Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  The thug leaned closer.

  ‘Tell me now.’

  Ben shook his head again. At first he thought it wasn’t going to work, that Mal was enjoying himself too much. But then greed took over, the pressure on his windpipe eased and blessedly sweet air flooded back into his lungs.

  ‘OK. Let him up,’ Mal told his cohorts. ‘But hold him.’

  Somewhere nearby Ben heard a door open and the sound of it obviously registered with Mal, too, because he snapped, ‘Stand him up. Quickly!’

  As they hauled him to his feet, Ben purposely let his weight drag on his two captors, causing them to move closer together as they tried to support him. Using the leeway he’d gained, he suddenly straightened his legs and turned his head to butt the one on his right side with all the force he could muster which – it had to be said – wasn’t nearly as much as he would have liked.

  It was, however, enough.

  The youngster hanging on to his right arm immediately let go with one hand and clutched at his face, allowing Ben to pull his arm free and swing it at the second one. This lad, unwilling to take on Ben without a substantial advantage, released his hold instantly and tried, unsuccessfully, to dodge the punch.

  ‘You cretins!’ Mal screamed, but a shout from behind him signalled that help was on its way for Ben. ‘All right, go! Go on. Go – go!’

  Finding himself abruptly unsupported, Ben staggered slightly, tripped over the table leg, and would have fallen if he hadn’t managed to catch hold of a neighbouring table at the critical moment.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ Someone had arrived to help, slipping his hand under Ben’s arm to steady him. ‘I should sit down for a minute, if I were you.’

  Ben thought that was an excellent idea, and did so.

  ‘You all right?’ the man repeated.

  Ben nodded. Broadly speaking, he was. He’d have a few bruises and his throat felt sore but it could have been a lot worse. If his escape bid had failed and Mal had discovered that the wallet containing his money and credit cards wasn’t in his back pocket, after all, but in the inside pocket of his jacket, he might well have been in real trouble.

  Rubbing his bruised back, he straightened up and found that several more people had emerged from the pub and a small crowd had gathered, one of whom was the young lad he’d rescued.

  ‘That was pretty impressive,’ someone said approvingly, and there was a general murmur of agreement. ‘For once those Jones boys didn’t get it all their own way.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’d have had much chance if you lot hadn’t appeared,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘But you know them, do you?’

  ‘Yeah. Three of them are brothers: Mal, Kevin and Leroy Jones. I don’t know the skinny one but they’re always together, and always causing trouble. They get away with it most of the time, too, ’cos no one wants to report it. Things happen to people that get on the wrong side of that lot, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘That’s Billy Larkin,’ someone called out. ‘The skinny one with the spots. He lives down our road.’

  ‘Well, I’ll damn well report it!’ Ben said without hesitation.

  A couple of people cheered and someone said, ‘Good on yer!’

  The man who’d spoken first carried a dishcloth over his shoulder and Ben assumed he was the barman or pub landlord. His next words confirmed this.

  ‘Come on in and I’ll get you a drink. On the house, of course. You can phone the police from there.’

  Ben fell in readily with this plan and, waving away offers of help, rose to his feet, a little shakily, to join the general movement back into the pub.

  ‘Um, I just wanted to say thanks.’

  Ben turned and found by his side the young lad with the ALSA leaflets, still clutching both those and the collecting box. Incredibly, he’d almost forgotten the boy whose plight had been the start of it all.

  ‘I should thank you for fetching help,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘A bit shaky,’ the lad admitted.

  ‘That makes two of us. But how come you were out here on your own? Where are the others?’

  ‘We’re here.’ A voice spoke up from behind Ben as he ducked to enter the low doorway. ‘We only popped in for a minute … It was just unfortunate …’

  The speaker was one of two hippyish individuals; the sort that make protesting a way of life, whether it be against road building or for the rights of obscure minorities. Ben thought one was probably male and the other female, but he couldn’t be sure. He favoured them both with a withering look. ‘Yeah. It was very unfortunate.’

