by Sara Forbes
I had hoped that the positivism of the sanctuary would help Ken forget the criminal minds behind the horse attacks but it hasn’t. It’s only sharpened his warrior instincts. He’s convinced that half of the horses we look to rescue are victims of some wider foul play which he must address.
I share my concerns with Letty that afternoon when Ken disappears off again. Letty has come over to look at the new horse that just arrived. We’ve four of them now, all ex-racing thoroughbreds. She’s a natural horsewoman and wants to ride them and figure out ways to put them to use in a riding school. Long term plans.
“Where’s Ken?” she asks. I was just over with Seb and he’s not there.”
“I don’t know.”
“For someone who’s meant to be writing, he sure does jump in his car a lot. Research, I suppose?”
I nod.
She clucks. “Well, at least he’s not betting.”
She’s joking. She knows Ken hasn’t gambled for two years. “But what he’s doing is rather a lot like gambling, “I admit. “He’s asking around, hoping to crack the jackpot, find who attempted to assassinate Sill and somehow find revenge.”
Her eyes widen. “Assassinate?”
“His word, not mine.”
“Huh,” she muses, “The sooner we have closure the better. And Sill’s definitely getting better—walking around happily today, saying hello to all the new horses.”
“While my Dad gets worse,” I moan. “Anyway, how did it go with Marwan?”
“Oh, he did amazingly well. After he saw all my pianos, he decided I was this cool person.” She laughs happily. “And I’ve never had such a good student. He’s had some amazing tuition in Damascus, that’s clear. I mean, he’s not what you’d call a joy to teach—so sullen and serious. But he will progress, I see that. And in his way, I think he likes it.”
“That’s great, Letty. I employ his dad as a stable hand and his mum as an accountant. It’s made a real difference, raising their status in the village, and by association their neighbors’, too. Mr. Abdul went out for his first pint in the local the other day and everybody was welcoming.”
“See? You do have a knack for this, you know. Who needs a degree in environmental planning anyway? You’re going to make your father proud.”
I smile weakly. My mind wanders back to the conversation with Peter. Is he actually going to mobilize some experts at the last minute? As more time passes, and the cancer eats away more of Daddy’s vital organs, it’s looking less likely that anything is going to help.
“So... Ken?” Letty says, her expression gleeful. This is what she really came over to talk about. “Is it second chance bliss or a case of ‘should’ve learned my lesson the first time’?”
My blushes answer adequately for her. “It’s good,” I say. “Inasmuch as I’m allowed to be happy with my father so sick, I’m pretty damn happy.”
She squeals, but before she can ask for details I add, “And you?”, because surely she doesn’t want an in-depth analysis of her brother’s sexual prowess. “Still holding out for James Bond?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve come to the conclusion he’s avoiding me on purpose.”
I laugh.
Letty pouts. “You may laugh but he’s been here in the house, yet I’m the only one who hasn’t met him. Even Old George has met him. Call that strange, ’cos I do. I can’t just put such intrigue out of my head. I mean what other intrigue is there around here?”
19
KEN
PATIENCE PAYS OFF—SOMETIMES. I was down at the Longgate-near-Brighton abattoir, doing what I call “on-boarding.”
My method? I stop my car and block the road. There’s only one way in from the A23 and the road ends in a dead end, so they always come this way. Which is handy for me.
I have to set up my operation further down the road and be quick as hell because the abattoir guys are on to me. Still, they can’t stop me.
Alex told me to “get in” with the local police so they would be on my side if anything happened. So, we held a dinner for the senior police staff in Belgrave Castle last weekend. Stuff like this gets Alex up in the morning whereas it makes my skin crawl. Still, the police commissioner and his gang were top class gentlemen, thrilled to be invited personally by the duke, and it was a great night.
A man gets out of the jeep driving the horsebox, waving his fist. I go over and talk to them. A second man gets out. The bigger guy looks like he wants a fist fight, but takes one look at me and changes his mind.
