Sixteen Horses

by Greg Buchanan

  Years later, Alec had read Elizabeth’s diaries. All of them had just been lying about for anyone to see, all of them now packed in the many boxes of her things reclaimed from her mother, who had no right to any of it – they were Alec’s, after all. They’d never got divorced. They belonged to him; they were the last things Simon would ever have of his mother. They were part of how he would remember her. Of how he might remember his father in turn.

  Alec had read these books, and then he had burned them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Four wooden crates lay far along the shore, hidden in a clearing in the trees.

  None of them moved any more. Within, animals began to rot. Flies flew nearby in strange arcs.

  Rain had begun to seep into the sides.

  Along the shore, a house began to shiver.

  It shuddered with each wave, its pink pastel shifting, its beams groaning.

  The walls fell.

  They fell, even though no one was there to hear it.

  They fell, crushing a human corpse within, cracking its bones and flesh.

  All these things went into the sea.

  An empty crate blew against a tree trunk, skipping around in the wind as if it were playing.

  The water grew closer and closer.

  The rain went on.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Rebecca looked so different from the girl Alec had met at the farm all those weeks ago – scrawny, emaciated, she’d had a horrified look in her eyes – she’d told Alec all she had seen, how she had found the heads, what she had been doing out so early. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d taken her dog for a walk, an animal who was missing, now, who had fled in the confusion of the days that had followed.

  Her eyes had been the first to see.

  In the White Rooms, she stared at Alec once more. She now wore a school uniform, a white blouse and a blue tie, her cheeks red and her eyes hollow.

  There came muffled noises from the floor above. A woman shouting for her keys, hushing a crying baby.

  ‘Hello, Rebecca,’ Alec said, not knowing what else to say.

  Rebecca looked at him, and then Cooper. She was anxious all the while, holding on to the doorway as if it was the only thing keeping her up straight.

  They made their introductions.

  They walked through. Rebecca brought them plastic cups of water.

  Her foster mother sat at her laptop in the corner. She had headphones on. They invited her to sit with them, but she shook her head. It wasn’t her business, she insisted.

  The walls were thin. The yellow thatch wallpaper was flaking in the corner of the lounge, children’s toys everywhere on the cheap lino floor. Alec stepped on one of them by mistake on his way in. He swore under his breath, then apologized to the foster mother, then realized she was so engrossed in her spreadsheets that he might as well leave it. They all sat down around the clear-glass coffee table, a remote control, a stack of magazines. It reminded him of a waiting room.

  They asked their questions. Rebecca promised to answer what she could.

  She confirmed that she’d had a riding lesson. ‘Just one. Months ago. My dad – he doesn’t . . .’

  She hesitated.

  ‘It’s a shame you stopped,’ Cooper said. ‘The other kids spoke highly of you. Said you were really good at it.’

  Rebecca blushed. ‘I don’t think I was.’

  ‘It was your first lesson, though, wasn’t it?’ Cooper asked. ‘You—’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about it?’ Alec rubbed sleep out of one of his eyes.

  ‘What?’ Rebecca turned, confused.

  ‘You had a link with horses. You went to one of the places they were taken. Why didn’t you tell us? It’s OK you didn’t. I just wondered why it didn’t come up.’

  Rebecca didn’t know. They mentioned names of other kids . . . Maryam . . . Peter . . .

  ‘It was months ago,’ she said, drinking her water.

  Rebecca told them about the farm, about her mum and dad’s separation. The summer before Grace had left them, Rebecca’s paternal grandfather had died. That event had in turn marked a change. They’d flown out to the funeral as a family, but coming back . . . Rebecca didn’t know why, but they all grew more distant. All went about their business and chores and farm work without asking the others for help, without crossing paths, without even sitting together in the evenings sometimes, if they could help it. It was gradual, this fragmentation, but inevitable once it had begun.

  ‘I don’t know if they loved each other,’ Rebecca said. The more they were alone, the less they remained themselves.

  One day, after they’d gone out hunting deer, her mother had walked to her office out by the side of the house.

  That had been the last time either Rebecca or her father had ever seen Grace Cole.

  ‘It took three days for us to talk about it,’ Rebecca said, looking down at her drink.

  ‘How do you know she was gone, if you weren’t seeing each other much?’ Alec put down his cup.

  ‘She didn’t cook. None of us . . .’ Rebecca paused. ‘Neither of us cooked until she left us.’

  ‘It’s strange that we were . . . that we were all in there at the same time,’ the girl said.

  They talked about their sickness. About the hospital. Cooper did not correct her; if it gave Rebecca some kind of closeness to believe Cooper had been sick too, then fine.

  On the floor above, an argument was beginning. Low voices had become raised; words became unintelligible shouts.

  ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ Cooper said, her eyes rolling up briefly to the ceiling, more noise flooding through. She realized, immediately, that it must have looked like she was being insincere by looking up. Her cheeks flushed. She didn’t know what to say.

  Alec went on instead.

  ‘Did you receive any letters at the farm, the weeks before all this? Any photographs? Anything strange, or—’

  ‘Letters?’ The girl seemed confused.

  Alec took out his folder.

