by Joe McNally
Each, a dive from high cliffs, preceded by a deep breath. Each breath held till the stage was complete.
Finally, I sat. On the softness, the warm velour. No more gravel. No more cold.
I sweated. The drops ran out of my hair and carved paths down the burned skin. More and more of them. A big field. Many runners. Racing down my face…cutting it up.
I passed out again.
32
The sound of an engine woke me. My eyes opened slowly. It was a horse-box, coming to a halt in front of my car. A door slammed. Boots hit gravel. I began to panic and was ashamed of my terror. If they’d returned for another session over the radiator…I felt very badly in need of a toilet.
I saw the boots running alongside the box. Small boots. Beautiful, small, undangerous boots. Their owner came into view, a girl. A loud involuntary sigh of relief groaned out of my body.
She came to the door and she bent and looked in. ‘Have you broken down?’ she asked in a lovely soft Irish accent.
I turned to look at her, and when she saw the full frontal, her brown eyes seemed to double in size in her freckled face. Her head went back with the speed of a rifle recoil. ‘Fuckin' hell!’ she said, her hand going to her mouth to hush it and cover her horror.
‘Hello,’ I said. Moving my lips was a big mistake.
‘What in the name of God happened to you?’ she asked.
‘Accident,’ I said, without moving my lips.
‘How, what happened?’
‘Later.’
‘Will I fetch a doctor?’
There was nothing in the world I wanted more but doctors meant police and police meant, eventually, Cranley who would gloat and taunt.
‘No.’
‘But why? You’re in an awful state. Have you seen your face?’
If it looked as bad as it felt, I didn’t want to see it.
‘You’ll have to have a doctor.’ She was pleading now.
‘Please, no,’ I managed to say. If I’d been able to use my facial muscles to help express how much I didn’t want a doctor, perhaps she would have been more easily convinced. She was getting angry, maternal.
‘Not here,’ the pain was in my voice now. She softened and moved in closer, squatting. ‘I see how sore it is for you to talk,’ she puzzled for a few seconds then looked at my hands in my lap.
‘Can you move your fingers?’
A cinch. I drummed on my thigh.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll just ask you questions and you can answer with your fingers. Right for yes, left for no.’
I raised my right forefinger.
‘Are you hurt anywhere else except your face?’
Left hand.
‘Can you move?’
I hesitated.
‘With my help?’
Deep breath. Right hand.
‘Can your car be driven?’
Left hand.
‘If we go very slowly, can you make it to the horse-box?’
Right hand.
‘Okay, I’ll take you back with me, and then we’ll get a doctor.’
After a million years, we reached the horse-box.
She climbed up and opened the door, jumped down. ‘Wait,’ she told me. Running round the front of the box, she climbed in the other side. Appearing above me in the doorway, she reached to help me up.
Breath-holding time again.
It wasn’t a hell of a lot worse than the walking; the pain level had come down or my tolerance had increased. I reached the seat without blacking out again.
‘I’ll drive slow,’ she said. And she did, but the road was bad in places. Every time we bounced, I sensed her glancing across at me and felt her grimace for both of us. I wondered how far we had to go and she read my mind.
‘It’s not far, another two miles or so.’
We rumbled on, slower than an old cart-horse
‘The family are away just now though they may be back the morra,’ she said. ‘So you can have a bed till the doctor comes and maybe even stay overnight if he doesn’t want to put you in hospital.’
It wasn’t the doctor that wanted to put me in hospital, but I knew what she meant.
‘Even if you’re still here when the guv’nor gets back, he won’t mind. He’s a decent sort, so he is.’
I was glad of that.
‘And Mrs. Roscoe’s nice too.’
Sick time. Terror time.
The little straw-clutcher inside said maybe it wasn’t the same Roscoe, but cold logic laughed him down. How common was the name? How many had horseboxes? How many had stables within two miles of where I’d been last night? Only one. Basil.
33
I wondered if Roscoe knew yet that I’d been to his house last night. The hit men must have reported in to somebody, and if that somebody was Roscoe, he might be speeding my way right now.
I could only imagine his face when he walked in and found me being sympathetically tended to by his stable staff. The girl chatted on beside me while I tried to figure out what to do.
My main fear was passing out again and seeing Roscoe when I woke.
When we reached the stables, the girl drove to the rear of the buildings and turned into the yard. She looked across at me. ‘I’ll get help,’ she said, and jumped to the ground, hurrying into the house I’d crept out of less than twelve hours before.
My vision was limited by the area my swiveling eyes could cover without moving my head, but I took in what I could through the windscreen and by using the big wing mirrors.
The girl reappeared and ran toward the stables behind me.
Seconds later I saw her in the side mirror hurrying back, followed by a lanky teenage boy. His lime-green sweater sleeves halfway down his forearms, and as he walked, his hands dangled and swung as though his wrists were broken. His face was long and pointed and looked like it hadn’t seen soap and water since Christmas.
The girl climbed up and opened the door, and I turned slowly and painfully and came out backwards. They guided my feet to the rungs and helped bear most of my weight on the last big step to the ground.
