Chances

by Ruth Saberton

  What on earth was that all about?

  I don’t go to the stables on Sunday. Instead I mope about in my room and waste what’s left of my mobile credit attempting to call Mum. The hospital won’t put me through and in frustration I call Alan’s off duty number and rage at him and demand to go home, prompting an emergency visit which sends Kate into a tail spin of cleaning and cake making. (Chill, I hear Harry say, it’s not as though he’ll take Maddy away just because you haven’t hoovered) Over several cups of tea and half a coffee cake, most of which ends up in his beard, Alan finally agrees that he’ll take me up to see my mother provided the doctors approve. With this I have to be happy but it feels like a small victory. Besides, a little voice deep down keeps saying, do I really want to go back to Bristol or do I just want to run away from Drake? What did he mean when he said I was too important to risk?

  And anyway, if I run away what will happen to Chances? He needs me.

  Emily isn’t at school on Monday which makes being there a much nicer experience. There’s no need to scan the corridors in between lessons, hide in the library at lunchtime or spend most of the day trying hard not to lose my temper and deck her.

  After school I hop off the bus and make my way along the footpath which wiggles through the woods from Perranview Farm to the back of Chances’ paddock. The bridle is in my bag and I’ve got the vague plan that I might take him for a hack. I’m still avoiding Drake who’ll be schooling and Emily’s safely out of the way too so nobody will notice what I’m up to.

  “Chances!” I call, climbing the fence and dropping down into the paddock. “Chances!”

  Usually there’s a whinny and a blur of chestnut coat as the Arab hurtles towards me, greedy for the treats he knows I bring. Today though, the paddock is empty. That’s weird. Where is he? Drake wouldn’t be riding him and Emily certainly isn’t. There’s no reason to bring the horse in either. Unless…unless…

  My stomach does a forward roll and I start to run.

  “Where’s Chances?” I gasp when I stumble into the yard. “Where is he?”

  Drake’s in the middle of talking to the vet but I couldn’t care less about interrupting.

  “Where’s Chances?” I demand.

  “Excuse me a minute, Dave?” Taking my elbow, Drake frog marches me into the tack room. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you. Why haven’t you answered?”

  I ran my phone flat yelling at Alan yesterday and haven’t bothered to charge it. What’s the point? Mum isn’t ringing any time soon.

  “My battery died,” I say and treat him to one of my best can’t be bothered shrugs.

  “Well if you’d bothered to charge it you’d know that Chances isn’t here,” Drake says, through clenched teeth. “He’s been sent to the sales.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “He can’t have been.”

  “I’m afraid he can. The dealer collected him this morning. There’s no way Malcolm was going to let Emily ride Chances again. She’s only just out of hospital.”

  I couldn’t give a hoot about Emily.

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “Oh come on, Amber! Grow up. Malcolm owns the horse and he’s hardly able to stand the sight of it. What do you expect me to do? Buy it from him?”

  “Yes! That’s exactly what I’d expect.”

  Drake looks at me in disbelief. “You have to be kidding. Malcolm would have flipped and that would have been the end of my job.”

  “So that’s all you care about? Your own skin?” I can hardly bear to look at him. What a traitor.

  “Wow, you really do have a great opinion of me,” Drake says bitterly. “No, not my own skin. I couldn’t give a toss about my job but I do care about my horses. I have to think about keeping them going and where they’re stabled. Six eventers aren’t cheap to keep and Mal’s my sponsor too. Without him, eventing’s as good as over for me.”

  “Without us it’s over for Chances,” I choke. “You know what happens to unwarranted horses at markets.”

  Tears sting my eyes and I blink them back angrily. Think, Amber, think!

  “What market has he gone to?”

  “Amber, I really don’t think this is going to help. He’s been sent without a reserve and he’ll be sold,” Drake says gently but I’m in no mood to stand around and listen.

  “What market, Drake?”

