On cue, the horses rolled on to their stomachs and sat up like so many dogs, holding the position while their riders moved to sit between their straightened front legs. Ben’s cynicism deepened. Still, it made good entertainment and the applause was greatly appreciative.
Ten seconds later, the horses were on their feet and the Csikós were once more in their saddles.
‘But it’s not all work …’
One of the riders produced a red bandanna from the pocket of his culotte-like trousers and waved it aloft. With whoops and cries, a madcap game of tag ensued, the nimble horses twisting and turning faster than the eye could follow, as the riders endeavoured to snatch the cloth from each other.
‘Try and keep your eye on the handkerchief, ladies and gentlemen,’ Emilian urged. ‘See if you can guess who has it at the end.’
Ben had tried three times before, and been wrong three times; tonight was no different. As the game wound to a close, the crowd shouted suggestions and each rider showed his hands in turn until finally Miklós owned up; he had the bandanna.
After they had taken their bows and galloped out Melles, the shire, returned with András and his brother reprising their clowning routine. Partway through this a commotion was heard in the area beyond the entrance. Heads had just begun to turn that way, momentarily distracted, when there came a warning shout and one of the white stallions burst into the arena, galloping wildly with its saddle half under its belly and its rider clinging precariously to its side.
Even though he knew it was a sham, Ben couldn’t prevent the lurch of shock that seized his body in that first instant. It was so well set up. He defied anyone to sit through it with completely unruffled composure. Wrenching his gaze from Nico’s play-acting he watched the people around him, seeing in their faces the horror that he’d felt the first time.
As Nico pulled off his miraculous ‘recovery’ Ben saw the expressions shift through relief to slightly embarrassed amusement, as the audience looked around them and realised that they had all been similarly taken in. Ben clapped with the rest of them. He had to take his hat off to the troupe; it was a wonderful piece of theatre.
The arena cleared, the lights dimmed, and one by one the riders returned to do a lap in the spotlight and assemble for their final bows. Jeta and Anna sat sideways behind Miklós and András on two of the Spanish stallions, with Ferenc on Duka; Tamás rode Melles, and Ben was surprised to see the young Sulio riding Bajnok – normally Nico jealously guarded the privilege of partnering the black.
The rest of the crowd had noticed Nico’s absence too, and had just begun to murmur to one another when they were interrupted by a slow drum roll.
‘This is a special moment,’ Emilian announced dramatically. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness a feat of extraordinary skill and daring. Nicolae Bardu will demonstrate – for perhaps the first time in this country – the almost unbelievable Great Plains Five: the Puszta Otus!’
The drum roll intensified and Ben joined the rest of the audience in looking towards the entrance expectantly. This was new to him, too.
A fanfare of trumpets heralded Nico’s triumphant reappearance and, after keeping them waiting for a few more expectant seconds, he erupted into the spotlight riding a tide of galloping horses and whooping at the top of his voice. As they swept around the arena it could be seen that he was actually standing on the rumps of the two rearmost animals and holding the reins of those and three others in his hands, somehow keeping their jostling forms together and also finding time to crack the whip above his head.
He circled the arena twice at great speed, to rapturous applause, before guiding the Magyar horses into the centre where the rest of the troupe were gathered, and jumping down with a flourish. At once, the horses separated a little, and it became obvious that all that had held them together was their own forward motion and Nico’s skill with whip and reins.
‘Ladies and gentlemen; the Puszta Otus!’ Emilian cried. ‘Thank you for sharing this evening with us. We hope you have enjoyed yourselves. If you wish to meet the Csikós and some of the horses, please make your way to the foyer when the lights come up. No unaccompanied children please, and please to hold on to the hands of children under twelve. Thank you. If you have had a good time, do come again and please, tell your friends about us.’
Outside the arena, five minutes later, Ben waited in the shadows and watched while Nico, Jeta, Ferenc and András supervised the introduction of the crowd to Duka, Melles and Bajnok.