Inside, they helped me to a chair in the kitchen, straight and high-backed, much easier to stand up from.
The girl went to the sink and tore two yards of pale blue tissue from a roll fixed to the wall.
She soaked the tissue under the tap and came toward me, water dripping through her fingers as she cradled the soggy mass.
‘If I can dab some of this on your face it should soothe it.’
‘No,’ I said, fearing unconsciousness again if anything touched the skin.
‘But you need something on it till a doctor gets here!’ She was beginning to get frustrated with this invalid with the poached face. I decided to try one more request and prepared myself for another session of talking through unmoving lips.
‘Have you called the doctor?’ I asked.
‘Not yet,’ she said. The water dripped, making a pool on the tiled floor. I looked at the boy. He stared at my face with his mouth hanging open as though someone had removed the bolt from his jaw. The girl saw me look at him and turned.
‘Thanks, Bobby. You’d better get back to the feed room and finish off that mash.’ It was an order and Bobby looked used to taking them.
He drifted sideways, still staring at my face. I lost sight of him when he moved out of eye-swiveling range but I heard him speak for the first time.
‘What you gonna do with ‘im, Jackie?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get him a doctor, he’ll be all right.’
He didn’t reply. ‘Bobby,’ she said sternly, ‘go and finish the feed. I’ll make sure he’s all right.’
She turned to me. ‘Don’t tell me now you don’t want a doctor!’
I didn’t say anything. She stamped a foot, turned, strode to the sink, and dumped the saturated handful of tissue. It splodged and stuck by the sound of it. Back she came to me.
‘Maybe I should just let you sit there till you die! Maybe you’d be happier then!�
�� A flush spread under her freckles and her eyes sparkled. She was very attractive.
‘Jackie,’ I said. The use of her name puzzled her until she remembered Bobby had used it.
‘Don’t you Jackie me with any soft talk!’
I tried to look apologetic. ‘Please do one more thing for me.’ The m’s were not coming out, but she understood.
‘What?’ Hands on hips now, ready for an argument.
‘Call an ambulance.’ I said. Her eyes went up to heaven. ‘Thank God! You’re coming to your senses.’
On a shelf by the window sat a white telephone and, picking up the receiver, she looked at me over her shoulder. The sun through the glass caught her face and hair; she was very pretty. Pity about my face. If they ever repaired it sufficiently I’d ask her to dinner.
‘Nine-nine-nine?’
‘Yes.’ I said.
She began dialling. ‘Tell them I had an accident in the boiler room.’
She turned, holding the receiver to her ear. ‘We don’t have a boiler room.’
‘They don’t know that.’
Shaking her head slowly, she dialled the last digit. Pacing the kitchen in silence, she asked again what happened to me, but I persuaded her the story would be best kept till some other time.
I heard the siren faintly, but when the ambulance came within clear hearing range of the stables the noise stopped. It took me a few seconds to figure out they’d switched the siren off deliberately in case we ended up with terrified horses kicking down their box doors and careering all over Lambourn.
Two paramedics breezed in cheery and efficient-looking. One had a beautifully kept beard and when he saw me, he whistled low and said, ‘Nice one.’
The other man gazed at my face from about a foot away like he was looking in an aquarium for a lost fish. ‘You won’t be shaving for a week or two, old son,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Jackie answered. ‘The boiler blew.’
He straightened and looked at her. ‘These burns aren’t fresh.’
She didn’t turn a hair. ‘It happened last night when he was here alone. I found him this morning when I came back from the races.’
He turned to me again. ‘Not the comfiest night you’ve ever spent, I’ll bet,’ he said. Then the bearded one said, ‘I’ll get the stretcher, John.’
‘Okay,’ John said. He smiled at me. ‘We’ll have you sorted out in no time, old son.’
He spoke to Jackie. ‘What’s his name?’ He blocked my view but I could imagine the look on her face.
‘Eddie Malloy,’ I said, using my lips so he wouldn’t ask for a repeat. It was very painful.
He turned his attention to me. ‘You used to be a jockey, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I saw him reflect briefly on his use of the past tense. He must have remembered the circumstances of my warning-off because he looked uncomfortable. I wished I felt well enough to say something consolatory to fill the embarrassed silence.
His friend barged in with the stretcher, saving further blushes. They stood, one at either end, holding the stretcher and Jackie helped me lie on it. The bearded one faced me and John was at my head. ‘All right, Eddie?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you open the door, love?’ he asked Jackie.
‘Do you want to come with him?’ the bearded one asked her.
‘Not now, I’m expecting Mister Roscoe home soon. I’ll telephone the hospital to find out how he is. Newbury General, is that right?’
‘That’s it, love,’ John said. ‘The number’s in the book.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
They carried me past her and when she smiled at me, it hurt too much to return it.
34
They sedated me and I remember little of the first forty-eight hours in hospital. On the third day, things had eased enough to move me from pain-killing injections onto tablets.
The nurse who brought the medicine said, ‘It’s good to see you awake, Mister Malloy. Things should get easier now, day by day.’
‘Thanks,’ I felt angry and irritable.