  “Hathleigh, but I don’t think _–”

  I’m not hanging around to hear what Drake Owen has to say. Not when Chances is miles away, frightened and in terrible danger. Who knows what will happen if he falls into the wrong hands? Already labelled as dangerous he’ll be either beaten until he fights back, hurts somebody and is shot or go from pillar to post until his spirit’s broken. Both ideas make me want to be sick.

  I turn on my heel and walk away from Drake as fast as I can. He calls and calls but I don’t listen. There’s nothing he can say I want to hear. All I can think about is getting back to the farm and finding Harry. Harry will know what to do and Harry will help me, I know he will.

  He’s the only one on my side.

  Chapter 13

  “This is a crazy idea,” Harry grumbles. “I must be mad. Remind me why I listened to you again?”

  “Because you know it makes sense,” I say. “And we got have MacDonald’s for breakfast.”

  “Now you know I’ll do anything for an egg Macmuffin I’m in big trouble.” Harry checks the rear view mirror and pulls into the middle lane of the motorway, the cattle trailer rattling behind his ancient truck. “And as for making sense? I hardly think so. I’ve busted you out of school, turned down a day’s work fence posting and fed us both junk food. Your social worker will freak.”

  “Just tell him I forced you,” I suggest.

  Harry, who’s six feet of muscle and broad shoulders looks at me askance.

  “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

  “Alan will never know about this anyway,” I continue, ripping open a bag of Haribo and fishing out some jelly rings for my driver. “We’ll write a note and nobody at school will think any more of it. They’ll all be relieved I’m not there anyway.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Harry says darkly. “You’re just so relaxing to be around. Hey! Don’t nick all the fried eggs. I like those.”

  I pick several out and, blowing dust and hay seeds off the dashboard, line them up. Sacrificing the Haribo Starmix fried eggs is the least I can do since Harry’s agreed to drive me to Hatherleigh Market for the horse sale. He didn’t take much persuading either, especially when he discovered Drake Owen was the cause of all my problems.

  “Calm down!” Harry said when I tore into his workshop, babbling. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Abandoning the piece of chain he’d been walloping with a sledge hammer, Harry placed his hand in the small of my back and guided me towards the bale of straw which he used as a makeshift seat. “Take a deep breath. What’s happened?”

  Somehow I’d managed to gabble my way through the story until I finally I talked myself to a standstill.

  “So let me get this straight,” Harry said. “You’ve been secretly riding Emily’s star horse at night? And then you jumped it and she was so jealous she had to prove she was better than you to impress lover boy?”

  I hadn’t seen it quite this but his explanation made sense.

  “Then she comes a cropper and Drake,” Harry practically hissed the name, “sends the horse to market? How absolutely typical.”

  “That wasn’t quite what happened. Malcolm sold Chances,” I said. I was annoyed with Drake for not standing up for the Arab but it wasn’t all his fault.

  Harry’s top lip curled. “Drake Owen could have stopped him. He’s not to be trusted Amber. I did try and warn you.”

  I hung my head. “I’m sorry. I should have listened. It was just the horses were there and if you could only see what Chances is capable of. He’s incredible.”

  “So are you if you can jump a lunatic horse
like that without a saddle and without killing yourself. I’ve seen the horse you mean. It’s the chestnut one Emily’s terrified of, isn’t it? Looks like its about to explode at any minute?”

  “That’s Chances,” I said and a knot tightened in my throat. “He’s amazing.”

  “When Dad was alive we used to have a couple of horses. He’d hunt sometimes and Mum rode too when she was younger. We sold them after…after the accident and we only kept Treacle because he’s so ancient.” Harry had a far away expression on his face. “He knew about horses and I bet Dad would have loved that Arab. He liked them a bit crazy. He’d have liked you too.”

  “Really?” I was taken aback. Not many people liked me. In fact, until a few days ago when he came home with Scally I would have said that Harry was one of them.

  But Harry was looking serious. “Yes, really. Don’t sound so surprised. You’re not so bad once you stop trying to pick fights with everyone. You look a lot better now you’ve stopped channeling your inner Goth too. You’re actually quite pretty when you’re not scowling.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or insulted. Quite pretty? Scowling? Goth?

