by Fiona Walker
‘She went to get help.’
‘Well, she didn’t find it.’
‘Shit.’ He rubbed his face with battered hands, jerked his head for Kit to follow and strode back towards the rescue.
‘My girlfriend’s unaccounted for too,’ Kit kept pace, dialling his own number again, ‘along with the old guy from the stud.’
‘That’s all we fucking need,’ the Aussie gave a hollow laugh, ‘that and an alien invasion.’
They both swung round as they heard a buzzing, like an approaching hornet swarm, an arc of lights appearing on the horizon.
34
‘Keep him chipper, Ronnie. I think the cavalry’s arrived!’ Grey hair covered with sawdust, Gill dashed out from the gap being cut through the cedar debris just in time to see the Turner family arriving over the rise of the hill, a rogue army in convoy. Ancient Discoverys, pick-ups and Isuzus with raised suspensions and roll-bar frames, rows of halogen lamps glaring above the windscreens and on the bull-bars, dog guards and gun racks in the back, rifle mounts on the roofs.
The big off-roaders parked in a line, lamps like stadium lights. A man’s silhouette appeared through them, long-legged and Adonis-chested, a coat over one shoulder, the soldier’s upright stride straight as a Grand Prix horse’s centre line. Spotting Petra’s pretty blonde cleaner standing nearby, arms folded and smiling, Gill hurried across to her. ‘How did you get him to change his mind?’
‘The usual.’ She shrugged, cocking her head as she watched Ash walk towards her. ‘Sex ban.’
‘Works the opposite way for me.’ Gill sighed. ‘No time to lose, let’s get them to work.’
‘You want some help?’ Ash gave Carly an ungracious scowl, handing the coat across. It was one of Flynn’s leather rocker jackets.
She could tell he was mad at her, which made it quits for the night. Ash hated being forced into anything, but Carly needed him to remember what it felt like to do a kind deed and not just a duty. Besides, the foal came first right now.
‘Do what she tells you.’ She pointed at Gill, taking the jacket to go and find the man with her phone.
‘Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.’ Gill beamed at him. ‘How many of you are there?’
There were tens of them, a positive cornucopia of long hair, olive skin, body art and beer belly – Ash was definitely blessed with the best of the family’s genes – and while putting them to work was like herding cats, they could certainly graft once they got going.
Having tasked them all with clearing the debris, Gill hurried through the work-team to check on the foal. ‘How’s he bearing up?’
‘Not great.’
‘We’ll have to get an IV bag in there somehow.’ She called the chainsaw team forwards. The big branch that had to be moved before they could get them out had a girth as big as a mature oak. It could take another hour to clear, they explained.
‘I just need to be able to crawl in to get a catheter into him.’
They cleared a mouse-hole of a gap for her to wriggle through. ‘Can’t make it any bigger.’
‘I’ll never fit through that.’ Thinking fast, she went in search of Carly Turner. ‘How do you feel about small spaces and big needles?’
Carly didn’t need asking twice.
*
Ronnie had cramp almost everywhere it was possible to have cramp, and her right arm was now so numb she couldn’t use it to hold the pressure pad in place. Her left arm had to twist like a contortionist’s in the confined space to keep it there. The space filled up even more as a torch made its way through the maze of branches still caging them in, a soft Wiltshire accent saying, ‘I’m Carly, budge up.’
For the first time in an hour the foal lifted his head and let out a shrill whinny.
‘Hello, Spirit.’
Ronnie watched as she reached out to touch him, ringed fingers threading through the blood-matted gold coat. The tail twitched, the foal’s head settling back with an audible sigh of relief. ‘Spirit?’
‘The Disney horse. It’s just a nickname. I know he’s got a fancy one.’
‘I like it.’
‘All okay there?’ Another torch gleamed along the woody tunnel as Gill started issuing brusque instructions. ‘Now, Ronnie, Carly isn’t a qualified veterinary nurse, so I need to know if you’re happy to let her attach the fluid drip under instruction.’
‘I’ve seen almost every episode of The Supervet,’ Carly reassured her kindly, still stroking the foal. He lifted his head again, this time turning it to look at her, bobbing his pink nose.
