Grounded

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  You have to tell Cam you’re staying in case she does get somebody else in.

  When I tack Joy up later she glares at me in disgust. She’s so fat I have to heave on the girth strap. But when I kick her across the yard to the farm trail she suddenly pricks her freckly grey ears and steps out briskly. She’s not fit enough to do more than walk, but it’s a gorgeous evening, cooler now, and the flies have gone away. I’m not in a rush home to Mum’s questions and predictions and Seaneen’s list of names and the email to Hans-Peter Hilgenberg that I’ve composed in my head but not sent yet. Might go to the library and do it tomorrow on my way home.

  Or not.

  After the ride I lean on the gate of the bottom field and watch Joy trot down the hill to meet her mates. She snatches at some grass then lets herself fall with a grunt and rolls, kicking up her legs. She clambers up, shakes, then gets down to serious grazing. Sweep wanders up to her with a low nicker and starts biting at her shoulder. They stand nose to tail, grooming each other, Sweep having to stretch his neck up to reach Joy. The Welshies have one of their mad five-minute racing sessions round the field, manes and tails flying, before settling down to graze again.

  I wonder if they’re happiest of all like this, just mooching about doing their horsey thing, biting at each other’s itches, dozing with their lower lips drooping. Left to themselves would they give a damn about jumping and racing and being the best, or is that just us? Even though I keep trying not to, I relive that moment at Balmoral, galloping out of the ring, unable to believe we’d won. I wanted to believe that Flight understood, that he knew he was the best, but when we got back to the lorry, all he wanted was his hay net. Probably even Hans-Peter Hilgenberg’s beautiful German showjumpers just want to graze and scratch their arses in the field.

  For the first time I have to put on the lights on my bike before I leave the yard. I’m way later than usual. Cam’s been in the house for ages, lamps burning from behind the closed curtains.

  I whizz down the hill and skirt round the city. The roads are quiet; my legs ache from the effort of getting Joy’s lazy arse round the farm trail. I see a long winter ahead, and hope that Cam will be so busy she lets me ride Spirit. Maybe Cam could have an accident – not a bad one like Vicky’s; she could just be a little bit hurt. Well enough to do her chores in the yard but not well enough to jump Spirit at shows. But she said she might have to sell Spirit. There’s no way I’m going to let myself like him and then have to watch him being led up the ramp of a stranger’s lorry.

  Under me, my bike shudders and pulls to the side. I jump off and stand in the verge looking at it, the deflated front tyre like a used condom. I unhook the pump and give it a few blasts but it’s no use. As fast as I pump the air in, it leaves through the puncture. I resist the urge to kick the bike. Better start pushing. It’s about two miles home from here.

  When old Dermie gave me this bike he said, always take your puncture kit with you, but I’ve never bothered. Always been lucky until now.

  It’s a bugger to push, and having to walk slowly makes it too easy to think. Some bastard in a jeep flies past me and blares the horn. For a split second I think it’s Emmet McCann in his da’s car – Barry got five years for GBH. Sod this. When will I be able to afford a car? I’ve got just over two hundred pounds saved, hidden in my bedside cabinet with a blue elastic band round it. That’d buy the kind of car that’d leave me doing exactly what I’m doing now: walking home.

  The road feels quiet after the jeep blasts past. Then I hear a strange noise. Neighing. Only not neighing. Too high and thin. I look round. Big haulage yard on the left, field of something yellow on the right. Definitely no animals. A ghost horse then.

  It comes again, fainter, hardly a neigh at all. But definitely a horse. A horse in distress. The sort of cry that’s given up thinking anybody’s going to come. But there’s no sign of a horse anywhere. The fields are greying in the dusk. Must be a trick. Soundwaves or something. The horse is probably miles away. If it even is a horse.

  Like last week. Because wasn’t it just here, taking that phone call from Seaneen, that I thought I heard a horse? And I told myself I was doing too much daydreaming about German showjumpers.

  I glance round, ears straining, just in case. Yes, it was exactly this bit of the road. There’s the gateway I stood in, the gate still leaning at a drunken angle, tied up with years’ worth of fraying baler twine – orange, blue, beige.

