s midriff.
That was more than enough. This time he couldn’t prevent a grunt of pain. His back was killing him. Much more of that kind of abuse and he was afraid something would rupture. His knowledge of anatomy was sketchy at best, but something plainly had to be done, and fast.
Mal moved his forearm up to rest across Ben’s throat.
Oh God, no!
Mal must have seen the fear in his eyes because he chuckled again. ‘You don’t like that, do you? Well, now you know why no one fuckin’ messes with me!’
He began to lean and Ben felt panic rising as his breathing was restricted. He couldn’t think that Mal really intended to kill him in broad daylight, in so public a place, but neither was he sure the youngster knew his own strength, and how easily fatal damage could be caused in just such a way.
‘Credit card – back pocket,’ he gasped.
The pressure continued to mount.
‘I can take those anyway,’ Mal pointed out.
Ben shook his head slightly.
‘Pin … number,’ he managed, hoarsely. His vision was dissolving into a mass of black patches.
Outside Chance Page 5