  He showed her photocopies of the newspaper sheets.

  WE KNOW.

  Images of crates in the woods.

  Cooper was briefly afraid he’d produce worse, but he stopped it there.

  ‘Some of the horse owners received these,’ Alec said, his voice low and gentle. ‘We . . .’ He hesitated.

  Rebecca stared at the photos of crates.

  ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ he asked. ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘No,’ she said, lifting her eyes up with a sigh. ‘I don’t . . .’ It seemed as if a fog had been lifted. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  There was a long pause. The shouting continued above.

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’ he asked. ‘If there—’

  ‘I’ve told you everything, I—’

  ‘My son is missing,’ Alec said. ‘You must have seen the news. You must know.’

  She nodded, her eyes wide, her breath sharpening just a little.

  ‘We need to find him. We need to make sure he’s OK. Whoever did this – we need to find out who they are, we need to find out why they’re doing it.’

  When pushed on it, Rebecca grew quieter.

  ‘That carriage ride you took at the beach . . . who paid for it, Rebecca?’ Alec asked. ‘Who filmed it?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘We know it wasn’t your dad. Was it a friend? A neighbour? Someone from one of your online games? We—’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. No one was filming me.’

  The noise intensified on the floor above.

  Cooper tried not to look up, keeping her eyes on the girl and the girl alone.

  ‘Michael – the man who rode the carriage – he said—’

  ‘It was my dad who paid. It was a birthday present.’ She blinked. ‘I don’t know about anything else.’

  ‘Do you need any help with washing these?’ Alec asked, holding up his plasti
c cup, realizing as he did so how ridiculous the question was. Rebecca shook her head, looking at him with an odd, sad affection. She took them to the door. They had been there an hour. They did not have much more to ask.

  ‘Are you OK here?’ Cooper asked, as she pulled on her green coat.

  Rebecca nodded.

  They opened the door to go. Outside, the hallway was colder now. There was no noise from other rooms. The sun had started to go down, and the halls were darker. Alec wondered what it was like at night, to wander here.

  As Cooper said goodbye, Alec turned.

  ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Your mother. Has she contacted you, recently?’

  ‘Why?’ Rebecca asked, looking at them both. She didn’t say anything else.

  ‘We’ve been finding it difficult to get any kind of contact information,’ he lied. He put his coat on. ‘Only a Facebook profile.’

  ‘We’d like to—’ Cooper began, but Rebecca cut her off.

  ‘Don’t you have her phone number?’

  Alec stared at her.

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ Cooper said. ‘We—’

  ‘Why do you want to get hold of her?’

  Alec tried to smile. ‘Wouldn’t you rather live with her than in a place like this?’

  Rebecca hesitated. ‘I don’t think she—’

  ‘If you’re able to get us in contact, a phone call or a meeting, we can—’

  ‘A meeting?’ Rebecca stared at him. ‘How would you meet her?’

  ‘Like we met, just now. If she’s back in the area, we can—’

  ‘She’s in Portugal,’ Rebecca said. ‘She lives in Portugal.’ She shifted her weight, irritated, upset.

  It hung in the air. A fact. An undeniable statement of truth.

  ‘You could live with her, still,’ Alec said. ‘You’re her daughter. Don’t you want to see her?’

  Rebecca’s eye twitched. ‘I can’t see her. She’s in Portugal. I . . . I live here.’

  ‘But if we can just—’

  ‘You’re talking to her anyway, aren’t you?’ Rebecca said. ‘Why don’t you ask her herself? Why don’t you ask her why she doesn’t come here, hm?’ Rebecca’s face grew slightly red, her words trailing away. ‘Why don’t you ask?’

  ‘She’s talked about me?’

  Cooper put a hand on Alec’s arm. ‘Maybe that’s enough for—’

  ‘She said you wouldn’t leave her alone,’ Rebecca said. ‘She said you were obsessed with her.’

  Down the stairs, there was a noise of footsteps.

  Alec breathed slightly faster, just slightly. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Can you show me your phone?’

  Rebecca glared at him, but it was more than that. It was a mock show of anger.

  She looked close to tears.

  ‘What did she say to you?’ Alec shifted slightly closer. ‘What are you even saying?’ His face twisted. ‘This is all—’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ Cooper said, flatly, stiffly, and took Alec’s arm again, somewhere between a pat and a tug. ‘We’ll leave you to your evening.’

  Rebecca said nothing.

  Alec, halfway down the flight, looked back up, vaguely ashamed, vaguely guilty.

  Rebecca was watching him.

  She turned, suddenly, and shut the door.

  The lonely parted, and all around, an emptiness blossomed in the air.

  I once asked a question: would you rather be careless or cruel?

  But there was a secret, wasn’t there? There was a choice beyond choice.

  A wonderful thing was happening.

  I found myself dancing, that night.

  I found myself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  They had parked up by the wreckage of the old pier.

  The wooden boards ran one hundred feet out into the sea. It had not collapsed, not yet.

  ‘I went on holiday here when I was little.’ Cooper blinked. The wind turbines twisted the skyline, far away. ‘Isn’t that strange? I was here and didn’t even know. My mum told me. Phoned me yesterday.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘The pier hadn’t burned down yet. We—’

  ‘I meant the phone call with your mum. How was it?’