‘Not too close – give the horses some room. Now, who has a birthday today?’ Ferenc enquired, as the people gathered round.
Several of the children put up their hands.
‘And which of you deserves a treat?’
‘Me! Me!’ Most of them started to jump up and down.
‘OK. Make a nice queue and we’ll ask the horses if you can sit on their backs.’
Suddenly, at least twenty more children remembered that it was their birthday, too. Smiling, Ben watched as the queue grew and grew. Ferenc didn’t seem to mind; in fact he appeared to be enjoying himself. It was a side of his character that Ben hadn’t seen before. Then, as the first of the happy children were lifted on to the horses, Ben caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the other side of the crowd. He shifted position to try and get a better view but the man was no longer there. Skirting the throng, he scanned the shadows in vain for another sight of him, trying to remember where he’d seen the man before.
‘Ben! What did you think of our show tonight?’ Jakob came out of the darkness.
‘Amazing! It gets better every time.’
‘Ah, this is nothing. When you see the complete performance you will not believe your eyes,’ he said proudly. ‘Listen, you will stay tonight, yes? We have plenty of room.’
‘Well … If you’re sure.’ He didn’t particularly relish the idea of the drive home. His business with Truman could surely wait an hour or two in the morning.
‘Of course I am sure. I said so didn’t I?’ Jakob clapped him heartily on the back. ‘Now I must find Emil …’
Alone again, Ben glanced at the crowd around Nico, Ferenc and the others and decided, as his last cup of coffee was but a distant memory, to head for the catering wagon. He knew that once the horses were settled it was customary for the troupe to gather there after a performance for hot dogs and beer, and he was sure that Gyorgy would have preparations well under way.
The area around the horse-transporters was quiet and dark. There was a light inside the first of them, where he knew Vadas and the other Arab were housed, but the next two were in darkness, the ramps down and waiting for Bajnok and Duka to finish their public relations exercise.
As he drew level with the last of the lorries there were definite sounds of activity from inside. Heavy scraping noises and several dull thuds were punctuated by bursts of excited discussion. The words were unintelligible to Ben, spoken in the Csikós’ native tongue, or a mixture of that and Romanes, the language of the Gypsies.
There was another more violent outbreak of banging, and Ben hesitated. Something was obviously wrong. He knew he should go and see but the thought caused a swift stirring of panic deep inside.
While he stood in an agony of indecision, a door opened in the side of the horsebox and a slight figure jumped down into the rectangle of light it shed and ran towards Ben.
Sulio.
Coming from the light into the darkness the boy nearly ran into him but, seeing him at the last moment, he stopped and grabbed Ben’s arm, saying his name with a breathless mixture of relief and urgency.
‘Ben. Ben! You come now! Please! You help us!’
Resisting the insistent tug on his arm, Ben looked round helplessly but no angel of mercy hove into view.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’
In his agitation Sulio garbled something incomprehensible, lapsing into his own language.
‘Slow down – slow down,’ Ben told him. ‘In English.’
‘Ben. You must come. Please!’
There was just enough light to see the beseeching look in the boy’s eyes and, in spite of his reluctance, Ben allowed himself to be led, half-running, towards the open door.
As they reached it the banging started again with renewed vigour and Sulio leaped inside, confident that Ben would follow.
It was the first time Ben had been in the back of one of the transporters; in fact, it was the first time he’d been inside a horsebox of any kind since he was about the same age that Sulio was now. As he followed the boy towards the back of the lorry the thudding intensified and he could feel the whole vehicle rocking on its suspension.
The partitions in the main body of the transporter, usually arranged to form several small travelling compartments, had been folded back and arranged so that two larger stalls were formed. In the first of these one of the Magyar horses was shifting nervously, looking back over its shoulder towards the other compartment.
With mounting apprehension, Ben went further.
Sulio stopped in the entrance to the second stall, spoke rapidly to whoever was inside, then turned wide anxious eyes to look at Ben as he caught up.