“What’s wrong with the horse?” I ask in my most reasonable tone.
The guys exchange a glance.
“Maybe I can help.”
“You a vet?” asks one.
“No, I recognize you. You’re Lord Belgrave. Owner of… owner of…”
“The Silmarillion,” I answer for him
“Aye, that’s the one.”
The aggressive stance of the older guy slackens and he says, “Leg’s broke on this one. Sabotage, innit?”
“May I see?”
“No.”
“What’s the harm?” I brush past him. He tries to grab me, but I whirl around and shove his arm off me.
When I go to the back of the horsebox and look in, I gasp. I recognize that slim head with the light blaze on his nose immediately. It’s Fat Chance Cinnamon, who, despite his name, finished first at Chester and Epsom Downs this year. Seriously high profile.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” the guys sigh in unison. They’re now right behind me. “Who’da thought.”
“Why didn’t I hear of this?”
“Haywards Yard didn’t want the world to know. Security, reputation, and all that. Keeping it on the hush-hush—and we’re not supposed to tell you either. Owner just wants to dispose of this one, nice and neat like.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t worry, I’m no fan of the press. Your secret’s safe with me.”
I know I should be negotiating the release of Fat Chance Cinnamon into my care. But the statistics swirl before me. In all those races where a horse dropped out at the last minute due to “fatigue,” the winner was a horse from Greer’s conglomerate. By damaging a horse in each of the major competition yards, he’s succeeded in throwing them into disarray. Haywards Yard was one of the last bigger yards with no “no shows” in big races. Until now.
I was right. It’s got to be Greer. Only he could mobilize such a network of thugs to carry this out. I have to get the man himself.
What beats me is why he’d target me. My yard is a one-horse yard. He didn’t have to try and kill Sill. Not to mention how he got in. There’s only one key and few people know where it is.
Well, there’s only one way to find out. I know where he lives. I can’t deal with Fat Chance Cinnamon.
“Don’t do it,” I say to the man as I walk towards my car. “Get him to a sanctuary. Fernborough Sanctuary in Suffolk will take him if you go there.”
It’s a long shot. I can only hope they’ll take my advice.
◊◊◊
Ten minutes of googling tell me what I need to know. Greer lives between East Grinstead and Royal Tunbridge Wells—not far from here—in a hilltop mansion secluded by a strategically thick hedge. Exactly the kind of gaff you’d expect a mob overlord to live in.
I have the good fortune not to have to wrangle my way into his house as he’s standing outside his garage admiring a new-looking Bentley saloon. He’s alone. I walk stealthily towards him from where I’ve parked my car halfway down his driveway. With every step on his pristine gravel driveway I become more and more convinced that he fed those cyanide-producing plants to my horse, or had it arranged. And then burnt down my stables when he was worried the cyanide wasn’t enough. Then changed tactics to the old fashioned but more reliable leg breaking with the next horses. It all adds up.
When my shadow flits across the bonnet, he swings around sharply. “What the devil?” he whips off his sunglasses and star
es into my face. “Belgrave? What do you want?”
“This,” I say, smashing my fist into the side of his pasty face, “is for Sill.”
Yeah, it feels good. And I’m only getting started.
20
LIV
I SIT WITH MUMMY at the dinner table, picking listlessly at the comfort food that Cook has laid out for us. We’re going through the motions of eating as a family but what family do we have with my father confined to his bed and my boyfriend away, not that he would sit here with her even if he were around?
The clock strikes dully.
“I suppose we’ll have to make… preparations,” my mother says.
I look up from my steak and kidney pie. “What? No, Mummy.”
She shakes her head. “My dear girl. Look at him. He’s ready to give up.”
“No, you’re wrong. He’s recovered before. He’ll fight this thing.”
“Liv, darling,” she pleads. The pastry in my mouth turns to cardboard. If my mother’s saying this, things must be bad. Of course, the doctors have been shaking their heads for weeks now, but I always thought there’d be an exception somehow for Daddy, that there’d at least be a reprieve, giving him a few days of quality life to say goodbye properly. I scrape back my chair and rise.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to check on him.” I try to sound optimistic.