She said, ‘You’ve had a visitor yesterday, and the day before, a young woman, very pleasant. She said she’ll be back today.’
A young woman? It had to be Jackie from Roscoe’s yard. She was the only young woman I’d met in a year. ’Thanks,’ I said.
She came in the afternoon, when I was lying, staring at the wall, tea cold beside me and sandwich uneaten.
She stopped at the foot of the bed and bent to get into my eye line, ‘Hello! You’re awake!’
I couldn’t have smiled even if my injuries had allowed me to. I managed to say hello.
’Still sore?’ she said.
I gave the briefest nod. She said, ‘Mind if I sit down?’
I turned and nodded again toward the chair to the right of my bed and she adjusted it so she could sit almost face on. She looked clean, and fresh, and what struck me about her wasn’t the sweet scent she wore or her beautiful eyes, but the flawless bright skin, especially on her cheeks.
‘You must still be in a lot of pain,’ she said.
‘I’ll live,’ I said, hands crossed in my lap.
‘You seem very low. I can sit quietly or I can come back another time. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’
The me of a few days ago would have jumped at the chance to squeeze her for every ounce of information I could get about Roscoe and his associates. But the torture had seared my spirit as much as my skin. I just looked at her, hating the self-pity she would see in my eyes.
She got up and leant across the bed and softly placed her hand on my hands, ‘It’ll get better,’ she said, ‘Remember how brave you were to suffer so long lying on that road, and doing without a doctor. I know now why you did that.’
I moved my eyes to look at her and felt them fill. She squeezed my hand lightly, and deliberately turned away to save my dignity before the first tear spilled down my tattered face. The strange course the tears took, as they tried to find the easiest way through the facescape of blisters, deflected me for a while from my sadness. Then I laid my head back and closed my eyes.
Next day, Jackie came again, at the same time, and I guessed she was using up the gap that most grooms had to fill each day when they weren’t racing, the blank hours before evening stables.
The pain had lessened. My mood remained low, but I owed her more than the grunts and neglect she’d faced yesterday. As she sat beside me, I tried to smile. She frowned and raised a flat palm toward me, ‘Don’t! No need. It’ll hurt.’
I nodded my thanks, ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ I said.
‘No need. It’s a hard, hard thing.’
‘You’ve got to be careful,’ I said, ‘if your boss finds out you’re coming here- ‘
‘He knows nothing about it. I found out what he’s like now, I heard him talking about you that night, when he got home.’
‘Who to?’
‘I don’t know who was on the other end of the phone, but Mister Roscoe was saying you’d need to be dealt with or everybody would be in trouble.’
‘Bobby told him you brought me there? It is Bobby, isn’t it, the kid with the long arms?’
‘How did you know Bobby told him?’
‘Because he thought I was a one-man freak show. No way was he going to keep quiet. How did you get out of it?’
‘I told Mister Roscoe I was just about to come and tell him all about you but Bobby beat me to it.’
‘Do you think he believed you?’
She screwed up her face, and her shoulders rose, ‘I think so.’
’You might be best assuming he didn’t believe you, and find yourself another job.’
‘Why? Why do they want to harm you?’
I gazed at her. The shreds of my ego that remained wanted to offer arguments on my behalf, but it was easily overruled by my little self-hater, ‘It doesn’t matter. Not now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m
done with it.’
‘It wasn’t something bad…’ It was part question, part hope, and part reassurance.
’No,’ I said.
She swallowed what was to be her next question, showing me how smart she was. She just nodded, and we sat awhile in silence.
She said, ‘Do you know when you’ll be going home?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Where is home for you?’
‘A little place in a wood in the Cotswolds. But I’ll be moving out soon.’
‘Is there anyone you want me to get in touch with, to let them know you’re here?’
’No,’ I said, ‘thanks.’
‘Is there anything you need?’
I looked into her eyes for what felt a long time, long enough to silently say, yes, I need to erase the passing of time all the way back to Christmas. I need to say no to McCarthy on that black night in the caravan, I need to return to the silly belief that I was a man of courage, and confidence, and hope, and fire…it was a false belief, but I needed it nonetheless.
But all I heard myself say was, ‘I need you to go away and be safe and go back home to Ireland, if you can, but get away from Roscoe.’
‘I’m nanny to his kids. Him I could leave easily, and Mrs. Roscoe, too. But it would be much harder to leave the children.’
I laid my head back, but turned to look at her, ‘He gets his money’s worth from you, box-driver, groom, nanny.’
‘I’ve never minded being busy.’
‘Where is home for you?’ I asked.
‘Killarney.’
‘You have family there?’
‘My mother and my brother, on a small farm.’
‘Could you go back there?’
‘I suppose I could.’
‘You should think about it.’
‘I will.’
We sat again in silence, then she said, ‘What will you do when you get out?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I could come and, and maybe help you settle back in, at home, I mean.’
I looked at the ceiling, at those tiles whose every whorl and bump I knew, and I wanted so much to say yes. I turned my head once more on the pillow and looked at her, ‘Best not,’ I said quietly.