  ‘It was fine,’ she said, dismissive.

  He nodded, and she went on.

  ‘We were on holiday, anyway, the last time I came here. We threw balls at coconuts, ate doughnuts, tried to avoid seagulls. It looks different now, I suppose, but I don’t know how well it was doing, even then. The arcades, for instance . . . a sight like that when I was ten would have been magical. I would have loved it, I think.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you’ll come back again,’ Alec said, quietly. ‘Not after this stay.’

  She smiled, but her green eyes didn’t. ‘Why not? Tons of excitement for all the family.’

  He looked at her, and there was a moment.

  Alec’s voice grew lighter. ‘I never got to know anyone here. George, maybe – maybe he was a friend, I don’t know. Harry, a bit, but never as well. And then there’s . . . there’s you.’

  Still, she said nothing.

  ‘I saw you, the night before you came to Well Farm. In the pub. I was thinking of speaking to you, but . . .’

  Cooper stared at him. ‘Why were you going to speak to me?’

  He looked back at the water.

  Neither spoke for a little while.

  ‘Rebecca’s lying, of course,’ he said, and Cooper nodded.

  ‘What did she mean? When she said you’d talked to Grace – did you?’

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t know what she meant. But it’s interesting, isn’t it? She claims she hasn’t spoken to her mother for a year, then seems to know about her messages. It doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Nothing fits,’ Cooper said, turning back to the sea. He almost thought she was annoyed at him for a moment. ‘Everyone who could help us is dead or lying or gone. This case, it—’

  ‘Sun’s going down.’

  She scowled. ‘And I don’t like how much you interrupt me.’

  ‘You’re just tired, that’s all. I’m really not interrupting you.’

  She scratched her neck.

  ‘Go back to your hotel,’ he said. ‘I’ll hang around a bit, go to the shops before they shut.’

  ‘How will you get back? What are you—’

  ‘Need to get Christmas presents,’ he said. ‘For when Si’s home.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘For you too.’ He winked. Later he would cringe when he was alone, wondering why he’d winked. She just smiled at him though, strangely, differently.

  They said goodbye.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Something in Alec preferred the cold to the heat – the way it felt in his lungs, the way it brushed his face – and with the sun, both things were bearable, in perfect balance. The breeze had started to slow.

  In the usual teeming square, only three stalls were set up. Seagulls looked for food and found little. Soon they would starve, and many would fly away forever.

  All your old favourites. ICE CREAM, TEN FLAVOURS.

  PAPA TEA.

  SHOE & KEY REPAIR. WHILE YOU WAIT.

  AMERICAN CHIP SALON.

  All were closed. It did not even cross Alec’s mind that some of them might be closed indefinitely.

  The military surplus stall was still there. The angry man that had run it was no longer angry. He smiled as if it was Christmas morning itself.

  The streets were mixed with slush and grit in case of ice. It was hard to tell the two things apart.

  An empty motor scooter stood, abandoned, by the only open coffee van.

  Alec went on to the Local. Maybe he’d find something there.

  Inside, only one checkout was open. A stranger cried near the frozen food. Alec did not know whether to say anything, whether to do anything.

  ‘Chcę iść do domu,’ she whispered to her phone. ‘Proszę . . .’

  Alec found a chocolate bea
r in the sweet section, a tiny Christmas bell around its golden wrapping. This would make a start. He bought a bottle of whisky too, a good one. Cooper had bad taste. They could drink it together.

  He went to the checkout, and paid, and left.

  The trees stood against the clear blue sky all around.

  Alec looked ahead, thinking of Cooper, reassessing her, wondering what his son might think of her in turn when they met. Wondering if they’d get along.

  Wondering if, after all this, she might somehow stay here.

  She made him smile.

  Seagulls perched on top of paint-flaked facades and black iron lamp-posts. Neon logos screamed. Empty amusement arcades blared. It was all for no one, no one at all.

  Cooper went out for a run before the day ended, pulling on her purple university hoodie, the big white letters of the Royal Veterinary College on the front below a crest. Animals danced around a picture of a crown.

  The air was cold and dry.

  She headed back along the seafront, past empty sands, beneath a crimson moon. The tides moved, back and forth, back and forth.

  She passed through the park. The trees were lovely that belated autumn day. The leaves had fallen like fire, rapidly, in the false starts and strange beginnings of new winter. They lay in heaps upon the path and beside it. She passed a couple of dog walkers, but no one else. Small greetings in the new dark, even as the sun shone above the dense overgrowth. People said hello, but only their dogs meant it.

  She was already sweating through her green top, despite the crisp chill air. Her purple hoodie hid it all. Thank God for the RVC. She’d been happy enough in her time there. Most of her friends had been American, on the international programme, and had gone back home now. Something about the other British people put her off. Her grades had been middling; she had been involved in far too many extracurriculars at first, too many societies and clubs, her skill in practical application, not theory. It was perhaps strange she’d ended up in the line of work she had, but then she’d always thrived in the unexpected. You find yourself disappointing people enough, you find new people.