Up in the room, I pull the chair to my father’s bed. “Daddy.” I put his hand to my cheek. It’s powdery dry.
He twists his head in my direction. His face is a sickly, old-bone color, all the usual shine and ruddiness from decades of fine dining leached from his cheeks. My whole life, he was this formidable but kindly figure—Daddy. Angus MacKenzie, Earl Strathcairn. Now he just looks like a frail man, one of many. He could be any of our aging tenant farmers.
He’s wearing a black cap to keep his bald head warm. His bushy eyebrows are gone and there’s nothing to distract from the sunken eyes and cheeks. I’m desperate for some sign that my Daddy’s still there, that it’s him in there.
“Liv, my girl,” He ekes his eyes open slowly, as though even that causes effort. His gaze flits over me and then as if it’s too much for him, he stares straight ahead again, unseeing, and lets his eyelids shut.
I nod, eagerly.
“Where’s Peter?”
My stomach plummets. He hasn’t asked this in the two months since the divorce. The last time he saw Peter was the weekend before we split up when we had come to Strathcairn Castle for a family dinner to celebrate Mother’s sixtieth. I think it was my being home among loved ones that weekend that finally triggered the massive row that ended in us agreeing to divorce. But we hid it well behind smiles and politeness. Daddy never knew what Peter was like.
Do I lie to my dying father?
“He’s in London,” I say faintly. Technically, it’s not a lie.
“Why don’t I ever see him?” he asks.
It’s a reasonable question and I have no reasonable answer for it. “Well, we kept the apartment in London and there’s a lot to fix up,” I say vaguely. Okay now I’ve wandered into the territory of falsehood.
“I want to see him.”
“Yes, of course. As soon as he’s here.”
He grunts.
My heart sinks at the realization that maybe he thinks there won’t be a next time. “Daddy, really, he’ll be here, so make sure you get better, okay? Then we can all have dinner together.”
There’s no answer. Daddy’s head rests motionless against his pillow, in a scary manner that makes me wonder if he’s alive. But then to my immense relief, his chest moves up as he draws in a shallow breath.
I put his hand back on the bed and tuck in his cover in a useless gesture that doesn’t make me feel better. My sorrow is so complete that tears doesn’t even seem to do it justice. I just feel miserably empty and slightly confused.
I tell him it’s okay. That I will be okay. That we will be okay. That he did a good job. That he did such a good job that we will be just fine and he can let go. He’s allowed. He’s always been here for us and now we’re here for him. He never missed any of my birthdays. He never missed any of my events. He came to my assemblies and my school shows. He never missed anything in my life. Maybe he thought he had to wait to see Peter again before he could go but I told him it was okay. Peter was thinking of him.
More lies. It makes me furious that I’m lying to my father on his deathbed but I don’t even know if any of it registered with him.
When I creep down the stairs again, I feel smaller, more fragile, like a little girl again. My mother was right on this one. There’s not going to be a miraculous recovery. It’s a matter of days. For a moment, I pause halfway down the stairs. I wish I could be a little girl again and run to her for comfort. But that’s not going to happen. She’s the one who needs me to be strong for her. She needs me to take his place.
I take my seat back at the table, chin high. Mother sits there having made no progress on the food. For her sake, I lift up my knife and fork in a pretense of normality and I nod briskly at her. She knows what I’m agreeing to. I’ll organize the ceremony, the removal, all that stuff. She doesn’t need to worry. All she needs to do is mourn.
We finish our meal in silence and when Mummy goes up to her room, I tell Cook to take the rest of the evening off as well. I can clear up. I need some mindless activity.
It’s late. Ken should be back by now. I’m looking forward to seeing his happy victorious face and greeting whatever new horse he’s managed to get.
Just as I’ve finished packing the dishwasher, there’s a rap on the side door. I rush over.