  “You’re doing it right now,” he added. “Scowling, I mean, not being Morticia Addams. Hopefully we’ve seen the back of her.”

  “You’d be scowling too if your horse was off to the market,” I said, ignoring that remark.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your horse?”

  “He feels like mine.” How could I explain that when I rode Chances it felt as though we were one? A beast from myth or legend, flying over gates like Pegasus and racing through the forest like outlaws from ancient times? Or how when he laid his head on my shoulder and let me brush his face, the gentle oat sweet breath and total trust made my heart swell? Chances might technically belong to Malcolm Lacey but in my soul I knew he belonged to me just as I belonged to him.

  “So we need to rescue him.” Harry strode across the workshop and picked up his phone. “Where’s this market?”

  I dabbed my eyes on my sleeve. “It’s at Hathleigh and it’s tomorrow.”

  “OK,” said Harry. “That’s only a few hours away. It’s near Exeter and it’s one of the smaller stock markets. I go there sometimes so Mum won’t think it’s odd. If we leave around school time we’ll be there in time to grab a programme and find Chances.”

  I hardly dared believe he was saying this. “And then what?”

  “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said firmly. “OK?”

  “OK,” I nodded. I already felt brighter. At least we had a bit of a plan. The rest I would work out when we reached the market.

  But now, as Harry pulls off the M5 and heads through the industrial wastelands of Hathleigh, I’m still trying to work out what to do. I’ve downloaded a programme and Chances is number fifteen, with no reserve price, not that this makes much difference to me. He could be twenty quid or twenty million quid. Either way I can’t buy him. Short of leaping onto him in the sale ring and jumping out to gallop away, I’m a bit short on cunning plans.

  “This is it,” Harry says when we pull up outside a large grey building that looks more like an industrial unit than a cattle market. Only the lorries and trailers parked alongside give its purpose away. “Ready?”

  Err, no. Not really.

  “Absolutely,” I fib, hopping out of the cab and clutching my print out of the sale programme.

  We cross the car park, walk through an arch way before pushing open heavy glass doors. Instantly the smell of dung and urine and hot frightened horse hit my nose like a punch and a cacophony of excited voices and shouts fill my ears.

  “Welcome to the glam world of cattle markets,” Harry says. “Come on. We need to register.”

  “What for?”

  “You really are new to this, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve been to the Shakespeare Estate. Not a lot of horse sales going on,” I point out.

  “Fair point,” Harry agrees. “We have to register a bank card to get a number in case we want to buy anything. So don’t twitch or waggle too much during the auctions, OK? If you do they’ll think you’re bidding. That is why we’re here? I thought you came here to rescue Chances?”

  Yes, this is the idea but quite how I’ll do this is anyone’s guess. While Harry registers us and has his bank card swiped, I chew the skin around my nails and observe the bustling market. Men in pork pie hats and tweed jackets pour over programs, iron shod hooves clatter across concrete as horses are trotted up and down and shrill whinnies echo from the barred stalls beyond. The air is thick with the scent of frying onions and burgers. There’s a carnival atmosphere but it’s tinged with an edge of despair too and there’s a whiff of danger lurking beneath the veneer of respectability. This is not somewhere you want your horse to go; this is where horses with no other options and very little hope end up.

  It reminds me a bit of the Shakespeare Estate.

  “All done,” says Harry, tucking his wallet into his back pocket. “Right. Let’s see if we can find Chances. Number fifteen.”

  In his waxed jacket, country boots and tweed cap Harry totally fits in and as we walk through he’s greeted by farmers and wiry looking jockey types. I’m doing my best not to look at all the horses and ponies standing in the pens and stalls. Their utter dejection breaks my heart. If I could buy them all, I would.

  “Eleven to Twenty must be the next aisle,” says Harry and sure enough as we turn the corner we hear the crash of hooves against bars as Chances lashes out in fury.

  “Easy, boy! Easy!” I fly down the aisle and without thinking twice let myself into his pen, narrowly missing flying front legs when he rears up. His eyes are wild with terror, he’s dripping with sweat from box walking and on his flanks are livid welts where someone’s hit him. I’m filled with white hot fury. If I knew who’d got him into this state I could kill them with my bare hands.