Ronnie stared in amazement. Minutes ago she’d thought they were about to lose him. ‘You do what you have to,’ she said, feeling dizzy now.
‘Just don’t tell Paul,’ Gill hissed. ‘He’d never let this happen on his watch. Stickler for rules. I’ve sent him to look for Pip Edwards with your – with Blair Robertson, Ronnie. His attitude was aggravating some of the Turners a bit.’
‘He can be rather abrasive.’ She felt a deep stab of regret that they couldn’t have been abrasive together a bit longer, but his rant about the letter had been like Othello raving about the handkerchief.
‘Right, Carly, first rule of veterinary practice is what?’
‘Sterilisation?’ she suggested.
‘That’ll do.’
Ronnie listened to the jolly head-girl voice, reminded vividly of Gill’s father, Henry. Gill Walcote was the same, an old-fashioned vet who bent the rules to save the animal. Perhaps Petra was right and she wasn’t always to be avoided.
Torch between her teeth, carefully doing as she was told, Carly sterilised and swabbed, clipped, then took out a very large needle, which she stared at nervously.
‘Now, the jugular’s a socking great vein in the groove of the neck,’ Gill shouted down the tunnel. ‘Can’t miss it. You need to aim for cranial third and jab it in.’
‘You what?’
‘We don’t jab, obvs. Turn of phrase. Slide it in. That’s the easy bit. The tough bit’s keeping it in and attaching the rest of the gubbins. We’ll get to that in a bit.’
‘What’s the cranial third?’
‘You know – the cranial third.’
The foal’s head lifted again, white face shooting up this time, looking round in alarm, his wall eye suspicious. He nickered. Carly rubbed his face and he nudged her hand, almost making her drop the needle. He nudged again and she dropped the torch from between her teeth.
‘He wants a treat.’ Carly’s voice was shaking as much as the needle.
‘I think,’ Ronnie said gently, ‘that we’d all be happier in here if we forget the drip for a bit and you just stay here with him until these big branches are cleared, don’t you?’
‘I’d like that,’ Carly said, in a small voice.
‘Gill, we’re going to hold off a bit!’ Ronnie called out. ‘He seems to have rallied.’
‘Suit yourselves. I thought she was doing rather well. I’ll tell the boys to start again.’
Ronnie would have liked to talk to Carly, and tell her about somebody else she knew who had the same remarkable touch with horses, an almost magical way of reassuring them and helping heal. She wanted to ask if her hands got hot like his did, and if she could sense it for hours, sometimes days at a time beforehand. But the chainsaws started up again too loudly for conversation, and she was feeling stupidly tired. Carly would get to meet the Horsemaker in person before long. ‘Spirit’ would too. Letting Carly take over the pressure pad, she leaned back and closed her eyes.
*
‘Ohbuggetybuggetybugger.’ Pip chewed her knuckle as she perched on a pile of old pallets, wondering what to do. Her first instinct was to head home and hide, but her house keys were in her car and she wasn’t sure where it was. She could go to the stud, but she needed to think up her alibi first. It didn’t really cut the mustard to say she’d been on her way to the Austens’ farm when her boot had come off again, and her ankle really hurt, and the storm was really bad, and she’d heard rescuers arri
ving anyway so she’d decided to shelter in the old barn at the end of the field. Then she’d felt a bit scared of everyone thinking she was a lame excuse for an intrepid rescuer. She was lame – the ankle was quite achy – but she guessed it looked bad.
Pip had watched events unfold from her vantage-point, anxious and conflicted. She knew she should have gone back to help long ago, but as well as being a bit sore and embarrassed, she’d always had a phobia of blood, and it had sounded like there was a lot of it.
To keep herself distracted, she’d found Kit Donne’s mobile phone an object of profound fascination, its security swipe code an easy-to-crack H. His contacts list read like the credits of a BBC costume drama. His messages were hilarious – who knew he was so dry-humoured? – the ones to his children especially, a loving weekly banter that all involved seemed to relish. The ones from Orla Gomez made even more riveting reading – she certainly didn’t hold back. Pip thought wistfully of tattooed JD and her broken phone.
