“Ok, Samson, take it steady,” I say and gently squeeze his sides.
Samson’s head jerks up and he shivers as he follows the grey shape disappearing down the mountain. Ollie’s trail is clear, the snow has fallen less on this side than the other, and in places the wind has blown the snow to almost nothing, but I’m aware that to me, the path is completely unfamiliar. It may not be for Ollie and Samson though. The break in the snow is short because within seconds, the snowstorm closes around us and the gunshots up the hill become muffled. I almost stop worrying about them and find myself concentrating on Samson’s uneven breathing, his hooves skidding from time to time on stones and on not losing sight of Ollie.
The white is blinding now that dawn’s breaking through. I almost can’t see and I wonder how Samson is negotiating it. It’s as if he’s decided to take me with him. He could just dump me and gallop on down the mountain, but in some curious way he seems to be taking care of me.
This human that can’t ride. One that doesn’t know anything about the mountain.
For what must be half an hour we head steadily downwards.
Gradually he slows, and I realise that I’ve lost sight of Ollie.
“Ollie!” I shout into the wind.
“Ollie!” but he can’t hear me.
“C’mon Samson,” I say, “look sharp.”
But he’s almost strolling now. As if he’s asleep.
I slip down from his back, take the reins over his head and walk alongside him, talking, chattering, encouraging.
The hillside flattens out so we stumble more easily, a little faster, still in Ollie’s tracks.
“We’re getting there, almost down, nearly there and I expect there’s a nice warm stable, with hay and water and…”
Water?
I realise that Samson probably hasn’t had any water since the fire. He must be exhausted. He’s probably suffering from smoke inhalation too. Isn’t that what people die of in fires?
I stop for a minute to look at him. There’s a glimmer of daylight now, not enough to show colours properly but enough to see him. He’s in a sorry state with tufts of burned mane and tail and his thick coat singed in places.
And I asked him to carry me up a mountain, into a gunfight and then down the other side. And he didn’t run and he didn’t throw me off.
I look around for grass or water. A trough? A spring? But everything’s just white. White up, white down, white forwards – so much white.
His lips nuzzle around my hand and collar. Perhaps he remembers the liquorice. “I’ve got nothing,” I say, and then remember the sheep digging through the snow to reach the grass.
Looking up, the sky is darkening again and the blizzard thickens with the day. I’m in a silent snow-filled world of my own with an exhausted pony and I’m beginning to wonder which way is down. I scrape away the snow, pull up a tiny shred of yellowy green grass and wave it under Samson’s nose. I’m surprised but gratified to find that he can eat with the bit in his mouth. He tries the end, and perks up as he nibbles the grass delicately, running his lips over it before embedding his teeth. He nuzzles his head into the hole I’ve made and tugs a few more strands out as I pull more snow away.
After a minute or two, he shakes his head and blows through his nostrils showing signs of waking up. I grab a handful of the lightest freshest snow and hold it under his mouth. He licks a little so I try again.
We walk alongside each other through the snow, dropping slowly down the hillside, meandering in and out of the other pony’s fading hoofprints. A little further on, and Samson stumbles, almost falling to the ground.
Another fifty metres and he stumbles again, this time falling to his knees before standing.
We stop. I can hear the snow falling. I can hear it rustling as it settles on Samson’s back. He tilts his back leg and drops his head as if he’s going to sleep.
“Now look, Samson. You’re going to have to come with me. I can’t leave you here,” I say.
He blasts little fragments of grass through his nose in a snotty sneeze and jerks his head up.
“OK,” I say. “Come on, let’s get down this hill.”
Slowly, I step out along the path left by Ollie’s pony.
Samson walks behind me, placing his feet carefully in the other pony’s footprints.
“Ollie?” I call.
“Ollie?”
A brown shape bounds through the snow.
“Megan,” I say. “Am I glad to see you!”
She barely stops to greet me before turning and heading back into the snow and I follow, almost sure of keeping her in sight. It must mean that Ollie isn’t far away, and I try to get Samson to speed up, but he’s slow.
Maybe he’s being careful.
We plod on.
It’s eerily quiet now. I can’t hear anything. Or almost nothing. No gunshots, but something above me is making a sound. Someone’s walking through the snow, they’re stumbling on the stones and tussocks but they’re moving quite fast.
It could be Peter Romero, but it might not be.
Samson’s ears twirl. He’s listening too.
“Hurry up, fella,” I whisper. “I think we may have company.”
Samson obliges, picking up speed and I stumble along next to him. Down the mountain, the snow’s like white soup, blocking out everything and I’m becoming increasingly aware that Megan’s disappeared again, and that the hoofprints we’ve been following are becoming almost impossible to spot.
It’s hard to hear over our own snow squeaking, but I think someone behind us is definitely making more progress than we are. I pull Samson on and he almost trots. I think he can hear our pursuer and he’s probably remembered the gunshots up at the quarry.
“Steady on,” I whisper, but Samson’s going for it now, so I try an authoritative tug on his reins.
“Stop.” He almost does. I jam my foot in the stirrup and start to slither on to the snow-covered saddle as he picks up speed down the hill.
