The Horse Dancer

by Jojo Moyes

'A ferry. I know they cross all the time. Look, I've got the money. And we both have passports. I just need to . . .'

  He was gesturing to someone seated a short distance away behind the big sheet of glass. A colleague, in the same liveried blazer, got up and approached the window. She took in Sarah's bedraggled appearance, the passport in her hand. 'You can't take a horse on with the foot passengers,' the woman said, when the man had explained.

  'I know that.' Anxiety hardened Sarah's voice. 'I'm not stupid. I just want to know how I can get a passage for him.'

  'He has to be on a transporter. You need to go via a specialist company. He's got to have veterinary papers. There are Defra rules about transporting livestock.'

  'He's not livestock. He's a Selle Francais.'

  'I don't care if he's a Pekinese. But there are strict controls about how animals cross the Channel and unless you can convince me that two of those legs are fake, that includes him.'

  'Can you help me? Can you tell me where I can find a company like that? It's really urgent.'

  The damp, brightly lit room was closing in on her. She had tied Boo to the white railing outside and, through the window, she could see him standing obediently, even as a small group gathered around him, children reaching from their parents' arms to touch him.

  'I need to cross tonight,' she said, and her voice broke.

  'There's no way you'll be doing that, not without papers. We can't just put a horse on a passenger ferry.'

  Someone was tutting. She felt suddenly exhausted, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. There was no point. She could hear it in their voices. She turned wordlessly and walked towards the door.

  'What did she think it is here? Ride On Ride Off?' She could hear them laughing as she went outside, the cold breeze buffeting her sideways on.

  She untied Boo. A transporter? Papers? How was she supposed to have known all this? She gazed across at the ferry. The ramp was down, and vehicles were slowly bridging the gap between land and ship, guided into their narrow queues by men in neon tabards. There was no chance she could get him past them. No chance at all. A great suppressed sob worked its way up through her chest. How could she have been so stupid?

  A man approached her. He looked Boo up and down with the kind of benign assessing gaze that spoke of someone who knew horses. 'Are you on some kind of sponsored ride?' he said.

  'No. Yes,' she said, wiping her eyes. 'Yes. I'm on a sponsored ride. I need to get to France.'

  'I heard what you said in there. You'll be wanting lairage,' he said.

  'Lairage?'

  'It's like a hotel for horses. There's a place about four miles down the road. They'll be able to sort you out. Here.' He scribbled a name on a business card and handed it to her. 'Go back to the roundabout, take the third exit and you'll find it three or four miles down. Bit basic, but it's clean and it won't cost you too much. Looks like your horse could do with a rest, anyway.'

  She stared at the card. 'Willett's Farm', he had written. 'Thank you,' she called, but he had already gone, and her voice was carried away on the sea breeze.

  Natasha sat back in her chair, passing the silver horse from hand to hand. It had tarnished a little, and she rubbed it, watching the smudge of grey discolour her fingers.

  Richard, the senior partner, was in conversation with a client. His booming voice and the ramshackle acoustics of the old building meant the sound carried up the corridor as if he was next door. He was laughing now, a hearty, explosive sound. She wondered, briefly, what Linda had heard of her own telephone conversations over the past years: booked MOTs, missed smear tests, the spluttering objections of her failing marriage. She had never considered how audible her words might have been.

  It was a quarter to four.

  The files in front of her were neatly stacked and labelled. She placed the little horse carefully on top. Sarah, in her way, was no different from Ali Ahmadi. She had seen an opportunity and taken it; the route of all children whose early years had forced them to rely only upon themselves. Her behaviour, although unpredictable, was not inexplicable.

  And although Natasha was angry, she knew she couldn't blame the girl. She blamed herself, for thinking she could absorb Sarah into her life with no cost, no ripples to upset her carefully organised existence. And, as with Ali Ahmadi, she had been repaid in spades.

  It had taken her almost forty minutes to persuade Mrs Persey that Richard was the right person to take over her case.

  'But I want you,' she had protested. 'You know what my husband's like. You said you'd be there.'