  “Shh, little boy. Steady little horse.”

  Harry slips in beside me and lays a gentle hand on Chances’ flank. The horse shudders beneath his touch but quietens, sides still heaving and blood red nostrils flared in terror.

  “Poor old boy,” Harry says gently. “Poor old Chances. What a bad day you’re having.”

  I can’t speak because I’m so angry. How could Drake let this happen?

  “Do you like the horse, Miss?” A lanky man with closely cropped brown hair leans on the gate and regards me with the beady black eyes of a crafty rat. “He’s a nice animal. Would do anything, a horse like that. Pop a jump. Hack. Do a show. You won’t go wrong with him. He’s a bargain.”

  “This horse is unwarranted. What did it do? Kill someone?”

  I haven’t heard Harry speak like this before. He’s quiet but there’s an edge of steel beneath his words.

  The man shrugs. “Nothing, mate. Probably just too spirited for the last owner. Arabs aren’t to everyone’s taste but he’s a nice looking animal.”

  Two women join us at the gate, pointing out Chances’ confirmation in strident voices.

  “He’s half wild. Seems to me he’s barely broken.” Harry sounds as though he couldn’t be less interested in Chances. “Will you ride him in the ring and show him off?”

  A shifty look crosses the man’s sharp features. “He hasn’t come with any tack.”

  “Not rideable, then. Good luck getting that one sold,” says Harry loudly.

  The two women exchange worried looks and turn away. A horse whinnies and Chances calls back, charging to the front of the stall and almost trampling me in the process. A lady dressed in Ariat and her teenaged daughter scuttle past hastily. The ratty man shoots Harry an ugly look and hurries after them, turning their attention to the listless bay mare across the aisle.

  I’m confused. “What was all that about?” I thought you liked Chances?”

  “That’s Mick Ellory,” Harry tells me. “He’s a dealer and a really slippery character. If he so much as sees your eyelash twitch he’ll double his pri
ce and you’ll never get Chances back then. Come on, let’s grab a coffee and find a seat in the ring.”

  By the time we sit down the auction room’s really crowded. Tiers of seats are circled around a small sandy area where horses are ridden while the bidding takes place. Harry and I find seats in the third row and settle back to watch. It’s all new to me and I have no idea what the auctioneer is saying because it sounds like gobbledygook. All the farmers, dealers and horse people seem to understand perfectly though and Harry translates for me.

  “Mare twelve years old, by Floral Mafia, fifteen hands was BSJA,” he whispers as a wild eyed bay canters around the ring. She’s not sound but nobody seems too bothered. The garbled words increase in speed, there’s a flurry of nodding and programme waving and then the gavel comes down with a bang.

  “Sold for seven hundred quid,” Harry says in disbelief. “Hopefully to somebody nice but you never know. The meat man’s never far away here.”

  My stomach freefalls as though I’m bungee jumping without a chord. I have to save Chances. I have to.

  More horses come and go. Some are ridden by a girl dressed in cream breeches and a black show jacket and those ones go for a lot more money. Others trot around listlessly, prodded by a stick, and a gangly foal steals the show by lying down.

  “He’s next,” Harry says, pointing at the entry in the program.

  He doesn’t need to tell me. There’s a flare of bright chestnut coat and the flash of iron hooves as Chances erupts into the ring. Rider less, he tears around, his legs smacking onto the boards and snorting wildly. Round and around he goes, so fast I’m dizzy just watching.

  I clutch Harry’s arm. “He’s going to trip and break a leg!”

  The bidding has started in a jumbled blur of sound. I see a nod across the ring and a wave of a programme. Is one of those bidders the meat man? How can I tell? It’s not like he’s turned up in a blood stained apron and is waving a cleaver. I have to do something!

  I raise my programme and look straight at the auctioneer who inclines his head and babbles some more. There’s nodding, waving, tapping and although I don’t know what’s going on I raise the programme again.