He drops and rises and staggers but keeps going, he rather than me, following a path. Carrying us down, carrying us further and further away from whoever is chasing us.
“Good, boy,” I mutter, more to reassure myself than Samson, and turn round to see if I can see our pursuer. I can’t, but they could be twenty metres behind, because twenty metres behind is a wall of blizzard.
I lean forwards on to Samson’s neck and try really hard to trust him. He seems sure – far surer than me but I don’t like this at all. He was exhausted earlier and I’m really aware that he must be desperate for proper food and water.
It feels like ages, stumbling down that hillside, completely blind, completely silent but leaving a deadly set of prints in the snow for anyone to follow. I may even have dozed off.
Suddenly, there’s water.
A stream, burbling through the snow, sweeping fast down the hill. And cutting us off.
I look for prints, horse or dog, but I can’t see any. Stupid me, I wasn’t looking and I don’t know where Megan went. I daren’t risk calling, so I slip down from Samson’s back and test the depth of the water. It comes up to the top of my boots, Samson plunges his nose into the stream and drinks.
I really hope it doesn’t hurt a horse, drinking ice-cold water. I vaguely remember it being bad for people but I haven’t the heart to yank his head up and so I join him, sucking up mouthfuls of the stuff, realising how thirsty I am.
I listen out for the person following us, but the stream cuts out all other sound.
Our footprints are clear on the bank though.
“We’re going to have to go through it,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “And I’ll have to ride you.”
I pull myself up into the saddle and Samson obligingly wades into the water. All the stories I’ve ever heard of people being swept downstream by flood waters rush to my mind. The rivers always look so innocent when the TV people go to film them after a tragedy but this stream doesn’t look a bit innocent. It looks deep and icy and black.
Samson staggers downstream before skidding, and then lunging at the other side, which is too steep, so we have to pick our way further down until the far bank is lower. He hesitates for a second, trembling, then springs up, scrabbling at the snow, his hooves skittering all over the sides. I lean forward to help him get out of the water, reaching out to the bank with my hands.
“C’mon, boy, you can do it.”
We’re making a racket, there’s no way we could go unseen after this.
Crack!
I hear the sound and then realise that the little jump of snow that came to my right must have been a bullet.
Samson hears it too and bunches for a giant effort, leaping out of the water; his hooves thrash at the snow, catching and just making the bank. He stands quivering on the side, steam rising from his coat, snow falling on his head.
He stops for a second before breaking into a tentative trot as we head out into the blizzard, blind, clueless and under fire.
Crack!
Another bullet. A little to the left this time, and Samson lumbers into an awkward run, breathing hard and even from up here showing the whites of his eyes.
‘S’all right, lad,’ I say, although I don’t believe it myself. ‘We’ll be all right.’
Crack!
And he falls beneath me.
“No!” I shout, tumbling to the ground with him. He tries to get up but I can see that he’s been hit, his foreleg grazed, ribbons of blood spilling across the snow.
“Samson, no!” I say again as if I can tell him to stop bleeding. All I have left are my gloves. I take them off and hold them against the wound. The blood bubbles up around the side and then seems to slow.
“Good boy, brave boy,” I say. I sound like my mum when the twins have fallen over.
Crack!
A bullet whizzes over my head.
Samson kicks with his back legs, desperate to get on his feet.
“Up you get,” I say, panic rising in my throat. “Come on! You can do it. You’re the toughest horse on the mountain. The meanest pony in the stables, come on, come on.”
Crack!
Another bullet whisks past my cheek.
Samson thrashes and with my help, stands, juddering with pain and fear.
“Good boy,” I say, trying to sound really calm. “Let’s walk a little, eh?”
Crack!
He jerks forwards, his head nodding with every pace, the whites of his eyes showing. Blood spatters red ink blots on to the snow before sinking into the whiteness.
One step
Two
Three
Four
“Brilliant,” I say.
Crack!
An explosion of snow immediately in front of Samson makes him rear, stagger and fall again. This time, sinking deep into a drift, as if he realises it’s no good.
I lie, almost flat on the ground and stroke his nose.
“Come on you brave little horse. Up you get.” I pull at the rein, but his head’s heavy and he won’t lift it. Snow settles on his black eyelashes, and he sinks into the whiteness.
The blood melts the snow around his leg and no matter how hard I press, I can’t stop it. There’s so much. And it’s so red against the white.
Raising his head one last time, he tries to reach his leg with his nose, but he can’t, he falls back against the snow, and then, when the next snowflake falls on his eye, he doesn’t even blink.
The blood seems to slow.
The snow stops melting.
He doesn’t seem to breathe.
“Samson?”
“Samson?”
But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t move at all.
Chapter 27
Blinded by tears, I run, headlong down the mountain and then, just as I’m feeling that I might be heading for a cliff, a low brown shape races across the snow towards me.
“Megan,” I say, and she bounces against me, before tearing off ahead towards a black building looming from the blizzard. I run for it. It turns out to be a barn, but a barn with a track that’s been cleared at some point in the last twenty-four hours.
I catch up with her, and grabbing a skanky length of twine sticking out through the snow, loop it around her collar like a lead.