Kit was also very popular. The phone had rung so many times, she’d turned it to silent, especially when she’d heard voices shouting for her, although they’d gone away again now.
If they came back, she had a plan. But if they didn’t, she needed one too.
Hearing a loud rustling close by, she fumbled for the phone’s flashlight and blasted it in the direction of the noise. A fat rat looked back at her in surprise.
Rats were better than blood, Pip decided, drawing her knees to her chest and navigating her way to the app store to download Tinder on Kit’s phone so she could sign in and say hello to JD.
*
At last the biggest cedar branch was cut down enough for a small army of tattooed Turners to lift it away, the colt finally freed, his golden coat drenched in red. He struggled straight to his feet, trembling and weak but determined to show his mettle.
Ronnie did likewise, enormously relieved to be liberated and amazed to see the large army of helpers who had achieved it. The field was lit up like a football pitch by a big row of battered four-by-fours with off-road lights, the storm loitering on the far horizon.
‘Deep spike wound but pretty clean entry.’ Gill examined the huge gash in the colt’s shoulder, having put the jugular catheter in with deft professionalism. ‘Nicked a big vein, which is why he bled so much. Good job it wasn’t arterial or we’d have lost him ages ago. We’ll get it cleaned up at the clinic, then see how best to go about patching him up. I’ll call you from there, or you’re welcome to come along, Ronnie. Ronnie?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. Thank you.’ She was finding it hard to focus. She forced a smile, then turned to Carly. ‘And thank you too. You have a gift.’
Carly ducked her head, looking up with wary, pensive eyes. ‘He really going to be all right?’
Before either woman could answer, a voice shouted from the rank of off-roaders, ‘Carl! Come here, bae.’
‘I’d better go.’ She flashed a quick smile and stooped to say goodbye to Spirit.
He whinnied furiously when she walked away, struggling to follow her.
‘Wait there a minute!’ she called over her shoulder, and sprinted off, returning as he was being half loaded, half lifted into the trailer, Gill’s bearded husband holding a fist of Gamgee to staunch fresh bleeding.
‘Can I travel with him?’ she asked Gill. ‘I can hold that for you, if you like.’
‘That would be super.’
‘Health and Safety,’ Paul warned his wife. ‘Best not.’
‘Fuck that.’ Carly was already up the ramp and taking over the task. ‘I’ll sign a disclaimer.’
‘You heard her.’ Gill waved him away. ‘Fuck you.’ She threw up the ramp a moment before her husband stepped off it, propelling him into the darkness. ‘Do you want to come, Ronnie?’
Ronnie was looking round for Blair. ‘No – you go on. I’ve got to get up to the stud. Call me as soon as you have an update. I must thank Pip for raising the alarm.’ She looked round again, the light disappearing as, one by one, the Turner vehicles roared off.
‘It wasn’t Pip.’ Gill marched round to the passenger door while Paul started the engine. ‘It was Kit Donne, bursting into the pub wet through. Quite the hero, and so lovely to have him back. Nobody knows where Pip got to – Blair’s still looking, I think. I’ll call.’
Turning away, Ronnie saw Kit, caught in the headlights of one of the turning cars. He was talking to a red-faced Barry Dawkins, and wearing a black flat cap and an absurd leather jacket. She’d never understood why arty, middle-aged men dressed twenty years younger than they were. Remembering how disagreeable he’d been in the pub car park, she braced herself, shaking her head sharply to stop it feeling so spaced, and headed over.
*
JD had deleted his Tinder account. Pip tried to convince herself this was a good thing but she found it unsettling. She’d have liked to investigate further, but Kit’s phone was down to five per cent battery and she could hear her name being shouted again, much closer this time.
‘Pip! Pip Edwards! Pip, can you hear me?’
She put her plan into action, hurrying out of the barn and back over the fence to the muddy path beside Lord’s Brook, like an Olympic steeplechaser, then lying down and pulling off her still-caked boot. ‘Here!’ she croaked, in a whisper. ‘Over here!’ To add authenticity, she staged a dead faint.
Heavy footfalls, the sweep of a stockman’s coat, the rattle of park railing as it was climbed. Pip scrunched her eyes tightly shut and waited.