  'We instructed Michael Harrington for a reason. He's the finest, toughest advocate in this field. Believe me, Mrs Persey, my absence won't disadvantage you in the slightest. With luck, I'll be back within a day or two, and in the meantime Richard is fully briefed and ready for you.'

  She had been forced to offer a concession in payment, for the 'inconvenience'. It would, Richard said tersely, have to come from her own fee. Natasha suspected Mrs Persey wouldn't notice whether or not it appeared on her final bill - and would certainly notice the amount a lot less than Natasha - but she was the kind of woman who needed to feel she had gained something from any exchange. If that was what it took to retain the client, Richard said, then that was what had to be done. His little hmph of displeasure when she had uttered the words 'family emergency' had given her sudden sympathy for her colleagues with children.

  'Natasha? Is this some sort of joke?' Conor entered her room without knocking. She had half expected him.

  'No, it's not,' she said, standing and ferreting in a drawer for her keys. 'Yes, I'm handing over the Persey case and, yes, everyone can manage quite well without me for a couple of days. With luck, I might even be back by tomorrow.'

  'You can't just drop the bloody case. This is a huge deal, Natasha. It's in the papers.'

  'Richard will take it while I'm gone. She's got Harrington for the financial deal, and after today I'd be very surprised if they don't agree the custody issues. Our mousy Miss Devlin may have done us a favour.'

  Conor stood at the other side of her desk, his hands resting on it. 'Mrs Persey wants you. You can't babysit her through the lead-up and leave her bang in the middle of it.'

  'I've already discussed it with her. I'm not down to take any more witnesses. I can leave the rest to Harrington.'

  He began to shake his head, but she blustered on: 'Conor, neither of them really cares about Lucy's welfare - this case is about money and score-settling. That's all most divorces are about, as you well know.'

  'But where are you going?' said Conor.

  'I'm not sure.'

  'You're not sure?'

  Linda had walked in with a mug of tea, Ben tailing her. 'This is interesting,' she murmured.

  'Family emergency,' Natasha said, closing her briefcase.

  Conor stared at her. 'The girl. I thought you were putting her back in the care of Social Services. She was meant to be someone else's job now.'

  Her eyes told him to be quiet. She could see Ben and Linda's curiosity.

  'Let Mac deal with it.'

  'I can't.'

  'Mac?' Linda repeated, no longer even pretending not to listen. 'Your ex Mac? What's he got to do with anything?'

  Natasha ignored her. 'Mac doesn't know where to start,' she said. 'He can't do this by himself.'

  'Oh, yes. And we always have to drop everything for Mac, after all.'

  'It's not like that.'

  'Then let the police deal with it. It's theft.'

  Linda put the tea down the table. 'Is this anything I can help with?' she asked.

  Natasha said nothing.

  Conor's jaw was set. 'Natasha, I have to tell you, if you walk out on this case at this point, you're effectively committing career suicide as far as this firm goes.'

  'I have no choice.'

  'Don't be so dramatic.'

  '"Career suicide"? Who's the one being dramatic?'

  'Natasha. It's the Persey divorce. You have instructed Mich
ael Harrington. The outcome of this case might decide whether or not you make partner. It may make the reputation of this firm. You cannot just drop everything to chase after some dodgy kid who probably tricked you into looking after her in the first place.'

  Natasha stood up and went to the window. 'Lin, Ben, can we have a minute, please?' She waited until they had gone. She had a strong suspicion that they were outside the door, and lowered her voice. 'Conor, I--'

  'Didn't you catch her stealing? And you've never been sure about her. Not from day one.'

  'You don't know the full story, Conor.'

  'I wonder why that is.'

  'Okay. What would you do, then, if it was one of your kids?'

  'But she's not one of your kids. That's the whole bloody point.'

  'I have a legal responsibility for her. She's a fourteen-year-old girl.'

  'A girl who this morning you were cursing for stealing your credit card.'

  'Her being a thief doesn't absolve me of responsibility.'

  'But is a little thief worth ruining your career for? Jesus, Natasha, just a few weeks ago you were worried that that kid with the mileage problem was going to ruin your career. Now you're about to throw it up for a scumbag you're not even representing.'

  She heard his words as one of those children might hear them, scumbag, thief, writing them off. She reached for her coat.

