The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  "It was a helluva smash," Hirst remarked. "The gyppo could be hurt. Could be hiding out."

  "Find him, Nige," Phil said with cold fury. "Unofficial."

  "Sure, Phil. Don't worry. It's a priority."

  Phil nodded, seeming reassured.

  Hirst stood up to leave. "I'd appreciate some company tonight—if you don't need me." He glanced at Harry.

  The big man pondered a moment. "I've a sweet sixteen from Slovakia. Or a fifteen-

  year-old wild thing just in from Riga." Harry brought up their images on his laptop.

  Hirst studied the photos. "Thank heaven for little girls, especially from Eastern

  Europe! I'll take the Latvian." He moved to the door. "Catch you later."

  When Hirst's reassuring presence had gone, Phil's anxiety bubbled over. "For Chrissake, Harry, get rid of those T'ang horses." He gestured at the crates in the corner. "There's no luck left in 'em now. Not since that Smith's touched 'em." He seemed almost at the point of tears. "I can't go near 'em." He thought a moment. "Stick 'em in the old ice house. Do it on your own. It's our secret."

  Harry knew arguing was futile. Phil, rightly or wrongly, had decided. "Then what?" he asked, hoping Phil had a plan. His reply proved that he hadn't.

  "We'll wait a few years, then sell 'em."

  "How? There's not that many about, so every dealer's going to wonder if they're hot. If you can't prove convincing provenance, the only thing you can do is give 'em back to Tam. You haven't paid for 'em, have you? You've nothing to lose."

  "Tam might not have much of a future," Phil replied coldly.

  "So what d'you want to do with 'em?" Harry was beginning to sound exasperated.

  Phil waved his arms impatiently. "Just put 'em on eBay—one at a time! Homeless horse looking for new owner!

  Harry laughed. Phil joined in, realizing he had unintentionally said something funny. But all the old fears were crowding in on him, like vengeful spirits risen from their graves.

  * * *

  Cath filled egg trays. Angie was busy at the cooker, grilling bacon and black pudding, frying eggs and bread.

  “I could do with some help here, “ Cath said irritably. “You can put that food in the oven to keep warm.”

  ”I’m busy,” Angie replied tersely. “It’s my turn to take him his breakfast and I want him to enjoy it. I don't want to serve him dried-up eggs and curly bacon. We shouldn't give him food that we wouldn’t eat ourselves.”

  Cath was worried. Her shrewd and cynical daughter was still, in some respects, naive and vulnerable. She didn't want to be an over-protective parent, but there were times when caution was essential. "He's too old for you."

  Cath's words invaded Angie's head with the chill of a sudden summer snowstorm. "Who says?" she blurted out without thinking. "He's an interesting guy."

  Cath realised her suspicions were confirmed. "Look—just don't!"

  Angie turned angrily. "Don't what?"

  "You know what I mean. He's a gypsy traveller. He'll move on."

  "Not if he falls for me. He'll stay here forever!"

  Cath stared at the wise, ridiculous girl who faced her. It was like looking in a mirror, seeing herself at the same age, pregnant by Matt, who was twenty years her senior. But at least Matt was settled on the farm, with no thoughts of going anywhere else. This arrangement had suited Cath—but what experience of the traveller life had Angie ever had? Even if Luke fancied her, he'd see her as an encumbrance. "Be warned. You'll get hurt."

  "These things you're saying mean nothing. You're only saying 'em 'cos you're jealous!" Angie hurled the words accusingly at her mother. She hadn't the remotest idea if she believed them herself.

  "The crazy things you say! He's nothing to me—or to you. He's only been here five minutes!"

  "Time has no meaning if you're in love." Angie left the house defiantly with Luke's

  breakfast tray.

  Cath hadn't the heart or the energy to stop her. She just hoped Luke's distrust of gorgios would prevail. Charlie was still busy with an order, his sawblades had been screaming since six am, so there wasn't much chance of him spying on the farm. But they couldn't go on like this; they had to be sensible and more guarded, or things might spiral beyond control.