  Inside the pub a seat was found for him, and coffee and a cordless phone were produced. Ben availed himself of all three, suggesting to the police that if they cared to come out to the pub they might find any number of witnesses to the Jones brothers’ latest offence, and, after some hesitation, they agreed. It appeared that some of these potential witnesses had had their ears carefully tuned in to his conversation because within a few moments of the end of the call, the population of the public bar had thinned out quite dramatically.

  The barman caught Ben’s wry look at the departing backs and nodded.

  ‘What did I tell you? Another coffee? Are you sure you wouldn’t like something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee’s fine.’

  ‘Bit odd with steak and chips.’

  ‘With steak and chips I’d probably have a beer,’ he agreed.

  ‘Comin’ right up.’

  The food beat the police to Ben’s table by a good twenty minutes and he was, in fact, just wiping the juices from his plate with his last chip when a diminutive WPC came in, followed by a stout and ponderous colleague who looked to be pushing retirement age.

  ‘Ben Copperfield?’ she enquired of the room in general.

  Ben put up a hand and spent the next quarter of an hour answering her questions. Finally, closing her pocketbook, she got up to go.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take a statement?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, that depends …Would you be prepared to give evidence?’

  ‘I thought that’s what I’d just been doing.’

  ‘I mean, in court,’ she said. ‘You see, we’ve been through all this before. People start off full of anger and good intentions but somehow by the time the court case comes around, they aren’t interested any more. It’s just a waste of everyone’s time and effort.’

  Her portly sidekick, who had been enjoying a cup of coffee over by the bar, nodded his agreement. ‘Bloody waste of time.’

  ‘Well, if you can get them there, I’ll be there,’ Ben promised, and the landlord announced his willingness to back him up.

  Shortly after the officers left, Ben also took his leave, pausing in the porch to scan the car park area for undesirables.

  ‘Come on, I’ll see you to your car,’ a voice offered and, looking to his right, Ben saw a pleasant-faced, fair-haired young man sitting at one of the outside tables with the collecting-box boy. ‘I wanted an opportunity to thank you for what you did for Seb,’ the man added. ‘Henry Allerton, by the way. Seb’s my nephew.’

  ‘Well then, it’s a pity you don’t take a bit better care of him,’ Ben observed sardonically. ‘He should never have been left on his own with a box of cash. It was asking for trouble.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t have been if I’d had anything to do with it,’ Allerton assured him. ‘I wasn’t here at the time, but I’ve had words with those concerned.’

  ‘So, you’re one of the animal lib protesters too,’ Ben observed, starting towards his car. ‘I hear you pulled off quite a coup, up at Belinda Kepple’s stable earlier.’

  ‘We did what we set out to do.’ He sounded smug.

  ‘And you think stopping a couple of thousand people looking round a racing stable is going to make a real difference?’

  ‘If we cause even one of those people to think again about what they are helping to support, we will have achieved at least part of our aim.’

  Ben
stopped and turned to face him. ‘You really believe in all that stuff, don’t you?’

  Allerton frowned. ‘Of course I do, or I wouldn’t be doing this. I believe that it’s gross arrogance on the part of humanity to think we’re justified in using animals for whatever purpose we please. And even more so when it is solely for amusement.’

  ‘No need to ask if you’re a veggie,’ Ben murmured. Then, before Allerton could respond, ‘Listen, I’m a journalist. I specialise in horse-related topics and I’ve had stuff published in some of the big national dailies as well as many of the top horse publications. What would you say to some real countrywide coverage?’

  Allerton’s eyes narrowed. ‘That would depend what slant you put on it. We don’t need the kind of publicity that makes us out to be New Age troublemakers. We’re dealing with serious issues here, that we’re passionate about.’

  ‘Try me. If you can convince me, I’ll do my best to convince the readers. If you can’t, I’ll put your case forward and leave it to people to decide for themselves, with no personal opinions included. Come on, you can’t say fairer than that.’