I don’t want to lose her too.
In the shelter of the building I get my breath back and for a moment I consider hiding inside. I’d be out of the wind, in the almost warmth, but then I imagine myself trapped with the gunmen outside. Megan obviously thinks it’s a bad idea, she growls and pulls me back towards the track. I suspect it goes in the direction of the village that I know must be down here somewhere. The ground rises and we cross the river on an open-sided concrete bridge, still running although Megan seems inexhaustible while my lungs are screaming and my legs are screaming louder.
Another building appears on my right – another barn and we keep up the pace until I see a house with a light on, and a road and more houses.
Thank God. The village.
The houses are clustered together surrounded by stone walls. Everything looks pretty picture-perfect but I need to get somewhere secure, fast. In the middle of the village is a street light, a couple of cars covered in thick snow and a distant unlit petrol station.
I stop, reaching for breath and try to think what to do, but all I can think about is Samson’s body going cold in the snow.
It must be about eight o’clock, surely people are up by now, ready to go to work.
I look for a shop but there doesn’t seem to be one. Instead I pick the house with the most welcoming front door, a Christmas wreath and a light on upstairs.
The green door doesn’t seem to have a bell or a knocker so I hammer with my fist.
“Hold on, hold on,” comes a voice from inside, and a woman in a dressing gown opens the door. Behind her, a boy.
“Gethin!” I say, hugely relieved. “Help me. Samson’s been shot and Sergeant Lewis is back at the farm – he’s hurt too, and I’ve no idea where Ollie is.”
“Goodness,” says Gethin’s mum. “Look at the state of you – come on in child,”
“Maya?” Gethin says. “Is that you? What’s happened? Oh, Megan too.”
Crack!
Next to me the door frame explodes in a fountain of chippings.
“Good Lord!” says Gethin’s mum and she drags me in, slamming the door and sliding a huge bar down behind it. “What’s going on?”
“There’s no—” I start.
Glass crashes in the room next door.
“Oh my word!” she says, reaching for the telephone. She runs for the giant fireplace and stands inside the inglenook prodding at the phone.
Crack!
A bullet races through the broken window and stops in the wall opposite. We all dive on the floor.
“Look I don’t want to put you in danger – I need to get out of here,” I shout.
“Take the truck,” says Gethin’s mum, the phone against her ear. “Police, please,” she says.
“C’mon,” says Gethin, rising to crouch and scuttling through to the back of the house and out into the yard. There’s a truck standing there and he signals that I should climb into the passenger seat. I clamber up and he leaps into the driving seat.
“Can you drive?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, “I’m a farmer’s son.” He guns the engine and we grind across the yard, hurtling out through the gate, past two figures in snowsuits.
The back window of the truck shatters.
“Bloody hell!” shouts Gethin, gunning the engine even more, and swaying from side to side.
“Can we get out of the village?”
“No – the internal roads are open but there was a small avalanche between here and the main road.” We skid through a pile of snow. “We need a tractor to clear it but Dad’s dealing with the cows. I’m sorry but we’re trapped for now. I’m trying to think where to take you.”
“Do you know if there’s a police station, and if it has
a cell?”
“There’s definitely a police station. There’ll be no one there, though, but they always leave it open. Why?”
I check my pockets. I’ve still got my phone, and it’s still got battery.
“I’ve an idea,” I say, wondering if I’ve gone completely mad.
* * *
Gethin dumps me by the police station.
“Take care,” he says. “I think you should just lock yourself inside – but…”
“I’ve got a chance to do this right – I’m going to take it,” I say. “Just find Ollie.”
The truck skids a little and Gethin shoots off up the lane towards the mountain.
I hammer on the door before realising that it’s open just as Gethin said.
“Hello?” I call.
It’s a tiny place. An office with a telephone on a desk, not even a computer, a huge coat rack hung with all sorts of police coats and hats, and at the back a heavy black door with a small slidey hatch in it. A real prison cell. The keys of the cell are hanging in the outside of the door. Inside is a bed, an empty bucket and a pile of blankets. Also a whole stack of paperwork that’s probably been waiting to go somewhere for years.
I reckon I’ve got about twenty minutes before they catch up with me. I load the paperwork on the bed and cover it with the blankets, then I get my phone and record myself talking, with gaps as if I was making a call.
It lets me record for fifteen minutes before it cuts out. I hope that’s long enough.
I press play, and lay the phone into the bucket. The bucket amplifies the sound and together with the old brick walls of the cell it all sounds like I’m in there – talking to someone. Opening the door, a crack, I close the slidey hatch, and leave the keys hanging in the outside of the lock.
Next I take a snow shovel from the wall by the desk, yank a load of coats off the rack, put them just outside the cell next to the door, and burrow inside them.
I don’t need to open the outside door – my footprints through the thick snow lead straight in. And the village is so small, it won’t take them long to find me.
I wait.
* * *
My recording must be reaching an end when I hear running footsteps. There are no shouts. So I don’t think it’s Gethin or Ollie – the feet sound too big. I stay mouse-still. For an age there’s someone outside.
Murder In Midwinter Page 12