  The cry cuts the air again. And this time I know it’s not a ghost.

  6.

  I fling the stupid bike at the gate and fiddle with the tangled mass of baler twine before giving up and clambering over. As I let myself down on the other side I see my feet are about to land in a jumble of hoofprints. So sometime there was a horse here. I thud across the dusty hard ground, dodging an old bed and a pile of bust tractor tyres.

  Another cry. It’s coming from the old yard. The closer I get, the darker and scruffier the yard looks – the rusting, corrugated iron barn leaning over the grey farmhouse; the concrete in between pitted and blackened with ancient cow shit. The gate between the field and the yard is too buggered to climb so I have to yank at more baler twine and then pull it towards me. It sticks with a horrible screech but there’s enough space for me to squeeze through.

  I’m half-running, but when I draw close to the barn I slow down. If there is a horse in there it’s in trouble – maybe got itself locked in by mistake or something – it won’t need me dashing in like an eejit.

  Some of the sheets of corrugated iron are peeling off in rusty curls. What’ll I do if it’s locked? But the door’s only closed and tied with a thin length of blue rope. As I grab the handle it judders and shakes and sticks and there’s a screaming neigh from inside. Hoarse and highpitched at the same time. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘OK, I’m coming. Good horse.’

  As I pull the door open the stench hits me so hard I double over, retching. Piss and shit and something – oh God – far worse. I clamp my hand over my mouth and nose. A black buzz of flies swarms out past me.

  Christ. What is this?

  Another neigh. Definitely a horse. I can’t back out now.

  Still covering the bottom half of my face, I drag myself through the door.

  At first it’s so dark that I think the horse in the corner, standing in front of a pile of wooden pallets, is alone, its whiteness shining in the gloom. It turns and stares at me, its eyes black pits in a skeletal face.

  A ghost horse after all.

  Then the neigh comes again – high and insistent, nothing ghostly about it – from the other side of the barn and I force myself to turn and look, a sort of calm horror making my eyes tell my brain what they see.

  The horse lying down in the filthy straw is dead. It lies on its side, the rigging of its ribs like a wrecked ship. A foal stands over it, shaking on stick-thin legs, its head too big for its skinny neck to hold up. When it sees me it lets out a desperate squeal.

  Another swarm of flies rises from the carcase of the mare and circles the foal, fighting over the scabs that pockmark its body.

  ‘Ah, Jesus.’ I stand uselessly in the doorway. Without my mind formulating a thought my hand grabs for my phone. I hit Cam’s number. It rings for ages. Oh please Cam, you have to answer! I don’t know what to do. Police? Vet?

  ‘Declan?’ She sounds surprised.

  ‘Cam, thank God, you have to help. I’ve found these horses. One’s dead. And there’s a foal. And I don’t know what to do. Can you come now?’

  Immediately her voice is businesslike. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where? Oh God. Past the new roundabout. Just on from that big haulage place. I’ll open the gate for you. You have to drive through a field. You’ll see my bike in the gateway. Only hurry.’

  ‘Are you safe there?’

  ‘Me? I’m OK.’ I push the barn door closed behind me so the horses can’t run away, not that they look like they could run too far. ‘But should I phone the police or a vet or what?’

  �
�I will. Just don’t touch the horses. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  Glad of something definite to do that gives me an excuse not to go into the barn for a bit, I go back through the yard and over the field. It takes ages to undo all the string; I wish I had a knife. Last week I leaned over this gate and thought I heard neighing. And ignored it. If I’d investigated then, would that mare have lived?

  I don’t want to go back into the barn but I force myself, pulling the front of my hoody up over my mouth and nose. The ghost horse has moved out of its corner but when it sees me it backs up again and strikes out with a front leg. It doesn’t look as white now my eyes are more used to the gloom. Its face is rubbed raw and scabby and its ridged backbone sticks up like a cow’s. Its whole body is a mess of tufts and tats and sores. It looks at me in horror and lays its ears back flat. It grabs at one of the wooden pallets with its teeth and holds on.