  * * *

  Luke unlocked the door at Angie's knock and let her into the cottage with his breakfast. She set the tray on the dining table and sat opposite while he ate.

  "You don't have to watch me, y'know," he began a little testily. "Travellers eat same as other folk. We don't stuff the food in our ears! Why don't you make me some tea?"

  "I'm sorry." Angie, shamefaced, went obediently to the kitchen. It had not been an auspicious start.

  When she returned with the ceramic teapot, she saw he had almost cleared his plate. She poured tea for them both, hoping he wouldn't consider her action presumptuous.

  She couldn't bottle up her curiosity any longer. "Will you tell me about gypsy travellers, Luke?" she asked hopefully.

  "What d'you wanna know?"

  There was no rebuff. He was smiling. She felt a warm glow of reassurance. "Everything. How long have you all been travelling?"

  "Forever. I've been told for at least a thousand years."

  He was smiling again. She had chosen a subject he liked to talk about. But she was worried for him. "I read a book a while back that said you might be gonna fade away into history."

  He frowned, looking very serious. "Dordi, dordi, no, not at all! We'll be here till the last bit o' freedom's gone. Life ain't worth living then anyway." He stood up and looked out of the window, his gaze far away, as he recalled the fireside tales of his childhood. "Old times were best. What they call Waggon Time. Them big Readings and Ledge waggons rolling all over England." He turned to her, his face glowing with enthusiasm, as if he had lived through those years himself. "That was the best time for us! That hundred years from 1850 or so. Hop picking. Pea picking. Stopping where we wanted. The true Rom will never beg. He'll work, harder and longer'n anyone else."

  "I wish it was like that now!" Angie exclaimed, caught up in his nostalgic mood.

  "Don't we all? Blamed for everything now, ain't we? Missing motor or grye, it's always us. Villages full o' townies, worried 'bout their house prices. Gavvers playing their game, moving us on."

  She poured more tea, wanting to stay with him there forever, bathed in the magic of his talk.

  He returned to the table and drank his tea. "We still do some o' the fairs in our flash trailers. Still raise gryes on fields we've had to buy. Still keep the mem'ry o' the old ways. But it ain't the same."

  "Oh…it's so sad." She felt like crying.

  "Yeah. Gorgios done their best to box us in. But there's still plenty of us. Guess there's 'bout five thousand true Roms like me. At any rate, as true as you'll ever get these days. Most Roms have a drop o' gorgio blood in there somewhere."

  "Five thousand in England?" she asked.

  "Yeah. And in Wales. Real black bloods in Wales. They've lasted better there, 'cos they've not been as pressured."

  "You'd fill a little town."

  "Don't seem so much when you put it like that. But then, I guess, there's all the rest."

  "What rest?"

  "We have names for 'em, but they got no names for themselves. We call 'em poshrats—that means half-bloods in Romany—and diddecoys. They got a little bit of the real black blood, but it's gotten watered down. Then there's tinkers—Irish and Scots. They're running the fairgrounds and dealing antiques. And there's English guys who been hawkers, basket weavers, farriers and the like. And poor folk who been mumpers.”

  "What are mumpers? I've never heard of the word before," she admitted.

  "They been round a long while. Almost as long as us. They're beggars mostly. Thieves. They got nothing, no tradition. You call 'em tramps. Some of 'em used to do casual work. But that's all gone now. We used to see 'em on the road. But not anymore. They've either died out or gone into cities."

  "So wh
ere d'you come from, in the beginning?"

  "Us Roms come from India. Way, way back. So long back no one can remember. But I've read 'bout it—I can read, y'know—and I've learned. We came out through the deserts and the mountains till we got spread round everywhere. There's a good few of us in America, but I don't know how many are true Roms."

  "Why did you leave India?"

  "No one can remember. It was mebbe 'cos we were given a bad time, 'cos we were successful. Bit like the Jews. Wherever they stop they make a good go of it. So do we if we've half a chance. So we're both hated."