Ben paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The occupant of the stall, another of the Magyar horses, had rolled too close to the partition and got itself cast, its legs trapped in a tangle against the wall and, just to compound matters, its head was wedged in the corner. In an effort to try and stop it panicking, Tamás had thrown his jacket over the animal’s head and was kneeling on its neck. The partition bore the evidence of the battering it had taken from the steel-shod hooves and the horse’s chestnut coat was drenched with sweat.
Tamás looked up at Ben from his position in the corner.
‘Ben …We need to get a rope … on his legs,’ the vet said, breathing hard.
‘Where do I find one?’ Ben asked, his voice giving no sign that he was fighting a rising tide of terror.
Sulio tugged at his sleeve and lifted a canvas lunge rein from the rubber matting.
‘Here. I bring – but …’
‘It’s too dangerous – the boy’s not strong enough. We’ll have to pull him over and …’ Tamás rode a determined surge by the horse, ‘… and out of the corner, or he could break his neck.’
‘We should get some more help,’ Ben said, trying to function normally while a voice in his head was shrieking, You can’t do this. Get out, now!
The vet shook his head. ‘No time.’
Sulio held the roughly coiled, flat canvas rein out to Ben.
‘You do it,’ he said imperatively, unaware that he was asking Ben to relive a nightmare.
Somehow Ben found himself advancing into the compartment, the lunge rein clasped in his shaking hands and his eyes fixed on the ungainly bulk of the upturned barrel of the horse.
‘Right. Make a loop,’ Tamás instructed, ‘and see if you can get it over his back legs. Both, if you can.’
When Ben was a couple of feet away from the horse’s rear end, it suddenly launched into a fresh attempt to free itself. With a groan of desperate effort it lurched and began to thrash its legs against the partition wall. The noise was deafening and the hot sweaty smell of the animal filled Ben’s nostrils. He froze, rooted to the spot, his chest constricting as a cold wave of panic washed over him.
The voice in his head was thunderous. Get out! Now!
6
‘NO, BEN, GET back!’
Even as he stood there, transfixed, hands caught his shoulders and pushed him further away, sending him staggering into the wall next to the opening. The shock of the contact seemed to clear his head and as he spread his arms against the padded metalwork to regain his balance, he could see that help had arrived in the capable shape of Jakob and Emilian.
In the corner by the door the Magyar saddle was propped against the wall; alongside it was one of the bullwhips used in the display. In a seamless movement Jakob snatched up the whip, with its twelve-foot thong, turned towards the horse and, employing a deft flick of the wrist, sent the plaited leather snaking out to coil itself round the animal’s front legs. The thong only made a turn or two, but that was all that was needed.
‘Now, Tamás!’ he barked, Tamás scrambled clear, and with Emilian’s help, Jakob managed to tip the balance of the chestnut horse away from the wall and roll it into the centre of the stall. With another flick the whip was loosened and, as Ben slid sideways to the open door, taking Sulio with him, the animal lurched to its feet and stood swaying on spread legs.
All at once the close confines of the lorry were too much for Ben. His heart was pounding like a trip-hammer and he felt as though he would suffocate if he didn’t get out to the open air. Leaving Sulio at the stall door he all but ran along the narrow corridor to the side-access door, dropped down on to the grass, and leaned back against the bodywork to drink in deep, reviving gulps of cold night air, the evaporating sweat on his face and body accentuating the chill.
He was still there, albeit a good deal calmer, when Jakob appeared in the doorway a couple of minutes later and jumped down beside him.
‘You all right, Ben?’
‘Yeah. Bit claustrophobic in there.’ Ben brought both fists up towards his chest as he searched for a word that the Hungarian would understand. ‘A bit close – not enough space.’
Jakob gave him a long, considered look in the moonlight, then nodded.
‘It can be.’
Ben looked down at his toes. ‘I, er … wasn’t much help.’
‘It was dangerous. Tamás was wrong to have asked you. I told him so.’
‘It’s not his fault. He didn’t know what else to do. He was afraid Sulio would get hurt.’