  Ben was subjected to a long, hard look.

  ‘All right. But it’s not entirely up to me. I’ll have to get back to you.’

  On cue, Ben took out a business card and handed it over. ‘Call me, then. But don’t leave it too long, I’ve got other commissions coming up.’

  Allerton half saluted and peeled off, taking the lad with him and leaving Ben on his own. Luckily, no one was lurking in the car park with mischief in mind, and within moments he was safely in the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut behind him. For a moment he leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His ribs felt sore and he guessed it would be several days before he would be able to swallow comfortably, but, all in all, he supposed he’d got off relatively lightly. It wasn’t the first time he’d been roughed up in the course of his career; before he started specialising in equine matters he’d reported on a couple of controversial issues where the parties involved had made it very clear that his interest wasn’t welcome. He did feel a bit peeved, though, that this time the violence had been almost incidental.

  ‘Well, Mouse,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Next time I go charging in like some Hollywood vigilante, just remind me of how I feel now, would you?’

  Mouse lifted her whiskery muzzle enquiringly for a moment, flattened her ears in pleasure, and then settled down again with a sigh.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right; I probably wouldn’t listen,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘Always engage my muscle before my brain …’

  By the time Ben got back to the cottage, Lisa was just leaving.

  ‘Too late mate, you missed your chance. I’ve got to pick up my Americans at six-thirty.’ They had met in the doorway, she dressed for the evening in a navy trouser suit and smelling rather strongly of some expensive perfume.

  She spoke lightly, but Ben caught an undertone of hurt disappointment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisa. I really am. I ran into a spot of bother and had to give a statement to the police. It all took time.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, just some louts picking on a kid outside a pub. He was one of your protesters, as a matter of fact, collecting money, and the others thought they’d help themselves.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Lisa caught hold of his jaw and turned it this way and that, peering closely. ‘No black eyes … Don’t tell me you broke the habit of a lifetime and kept out of it?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, but there were a few others who came out of the pub to help. Anyway, I’m only telling you because that’s why I didn’t get back in time to help you enjoy your “quality time”.’

  ‘Well, it’s your loss.’

  ‘It is, indeed,’ he said, pulling her into his arms as she tried to edge past. At close range the scent was almost overpowering. ‘Is this a new perfume?’

  Lisa made a rueful face. ‘No. I knocked the bottle over and some of it soaked into my sleeve. I would have changed into my other jacket but I know it isn’t ironed. Is it too awful?’

  ‘Not too awful. It’s probably making a statement. Of sorts.’

  ‘Yeah, and the statement is probably that I’ve got terminal BO,’ she grimaced, pulling away from him. ‘I’ll have to change, ironed or not. The trouble is, after a few minutes you get desensitised and can’t tell how bad it is.’

  At this point Mouse, who’d grown tired of the doorstep conversation, slipped between their legs and into the hall, where she began to sneeze violently.

  Lisa scowled at her.

  ‘All right, all right. No need to rub it in; point made!’

  A couple of minutes later, having unearthed the replacement jacket, she had another crisis.

  ‘Oh God, it’s all hairy! That wretched dog! I’ll turn her over to Mike the Masher one of these days!’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ Mike was Ben’s landlord, an ex-army man who was rumoured to have been in the Special Forces, and looked as though he had certainly represented the army in the boxing ring. A mountain of a man with a deep rumbling voice, he lived just a few yards from the farmyard development, in the tall stone building that had been the original farmhouse. Nobody knew how he’d come by his money, and no one was about to ask. He was an undemanding landlord who kept to himself and imposed few rules on his tenants, but one of those few was that no pets of any kind were allowed in the cottages.

  ‘I would so!’ she declared. ‘Look at this. How can I put that on? It looks like she slept on it!’

  Ben, who had indeed found Mouse curled up in the washing basket one afternoon, wisely held his tongue. Instead, he fetched a clothes brush and set about remedying the situation.