  'Look,' he said, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm just trying to protect you.'

  'This isn't about trying to protect me, is it, Conor? This isn't about trying to protect my career.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'This is about Mac. You can't bear the fact that I took her on with him and now that her disappearance means I have to deal with him.'

  'Oh, get over yourself.'

  'So what is it?'

  'I'm a partner in this firm, Natasha. If you disappear halfway through this case, we don't just lose money, our reputation takes a massive kicking. And how hard do you think it'll be for us to pick up a decent bloody silk for the next big case if they think they're going to be left in the lurch halfway through?'

  'Who needs to know? I may even be back by tomorrow. And I'll explain it to Harrington. He'll understand.'

  'It's more than I bloody can. You're going to throw away everything -' there was a horrible emphasis on the word '- on a kid you don't even like and an ex-husband who made your life a misery. Well, good luck,' he said. His voice was icy. 'I hope it was all worth it.'

  The building had never been among the most solidly built. But this time the crash of the door against its frame was enough to knock several books off the shelves.

  Boo heard the sound before she did. He had been so tired over the last half-mile that she had almost wept with guilt at every step. He dragged each hoof, his head hanging low, begging her with every reluctant muscle to let him stop. But she had had no choice: aching, her bones deadened by tiredness, she had urged him onward. Finally, when she had seen the sign that told her Willett's Farm was a half-mile up on the right, she had dismounted and walked, to allow him even that slight respite, tears of exhaustion mingling with the rain that ran down her face.

  And then they had heard it, carried towards then on the blustery wind: a distant crash, a grunt and a squeal, men's voices raised, then gone as the gust briefly changed direction. The effect on Boo was electric. His head shot up, his exhaustion forgotten, and he stopped, his whole body tuning to this unexpected sound. Horses are cynical creatures, Papa had once told her. They will always expect the worst. Boo, brave as he was, began to quiver, and as she strained to hear what he was hearing, she had to suppress a shiver. The sound, faint as it was, told of something terrible ahead.

  They walked forward, Boo with the delicate, trippy gait of a creature half afraid to see what was there, yet unable to prevent itself looking; the equine equivalent of a nightdress-clad woman in a horror movie.

  They stood in the gateway and stared at the scene in front of them. A huge HGV lorry was parked in the centre of the yard, its brightly lit rear revealed to them, its unexpected reds too garish in the dark. A woman in a quilted jacket hovered at the edge of the ramp, her hands raised to her face, while inside two men struggled to hold on to a horse who appeared strangely buckled, its rear end forced down, its front not visible. A partition appeared to have partly collapsed across it, and the two men, shouting and gesturing to each other, were trying to untangle it.

  Blood was everywhere. It coated the floor, had splashed up on the metallic sides of the trailer; it carried towards Sarah in a fine mist so that she tasted a faint hint of iron on her lips. Boo snorted and backed away in fear.

  'I can't stop it. I need another bandage, Bob.' One of the men was kneeling on the horse's neck, injecting it with something. He tossed the syringe aside. His arms were scarlet, his face smeared with red. The horse's legs thrashed convulsively, and the heavier man near the back cursed as a hoof connected with his knee.

  'The vet's coming,' the woman shouted, 'but it'll take him a few minutes. He's up at Jake's.' She climbed into the lorry, attempted to brace the partition away from the horse.

  'We don't have a few minutes.'

  'Can I do anything?'

  The woman turned, took in Boo, Sarah's riding hat - shorthand symbols that said she might be of some use. She jerked her head towards a stable. 'Bung him in there, sweetheart and help me lift this.'

  'She's not insured, Jackie,' the older man grunted, as he wrestled with a bolt in the floor.

  'We're not going to get this off him otherwise,' the man at the back said, in a thick Irish accent. 'Jesus, old fella, how the hell did you get yourself in this mess?' His head disappeared behind the partition. 'This sedative's making no damn difference at all. Have you got another syringe, Jackie?'

  Sarah shoved Boo into the stable and ran back to the lorry.

  'There's a cabinet in the office there,' the woman barked at her. 'It's open. Find a bottle marked - Ah, hell, what is it? - Romifidine and a syringe and bring them out, would you?'