‘Even so.’ Jakob looked along the row of lorries to where a lamp shone strongly under the awning of Gyorgy’s wagon. A tempting smell was wafting on the breeze. ‘Anyway, Tamás has things under control now. What do you say we go and eat before the vultures arrive?’
Ben didn’t feel particularly hungry but, grateful for the change of scene and subject, he fell in readily with this plan.
A spare berth was found for him and Mouse in the lorry shared by Jakob, Emil and Vesh Bardu. Vesh was a contemporary of Jakob and his brothers, and the troupe’s resident farrier. He was also some relation to Nico and his brothers, but Ben was too tired to work out this further addition to the complexities of the Bardu–Varga family tree and, at that moment, not sufficiently interested either.
The events of the evening had shaken the very foundations of the barriers he had built up over the years. He’d thought he had it all under control; that aside from the occasional disturbed night when the dreams returned, he had put it all behind him. He’d grown adept at avoiding situations where he’d be challenged, so why the hell had he allowed himself to be drawn so close to this one?
Tossing and turning on the surprisingly comfortable bunk, his eyes wide open, sleep was a million miles away. He was kept awake partly by the buzzing of an overactive brain and later, when weariness threatened to slow the thought process down, by the fear of what sleep would bring.
He wasn’t sure whether or not his paralysing fear had been recognised by the others in the heat of the moment, but he was pretty certain that Jakob had both seen and correctly interpreted his panic. The knowledge caused Ben shame. He had great respect for Jakob.
After an hour or so of wakefulness, listening to Emil’s stentorian snores and feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the narrow confines of the vehicle, Ben slid off the bunk and put his shoes on. With Mouse at his heels he gathered his jacket and let himself out of the lorry, hoping there was no alarm set.
The site was peaceful; only the odd thud of a restless hoof inside the transporters disturbed the silence and, now and again, the call of a tawny owl. Ben remembered how, as kids, he and his twin brother had learned to imitate the owls around their home, becoming so convincing that more than once they had been swooped on by a patrolling bird, guarding its patch.
/> God! Why did he have to think about Alan, now? He’d come out to clear his mind, not to drag more memories out of the closet. There was no point in trying to remember the good times – sure, there’d been plenty of those, but he knew from experience the brain’s stubborn determination to dwell on the melancholic in the small hours of the night. Something to do with brain chemistry, a GP had once told him, but knowing that was no bloody help at all.
He began to walk, his feet crunching on the frosty grass and the full moon illuminating his way. Mouse, trotting as though on hot coals, kept close, her back hunched and ears flat on her head.
‘Are you cold, sausage? I’m sorry. We’ll go back in a minute.’
Walking along behind the vehicles, Ben wandered across to the area where the untrained geldings were corralled. They were all in the barn now, a collection of shadowy shapes pulling hay from the racks or just dozing sleepily on their feet. Four legs and joints that locked out enabled them to do this, but still Ben found it difficult to imagine. What if humans could do the same? he mused. Hotels could really pack ’em in, then. They could advertise Standing Room Only.
Moving along the line of the fence he wondered what the horses made of their altered circumstances, and hoped they weren’t too cold. Most of them were clipped out and had probably come from stables or had, at the very least, been rugged up. Nico said they would soon acclimatise, but Ben would have put rugs on them.
For the first time that day he thought about Cajun King. He was clipped. Was he standing shivering somewhere, or was he in a stable being looked after? Was he even alive? How would you get rid of a creature that size? Dig a hole? Not with a spade, surely? You’d need a JCB. Or what about an existing pit? A quarry perhaps, or a slurry tank. Would they ever know what had happened to him?
Ben sighed. What a waste.
One or two of the horses caught sight of him and came to the front of the barn, looking enquiringly in his direction. Calm, inquisitive, uncomplicated; eager for human company. As always, Ben felt their pull, but the idea of getting close brought the faint flutterings of panic deep inside.
Outside Chance Page 11