‘Pip!’ he shouted.
She recognised Blair Robertson’s Australian bass boom with an inner smile. Now he was hero material.
‘Pip! Where the fuck is she?’
He was almost on top of her. Was he blind? She opened one eye.
His silhouette passed directly in front of her and twisted back menacingly. A lighter sparked into a flame just inches away, cigarette end flaring. Two white-rimmed eyes glowed briefly, making Pip squeak. The eyes widened, the flame snapping out.
‘Jeez! Didn’t see you down there!’ He crouched by her head. ‘What happened? What hurts?’
‘My ankle. I was running to Manor Farm to get help and—’
In her pocket, the 1812 Overture rang out.
She couldn’t see Blair’s face, but she hoped he didn’t recognise it as the same ringtone he’d heard by the tree long after she was supposed to have raised the alarm.
But he was feeling in her pockets. ‘Let’s use this phone, shall we? They’re all worried sick about you back there. I think we might need an ambulance here.’
‘No, it’s fine!’ She sat up quickly. ‘I can probably—’
Too late. He’d got the phone in his hand. She snatched it from him. ‘That’ll be for me.’
‘Sure.’ Blair straightened up.
‘Is that Mr Donne?’ came a laboured wheeze.
‘Lester, it’s me, Pip.’
The wheezing sounded awful. ‘Is he there?’
‘Oh, Lester, there’s been a lightning strike and Mr Donne lent me his coat and I went to get help and fell and hurt myself –’ she glanced up at Blair ‘– badly and I have no idea where he is. Didn’t you realise what’s going on? Are you at the stud?’
‘I’m in the Royal Infirmary,’ he was coughing and spluttering, ‘with Miss Gomez. You have to tell Mr Donne to—’
A voice interrupted bossily in the background, telling him to switch off his phone and put his oxygen mask back on.
‘Oh, my God, Lester!’ Pip bleated. ‘Are you okay? I knew we should have taken a spare inhaler today.’
‘Lot of fuss over nothing. You have to tell... Mr Donne to come. And there’s... nobody at the stud so I... need you to—’ With a cheep, the battery died.
Pip pressed its cool screen to her hot cheek. This was her call to arms, her invitation to re-enter the big village drama with no harm done. The Captain’s death had been a clear-up operation compared to this. This was live action.
She looked up to see Blair’s hatt
ed, long-coated silhouette towering over her, like Clint Eastwood in Pale Rider.
‘Think you can walk?’ Was it her imagination or did the deep voice sound just slightly sarcastic and possibly quite angry?
‘With a lot of help, perhaps.’ She held up her hand. ‘I might need lifting over the fence.’
*
The decimated tree was retreating into darkness as the village rescue team packed up and left, taking the working lights with them. It was lit by only a few dim Land Rover headlamps now, rain flecking in the beams, high wind still whipping across the field and making its fallen branches creak and groan.
Kit zipped up his borrowed jacket. It was at least a size too small and had a skull painted on the back, but he was immensely grateful for its protection. When the young woman whose phone he’d borrowed had handed it to him, as practical as a mother ramming a jumper over a child’s head in a cold room, it had changed his mood, wiping away bad-tempered frustration. It was the best birthday gift he could have asked for.
Orla had gone to incredible lengths to create a crazy birthday round trip for him and it had shown that she barely knew him at all. It was her fantasy, not his. This young woman, whose name he didn’t know, had seen he had no coat and got him one.
It didn’t bring him any closer to finding Orla, his generous hedonist, but he’d lost track of her enough times in New York not to let himself worry too much. She had the old man with her. The trusty retainer had taught Hermia to ride long ago. He’d be keeping Orla in check.
He’d decided his best course of action was to collect Pip’s car, which had weekend bags in the boot, and return it to the stud in the hope that both women and the old retainer were there. He was waiting on a lift from Barry, who had marched off to talk to his chainsaw gang.
Spotting Ronnie Percy making across the field, he retreated to the shadows behind Barry’s Land Rover. But she called his name, that three-counties voice lacking its previous gusto. She was crossing in front of the headlights, and when Kit stepped out, the first thing he noticed was that her hands were covered with blood.