  She hung on his every word. "You know so much. I know nothing. I'm dumb as a clod."

  "Don't say that." His voice had the ring of sincerity to it. "Weren't for you there'd be

  no orchards growing. No meat. No eggs. Nothing. Except what grows wild. If it weren't for farmers, we'd have had no work back in waggon time. But back then most folk were poor. There weren't that much diff'rence between gypsies and settlers. Folk in the villages had no 'lectric and only pumps on the roadside for water. They had no indoor toilets and baths. It's only since gorgios got big ideas 'bout thereselves that they divided thereselves off from us and took away our work."

  "You think there's room for us all—the clods and the Roms?" she asked, frightened for a moment by what he might say.

  He smiled widely. "Course. If you love this earth you got a place on it. You'll do your best to look after it and still put food in your belly. Trouble is there's too many settlers doing nothing for the earth. Only taking. Things have gotten out o' hand."

  She stared at him, entranced. "Will things get worse for you?"

  "Yeah. Guess they will. But we gotta raise our spirit again. We gotta fight back."

  Tears of pain and hope sprang into her eyes when she heard his words. But she had no idea why.

  13

  Tam had to admit he'd been lucky. He couldn't drive yet, or walk without the aid of crutches, but he had been assured by the physio he would make a full recovery by the end of the summer. However, if Phil Yates had meant what he said, that was too long for him to wait.

  He had to track down Luke Smith without leaving his house. It would have been a comparatively easy task with anyone else, but the fact that the guy was a traveller made his task almost impossible. There was no one reliable he could ask who bridged the gap between the settled world and the travelling community. He knew a couple of dealers who had contacts with the Boswells, but neither of them could be trusted. Information cost money, and he would almost certainly be ripped off.

  The police had already questioned him about the theft and the strange death of the antiquities' owner. He had denied any knowledge, and his lameness should have been his complete exoneration. But the detectives wouldn't give up. They had raided his yard and office—and even his house—–but of course had found nothing.

  And they hadn't found Luke Smith. At least they had, but he had escaped from custody. Now he could be anywhere, and midsummer was drawing closer. He watched the TV news, but the media's short attention span had moved on to other crimes and criminals.

  He struggled on his crutches into his office in the large semi-detached house in the city that he was still sadly compelled to think of as home and his official base. One of his nephews and the young man's girlfriend lived there too, rent free for the not-too-onerous task of looking after him.

  It was Dougie and Sheila who had rescued him from the woods and taken him to the doctor and the physio. No one else could be trusted to keep his misadventure to themselves. The arrangement was that Tam had taught the pair all he knew about antiques and the world of covert dealing. In return they kept an eye on his security and were guided through small but significant deals he allowed them to do on their own.

  His two sons by Morag, his deceased wife, Murdo and Donald, had made lives of their own in Scotland, the former as a university-based archaeologist, the latter a Gaelic scholar and an emerging authority on Celtic studies. They had distanced themselves at an early age from their father's activities and only met with Tam if he made the journey north at New Year or Burns Night. Dougie was more like Tam, an adventurer who had found his niche in the sometimes-shady world of antiques dealing. Sheila thought of herself as a fellow enthusiast and occasional co-conspirator.

  Security at Tam's house was no small matter. He had watched in dismay as the town around him changed over the twenty years he had lived there. The wide, once-quiet tree-lined street at the front of the property had become part of the city's inner ring road, filled with traffic at all hours of the day and night. The noise and the headlights were an irritation but just about tolerable. It was the changes at the rear of the house that depressed and worried him.

  The large block of rented sixties tenements that had been due for demolition in the year Tam bought his semi were still there. The development of small brick semis that had been planned as replacement housing had never materialised. Instead, the tenements had remained, becoming more dilapidated as the years passed and inhabited now by drug

  dealers and their drug-dependent customers.

  The place was also becoming a warren of low-level pimps and call girls, with almost nightly incidents of violence. If Tam hadn't got a private space with locked gates and razor wire at the back of his house, he would never have kept his Volvo secure or Dougie's Renault van. As it was, he'd had to install steel security shutters over his ground-floor windows and doors.