“There you are.”
“Okay to come in?” Ken asks.
“Yes of course. Look, we’re going to have to stop all this sneaking around.”
“Pity. It’s fun.” Ken grabs me by the waist. I sink my head into his broad shoulder. He smells of fresh air, grass, horse, and excitement.
“I needed this,” he says, nuzzling into my hair.
“Me too.”
“How’d it go?”
“Talk about it later. The only thing I to hear right now is my name. From your lips. Screaming.”
“I’m sure… that can be arranged.”
We make short work of the three flights of stairs and the second we get the other side of my bedroom door, he’s peeling off my clothes in a frenzy, unable to wait. I claw at his bare back thrusting against him with my whole body. We collapse onto the bed, writhing and coiling together, like snakes.
Talk stops as we kiss roughly, mauling each other with our mouths. I’m desperately needy and I sense he is too. He’s pumping his frustrations into me with a vigor that borders on anger. And I love it.
His fingers find their way into my panties. “Yes, that’s it, filthy girl. Admit it, you’ve been thinking of me, that’s why you’re so wet.”
“I need you to take me hard tonight,” I whisper.
His face turns determined, cruel almost in its intensity, as he flips me over and pins me down. His hand is splayed between my shoulder blades, pushing me down into the mattress with a gentle force, enough to suggest I shouldn’t move from that position.
With my face pressed in the mattress, he pulls my hips up, raising my ass in the air. He maneuvers a pillow underneath my abdomen to tilt my ass higher. It’s such a sluttish position, exposing myself to his view but I trust him and I want to please him. He coaxes my thighs further apart. He presses his palm against the full length of my opening. I’m so sensitive I can feel every groove of the rough skin of his fingers and palm. I’m worried he’s just going to finger fuck me when what I need is so much more.
“I’ve never felt you so wet. So ready for me.”
My thighs squeeze against his hands, quivering with need. Ken takes what seems like forever to examine what he can see and just when I’m about to protest, he trails his finger from the base of my spine down, down, around the curve of one ass cheek slowly tow
ards the edge of my opening. I forget to breathe. I moan into the mattress. It’s so intimate that I can barely control myself. He circumnavigates the edge of my opening. It’s maddening. I want to move my hands to relieve the tension but he pushes my arms wide to the side.
“No self-help allowed,” he says in a commanding voice. “Do you trust me to give you what you need?
“Yes.” Then, “Please,” I add on a sigh.
While I stare into the darkness, I hear the rustle of a condom wrapper and his labored breathing as he gets himself ready. Then my sole focus is rooted to the spot where he places his damp tip at my opening. I raise my ass higher to encourage him to push in. I’m humping the pillow in an effort to get relief, I don’t care what I look like or sound like.
“Steady.” He places his hands flat against on my bouncing butt cheeks to quieten them. Then his cock pushes in, burying itself to the hilt, filling me, stretching me in a way that feels different to other positions. Ken lets out a grunt of pure masculine satisfaction and leans his hard body over mine. “Jesus, Liv, this feels so damn good like you have no idea.”
“Yes,” I whimper, “I do.” Just keep moving, goddamn it.
He’s not exerting his full weight on me but it’s heavy enough to feel engulfed, overpowered and protected by him. His thrusts begin and it’s no more Mr. Nice Guy. He’s wild, angry, a piston of rage. And it’s exactly what I need.
Groans escape from my throat with every thrust. I hardly know what sounds I’m making. Thank God nobody but me sleeps in this wing of the castle. Ken’s timing is impeccable—he knows exactly what I need and when I need it.
We move like animals, grunting, skin against skin, producing slapping noises. When the massive, explosive orgasm rages through me, my tears spring forth and flow into the sheet. I can’t help it. It’s such an angry, non-ladylike release, not a delicate shattering into pieces like sometimes happens, but a powerful, greedy, enraged demand for release. Is this what a male orgasm feels like? I understand why a man would kill for sex in that case.