  She flew, energised by the terrible atmosphere, the desperate banging and crashing that was still coming from the lorry. She scrabbled in the cabinet until she located a small clear bottle and a plastic-wrapped needle. As she got back, the woman's hand was already thrust out for them.

  'Ah, Jesus, Jackie, I think he's snapped it.' She heard the despairing voice in the lorry. Blood was dripping down the rubber mats and on to the cobbled yard. She watched it spread in oily ovals around each stone.

  'Give him the sedative anyway. It's not going to make any difference to him if he has, and if he's borderline it might just keep him still long enough. Where's the bloody vet?'

  'Here.' Jackie gestured to Sarah. 'Try and hold that up.'

  Sarah climbed up on to the back and grabbed the bottom of the partition, which was badly buckled. Her hands slid along its base, already slick with blood. She stared out at the yard, trying not to look at the horse alongside her.

  Jackie was ripping at the needle's plastic covering with her teeth. She unscrewed the bottle top, thrust the point into the neck and pulled the plunger, then handed it further back inside the lorry. Sarah jumped as a rear leg kicked towards her.

  'You okay there, sweetheart?'

  She nodded mutely. The two men were soaked in blood; a sickly slick swam around the horse's rear, its movement leisurely, ominous, almost pulsing. Sarah saw that her jeans, her jacket, were already smeared with it.

  'Easy, fella, easy there now.' The Irishman was soothing the horse. 'There. His eyes are closing, Jackie. I think that one's done it. But I can't get to the leg until we've got the partition out.'

  Sarah's back hurt, but she couldn't tell them. She glanced up as headlights swung into the yard, blinding her, then heard a car door slam, wet footsteps. A red-headed man was running up the ramp, his case already open. 'Ah, hell, this doesn't look too pretty.'

  'We think he may have done his leg, Tim.'

  'That's an awful lot of blood. H
ow long's he been bleeding like this?'

  'Minutes. I've tourniqueted the off fore, but it took a hell of a crack when he went down.'

  The horse's legs were still now, save for the odd feeble kick. Sarah watched the vet crouch, his back to her, and begin his examination. His actions were obscured from view by the Irishman, and the part of the partition that had not yet collapsed.

  'I couldn't tell you how he did it. He panicked when we unloaded the yearling, went up and somehow got his front leg over the top. When he pulled backwards he dragged the whole lot down on himself. It happened so fast, I can't believe it.'

  'Never ceases to amaze me the trouble horses can bring on themselves. Come on, let's get this partition out so I can take a better look at him. You girls take the back end, and we'll pull him towards us and free the front.'

  Sarah braced herself, sweating now, conscious of the curly-haired woman beside her who was puce with effort. Her jacket smelt of blood and cigarette smoke. Finally the huge central partition was released. They angled it, removing it carefully from the lorry, carried it down the ramp and stood it against the side.

  Jackie wiped her hands on the front of her jeans, apparently heedless of the marks she left there. 'You all right?'

  Sarah nodded. Her own jeans were dark red.

  'Come away,' the woman said. 'Nothing you can do now. We'll go into the office. I'll put some tea on. You want a cup?'

  The thought of hot tea was so tempting that Sarah was rendered briefly speechless. She followed Jackie into the little office and sat where she was told. The grey plastic chair was streaked immediately with the blood from her clothes.

  'Rotten ruddy business,' Jackie was saying, as she filled the kettle. 'We only lose a couple a year, but it gets me every time. It's not Thom's fault. He's one of the careful ones.' She glanced behind her. 'Sugar? It's good for shock.'

  'Yes, please.' She was shaking. She had caught a glimpse of the horse when the partition had gone: he had looked like Boo.

  'I'll give you two. I'm having two. Bloody horse.'

  A large whiteboard hung on one wall with some fourteen horses' names entered on it. Documentation, Defra guidelines and a list of emergency numbers were pinned beside its. Various hauliers had struck cards to the wall, beside the odd Christmas card and photographs of unnamed horses. Sarah recognised Jackie beside one.

  'Here.'

  She accepted the tea, grateful for the warmth of the hot mug in her chilled hands.