  ‘Whoa, pet, it’s OK, nobody’s going to hurt you,’ I say. I don’t go any closer. Something butts me in the back and I jump. It’s the foal. I turn and look at it, trying not to let my eyes take in the wrecked carcase beside it. ‘Hello,’ I say. My voice comes out quite normal even though I’m muffled by my hoody and trying not to breathe. ‘What happened you?’

  It looks up at me, big eyes staring out of its tiny, rough little foal face on either side of a huge star. It’s so caked in shit and bits of wet straw that I can’t even guess what colour it is. Its thick coat is filthy and rubbed bare in places. It noses at its mother’s body. ‘Don’t,’ I say and try to pull it away. It wriggles and totters.

  Lights sweep the back wall of the barn and the ghost horse gives a squeal and flings itself round.

  I edge to the door and open it a crack. ‘Cam? Be careful.’

  She stands in the doorway, her hair sticking up in red tufts, and lets out a low whooo. ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘What on earth’s happened here?’ She sounds really cross.

  ‘Cam, did you mind me ringing you? Only –’

  ‘Of course I didn’t mind. I’m not angry with you. But … how could anybody do this?’

  ‘Have you headcollars in the jeep? We could lead them out.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Safer to let them stay here till the police come. They must have been here for weeks. Another few minutes won’t make any difference.’ She coughs. ‘Sorry – need to get out of here. Declan, don’t touch that foal. Seriously, you don’t know what you might catch. Come on.’

  We close the door behind us again and lean over the gate, taking deep breaths.

  ‘I feel awful leaving them there,’ I say.

  ‘Let the police deal with them. How did you know they were there?’

  ‘I heard them.’ I tell her about the puncture. ‘D’you think somebody died or something?’ I glance over at the grey ramshackle farmhouse. ‘Ah Jesus, Cam, d’you think there’s a body in there?’ I have the horrible image of an old farmer dead and rotting in bed or lying somewhere with a broken leg.

  We both shudder.

  ‘God knows,’ Cam says. ‘The police will search the place.’

  In a way I hope there is a body. Because then it’s just a tragic accident. If not, if somebody put them in there, left them there, deliberately …

  A car passes but doesn’t slow. In my pocket my phone beeps a text and I check it just for a distraction. But it’s only Mum saying she’s away over to Stacey’s and she’s left my tea in the oven.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything that bad,’ I say. ‘Have you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘A few knackers at the sales, the sort of thing McCluskey takes for meat, but no, nothing like this.’

  Something about the word ‘knackers’ scratches at me. ‘They’ll be OK, though? I mean, now they’ve been found?’

  ‘I don’t know, Declan. I wouldn’t put money on it. God knows how long they’ve been in there. They’re starving, dehydrated, crawling with lice, probably diseased –’

  ‘But you see those before and after photos in all the ads for animal sanctuaries. They get better, and some of them look just as bad as that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘But they don’t show the pictures of the ones that are too far gone to be saved, do they?’

  ‘Oh Cam!’

  She pats my arm in a very un-Camlike way. ‘Who knows?’ she says. ‘Anyway, you’ve done your bit, finding them. Look – here’s the police coming through the gate.’

  A PSNI Land Rover lumbers over the field. They haven’t brought anything to take the horses away, I think. They’re just going to shoot them and not give them a chance. Then another vehicle trundles through the gate, a wee horse lorry with the USPCA logo on it.

  The field’s suddenly busy with noise and lights and people in uniforms. Cam strides forwards to meet them; I hang back. Stupid of me; it’s more than three years since I was in trouble with the police, but …

  ‘OK, so what have we got?’ There’s a policeman and policewoman and two USPCA men and a vet who’s a girl and looks dead young.

  Cam pushes me forwards. ‘Declan here found them; I’m just the backup.’

  I swallow. ‘Three horses,’ I say. ‘One’s dead.’

  ‘We wondered if someone had died – in the house, I mean,’ Cam says.

  The policeman shrugs and says, ‘Looks as if it’s been empty for a long time. But we’ll check the place over. You guys go ahead and do what you have to do.’

  The vet and the older USPCA guy go on into the barn and I hear one of them say, ‘Bloody hell,’ before he comes out and there’s a lot of head-shaking and I hear the words ‘humane’ and ‘destroyed’.