  ‘I don’t know how you’ve got away with sneaking her in and out all this time,’ Lisa said, as Ben brushed vigorously. ‘He must know.’

  ‘Of course he knows. And what’s more, he knows that I know he knows. But as long as nothing is actually said, we can all pretend we know nothing. There, that looks okay; it’ll be dark, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She picked up her handbag and keys and headed for the door once again, pausing to say, with a glint in her eye, ‘You know, I reckon he’s a bit sweet on you. You want to be careful.’

  ‘Mike the Masher? Yeah, right! You’re just jealous. Now go find your rich Americans. When will I see you again?’

  ‘Well, this lot move on on Tuesday morning but I’ve got another lot on Wednesday, so I’ll probably stop over at Mum’s. It might be the end of the week.’

  ‘OK. Well, give me a ring, then. And sorry about the bacon.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Lisa leaned towards him and they kissed briefly. ‘I was going to chuck it away, anyway. It was out of date.’

  Ben was laughing as he closed the door behind her. They had a good relationship: steady but not intense; mutually noncommittal, as they’d agreed it should be when Lisa had first started to stay for the occasional night over a year ago. With both of them working irregular hours and sometimes being away for several days, there were times when they were like the proverbial ships in the night, but, in a way, Ben felt this kept the relationship fresh. When they did get together, it was like discovering one another all over again. The arrangement was loose and it suited them both that way; there were no promises to be broken, no tears and tantrums, in fact, very few arguments at all. The gentle reproach, imperfectly hidden, with which she’d greeted him that afternoon was about as heavy as it got. He counted himself very lucky.

  With only an hour or so to spare before his arranged meeting with Rackham, Ben decided that his time would be most usefully spent soaking in a hot bath. His back felt tender and exhibited the beginnings of some quite promising bruises, but these bothered him far less than the shame he felt at the memory of his rapid descent into panic when he’d found himself trapped. It had been a long time since he’d gone to pieces like that and he’d thought he was past it. It was disturbing to find that he wasn’t.

&nb
sp; Belinda Kepple’s yard was, like its owner, neat and competent, with no frills. Whitewashed walls, black painted doors and a well-swept concrete apron indicated an efficient regime and a certain pride in appearances. On the gate the name – Laurel Farm – was spelt out in simple black letters on a cream background. In spite of the modesty of its appearance, Ben knew that this was one of the most progressive establishments in the racing business, and Belinda herself was the most successful female trainer of the current season.

  Five minutes late, he found Rackham already in conversation with the trainer, who bent a look of slightly frowning enquiry towards Ben as he approached.

  ‘It’s all right, he’s with me,’ Rackham told her, looking – in corduroy and sheepskin – far more in command of himself than he had done earlier that day. ‘He’s a journalist, doing a feature about the Gold Cup horses. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Well, no,’ she said, not sounding exactly overjoyed. ‘If you’re OK with it, that’s fine.’ Fiftyish, of medium height and wiry build, she wore her grey-speckled dark hair short. In jeans, a Guernsey and a thick fleece jacket the whole effect was somewhat androgynous but she was, nevertheless, quite an attractive woman.

  ‘Ms Kepple?’ Ben asked, turning on the smile. He wasn’t sure of her marital status and didn’t want to offend. ‘Ben Copperfield.’

  ‘Belinda,’ she responded, accepting the handshake. ‘Ben Copperfield … Are you Johnnie’s boy?’

  Ben was a little taken aback. It was a long time since he’d been described as a boy and, even when his parents were together, he could never remember hearing his mother use that form of his father’s name.

  ‘I might be. Which particular Johnnie are we talking about?’

  ‘John Copperfield the bloodstock agent. Son called Michael who’s a jockey, and another who’s a journalist; you, I presume, unless I’ve got entirely the wrong family.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘I thought not. You’ve a look of Johnnie about you. You didn’t follow him into horses, then?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Should’ve thought it was in your blood, with your mother, as well.’