  The changes had crept up on him, as they do in these situations, a gradual but steady deterioration setting in that reduced the market value of his house and made it

  almost impossible to get rid of the place. Dougie was buying a flat in a quieter area and

  didn't need Tam's semi. The only thing Tam could do with it was to rent it out, as had the family next door, but their house had already been sublet to a succession of dealers and pimps.

  Tam just had to get away, and he had already made plans to buy a spacious villa on his favourite Mediterranean island. But his move to that property was now on hold because of the nightmare situation surrounding the T'ang horses. The only thing he could do in his distress was to commit himself to extreme action.

  It had taken him a few days to decide because he had never asked for a favour of this nature before, but at last he picked up his desk phone to contact the only man he could trust to understand his problems and save his skin, a man who would not expect payment but who was a fanatical believer in justice. He dialled Malcolm's mobile and hoped for the best. The conversation between the brothers went something like this:

  "Is that ye, bro?"

  "No, ye noddy, it's the Grim Reaper. Who the hell else would ye think would be on this phone?"

  "Ha'e ye got some spare time? I've got serious problems here."

  "Get a new mobile and ring me back on the second number I gave ye. I'm going to ring off."

  The phone went dead. Tam shouted for Dougie to bring him a new mobile from the hidden compartment under his bedroom floor, and the ritual began again.

  "Malcolm!"

  "O' course. I'm thinking ye must ha'e gotten involved wi' a deal that went bad."

  Tam explained the complex saga of the T'ang horses and that the only way he could save himself was to find a gypsy traveller called Luke Smith, who filled his client, Phil Yates, with fear of the devil. But he was knee-capped and housebound and no better than

  a dead man walking—and on crutches into the bargain.

  Malcolm listened without interruption, recording the phone call as he always did with business of this nature. When Tam had finished, he asked him to repeat the names and addresses, where known, of "the major players in the sit-iation," which Tam promptly supplied.

  "Okay, bro, ye leave it wi' me." Malcolm rang off. His next move was to buy an Ordnance Survey map of the area in question and study it for an hour, at the same time Googling the wider visual layout of roads, lanes and villages. Then he phoned certain individuals who might need his services to let them
know he would be away "visiting a sickly relative" until further notice. Justice for Tam was now his sole priority.

  * * *

  Cath and Angie worked in the barn, fetching clean straw for the goats' bedding. Angie passed a bale of straw from the stack down to Cath, who speared it on her pitchfork. Then, bending and using the fork as a lever, she hoisted the bale up behind her. She walked off with the bale perfectly balanced, the fork taking the strain, its shaft resting on a sacking pad on her shoulder and her hands gripping the fork handle.

  In the absence of a working tractor they had to resort to the old ways of doing things. Although she could still manage it, Cath wondered if she would be quite so willing to work this hard in ten years' time. The farm Land Rover was away for its MOT and would not be back until five pm. Rules! she thought. It was a wonder anyone could do anything!

  She returned to the barn for another bale and was about to hoist it up behind her

  when the sound of a motor came from the yard. "Are we expecting anyone?" she asked.

  "Might be the law looking for Luke," Angie replied, suddenly apprehensive. She climbed down from the stack and followed her mother into the yard.

  Phil and Harry were getting out of the Mercedes as Cath and Angie emerged from the barn. No one noticed Luke, who watched them from the shadows of the tractor shed.

  "What's up now?" Cath asked, trying to suppress her mounting anger and fear.

  Phil's manner was brusque to the point of bluntness. "I haven't heard from you, Mrs

  Scaife. Is there a problem?"

  Phil seemed to Cath at that moment to be the personification of everything that was wrong with the world: all its covetousness and callous self-interest summed up in one man. She wondered, if she'd had a gun in her hand, if she would have shot him, her hatred was suddenly so intense.

  "No," she replied coldly, "there's no problem."

  Harry leaned on the car watching as Phil took a couple of eager steps forward. "You'll sign?