  ‘No!’ I say. I follow them all back into the barn even though I know they don’t want me to. ‘You can’t just kill them.’

  The older guy looks at me as if I’m about twelve. ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest thing,’ he says in a knowall voice.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Look, leave it to us,’ he says. ‘We’re the experts. We see this sort of thing all the time. Unfortunately.’ His colleague, who’s fat and quiet, crosses the barn to the ghost horse who flares its nostrils at him and snorts. But he talks dead patiently and in the end the horse lets him put a headcollar on and stands trembling. ‘Poor old girl,’ he says. I hadn’t got close enough to see she was a mare.

  Know-all looks at the vet, who’s examining the foal. It just lets her. ‘Lesley?’

  ‘Touch and go,’ she says. ‘I’d say they’ve been here weeks. It’s amazing they haven’t died of thirst.’

  ‘There’s a puddle in the corner – the roof must be leaking.’

  ‘What killed the mare, d’you reckon?’

  The vet shakes her head. ‘Starvation – the foal took all the goodness? Or she might have had an infection. We’ll have to arrange incineration.’

  ‘But you won’t put them down, will you?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ll see if they respond to treatment,’ Fatty says. ‘Been too many of these kinds of cases recently.’

  Know-all takes photos of the barn and the horses, for evidence I suppose, and then they start to lead the horses out. The foal totters along without protesting; the ghost horse pulls back and when Fatty tries to get her to walk on she bites his jacket. ‘This one’s a fighter,’ he says, rubbing his sleeve.

  Good. Fighters survive.

  The vet goes on ahead to put down the ramp of the horsebox and I help her. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘They must be tough to have survived this far.’

  The foal goes on to the box as if it doesn’t care much what happens any more. The ghost horse pulls back and rears up but then totters and nearly falls, and after that she just walks on with her head drooping nearly to the ground.

  As Fatty puts up the ramp behind them, I turn to Cam in a sudden panic. ‘We can’t just let them go. Where are they taking them?’

  ‘Rosevale,’ Fatty says. ‘D’you know it? It’s a sanctuary. Old lady runs it on her own. We’re having to use it as overspill because we’ve got too many horses com
ing in. Ten last week. All as bad as this.’

  I shake my head. He starts explaining where it is and I hope Cam’s listening because my head’s not taking anything in since he said ten last week, all as bad as this.

  ‘Can I give you my number?’ Cam asks. ‘Obviously we’d like to know what happens to them.’

  Tell them. I try to psych the thought into her head. Tell them you can give them a home.

  The police come out of the house. The policewoman rubs her arms even though it’s a warm evening, but she’s smiling.

  ‘Nothing there,’ she says.

  ‘Looks like it hasn’t been lived in for years,’ the policeman says. ‘Kids been drinking there, using it as a toilet, but nothing else.’

  ‘So where’ve the horses come from?’ I ask.

  ‘Abandoned? Or lost and wandered in and couldn’t get out again? Who found them – you?’

  I nod.

  ‘Was the door closed properly? Can you remember?’

  ‘Yes. And tied with rope.’

  ‘Look, we need to get these horses away,’ Know-all says.

  The police Land Rover’s blocking the horsebox so the woman goes to move it and the man turns to me. ‘Well done, son,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to get a proper statement in the morning. We’ll be in touch.’

  He takes down Cam’s address and number and then mine, and I see him trying not think that our addresses don’t exactly go together – hers in the posh rolling farmland round Drumbo and mine in a skanky estate in West Belfast, but he’s probably been on some course on not being judgemental so he only says, ‘And you two are …?’

  ‘He works for me,’ Cam says. ‘If you come to my yard, you’ll find us both.’

  Yeah, and I bet he’d rather go there than come to my house.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ Cam says. We get into the jeep and she drives it across the rutted field. We stop at the gate and I grab my bike and throw it in the back. I suppose somebody will be back for the mare’s body. ‘Will you for God’s sake get back in?’ Cam calls out, but I stand for a second listening, as if I’m expecting to hear the ghost horse’s neigh.