Mount! (17 page)

She was so tired, she fell asleep instantly, then – cruellest of all nightmares – dreamt about rhinos having their horns hacked off, leaving cavernous bloody wounds and terrified babies … and there was Ben, face dark and twisted beyond all recognition, trying to save them, then being lifted off the ground by machine-gun fire. Gala woke sobbing and screaming to hear a rattle of bullets outside, which became louder and more insistent. They were coming to get her. Petrified, heart pounding, she crept up to the window – nothing but dark, not a shaft of moonlight – then jumped in panic at another rattle of gunfire.

Why weren’t the dogs barking? Was it burglars? She clutched her emerald brooch as she crept down the dark landing. Her mobile was back in her room, and anyway Pat Inglis’ and Cathal’s numbers could only be located on the board in the kitchen. She didn’t dare switch on a light, in case the intruders clocked her.

Reaching a window looking out on to the front of the house, she jumped at another rattle, then died. As the moon parted the ebony clouds, lighting up a frost-sparkling lawn, there was the ghost of Rupert Black in the same white shirt, hair glittering white-blond. Then the clouds slid over the moon, followed by more gunfire. Locked and bolted doors don’t keep out ghosts. Then the moon emerged again, and she gave a cry of relief as it lit up a plump black Labrador, and a brindle greyhound and two Jack Russells weaving round Rupert Black’s feet as another volley of gravel hit the window.

‘For fuck’s sake, let me in!’ howled a voice.

Oh God, it was Rupert. Hurtling down the stairs, Gala tripped
and fell. Saving herself by grabbing the post at the bottom, encountering velvet, and switching on the light, she realized it was Rupert’s dark-blue smoking jacket.

‘What the hell’s going on? I’ve been trying to get into my house for the past half hour!’ he shouted as Gala’s shaking hands struggled with bolts, keys and chains. ‘Do you want me to freeze to death?’

‘I didn’t know you were coming back, I’m so sorry.’

Next moment, she was sent flying by a tsunami of dogs, barking excitedly, wagging, whining and weaving round her feet.

‘I’m truly sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.’

Seeing how pale and trembling she was, and on the verge of tears, Rupert said as he went into the kitchen: ‘You’d better have a drink.’

‘You honestly don’t have to, I ought to go back to bed,’ stammered Gala, thinking how utterly gorgeous he looked in that white shirt. In fact, compared with the long-legged yearling slenderness of him in the nude painting on the landing, he was now as powerful and solidly muscular as one of his stallions.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he told her.

‘Well, at least put something on.’ Gala seized a thick dark-blue jersey drying on the Aga.

As Rupert shrugged into it, enjoying the warmth, he clocked the emerald on her pyjama top. ‘Been robbing Cartiers?’

‘Ben, my husband, gave it to me for our last wedding anniversary. Actually it would have been our eighth anniversary tonight.’

‘Better celebrate then.’

Having switched on
At the Races
, Rupert got a bottle of champagne out of the fridge.

‘Go on,’ he nodded to the much-blanketed sofa, where she was instantly joined by Forester sliding behind her, and Banquo and Cuthbert taking up guard on either side of her and Gilchrist collapsing on her feet.

‘You’ve certainly seduced my dogs. Where the hell did he get that emerald from?’

‘Ben was diverting the river flowing through our land into a pond for the cattle. He found the stone on the river-bed. Thank
you.’ Gala accepted a large glass. ‘And he took it to a local jeweller who turned it into a brooch. I’ve often wondered if the jeweller tipped off Wang, the local mafia warlord, that there were minerals on our land.’

‘What did Ben do?’

‘He was a farmer, but also a game warden, obsessed with saving the white rhino from the poachers. We were caught up in a court case to keep our farm. Finally, after five years of haggling, we won. Next day it was burnt to the ground. I’m boring you.’

‘No,’ said Rupert, who was watching a race on
At the Races Stateside
with half an eye.

‘You told Taggie you didn’t want to know.’ Gala took a slug of champagne, the desire to unburden overwhelming. ‘I’d been shopping in Harare to get some drink for a wedding anniversary party – seven years and no itch. I found,’ she took a deep breath, ‘that all the farmworkers who had been loyal to us had been murdered; they’d strung up our Staffies and our black Lab, then they’d cut and hacked the legs off our horses and cows.’

‘Christ.’ Rupert turned down the television. ‘Where was Ben?’

‘Saving a baby rhino. Poachers had killed its mother and sawed off her horn, but the baby had managed to survive for four days, crawling under her to suckle from her teats.’ Gala gave a sob. ‘Ben was trying to load the baby on to his truck. The poachers must’ve known he was there – they came back and fired fifty bullets into his body.’

‘Christ, that is so fucking awful. What did the police do?’

‘What police? They all work for the government, who are hand in velvet glove with Wang.’

‘There must be some way of getting him.’

‘You don’t tangle with mafia warlords; they don’t like being reminded of their transgressions,’ said Gala bleakly. ‘Wang’s mining our land now.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Rupert filled up her glass.

‘I was having a nightmare about rhinos. I thought the rattle of gravel on the window was gunfire, then I looked out of the
window and saw a blond man in a white shirt in the moonlight and nearly died. I thought it was the ghost of Rupert Black.’

Like a suddenly floodlit statue, Rupert’s still face broke into a smile.

‘Funny coincidence, I crossed swords this evening with a descendant of the guy Rupert Black’s supposed to have taken out. A prat called Roddy Northfield. His elder brother Rufus, Lord Rutshire, owns Rutminster Racecourse. Roddy, who runs the racing side, wants to raise cash building horrid little houses everywhere.

‘Rutshire’s gay with no heir and not much into racing, so Roddy, who has a repulsive lumpen son, Alfred – who’ll probably inherit – is already throwing his considerable weight around. He’s got a new sponsor who wants to move their big July race from its midweek slot to Saturday, which will mean a logjam of about five races all worth £100,000 taking place within the same two hours. Bloody stupid. Roddy’s the King of Waffle. The debate was entitled “Whither racing”. “Going fucking nowhere with you at the helm”, I told him.’

‘Gosh, was he cross?’

‘Bellowing like Titus. I was so bored I left before dinner.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘I’ve got a runner at Saratoga in a minute, one of Love Rat’s fillies.’

‘You must be starving,’ said Gala.

Going to the fridge, Rupert took out a dish of chicken paprika she’d made earlier, but before she had time to suggest she heated it up, he was spooning it up, nodding in approval.

‘This is bloody good, nothing like the muck the boots used to serve up to my father.’

He offered the dish to Gala who, thinking what beautiful hands he had, shook her head.

‘Not if I need to lose several stone.’

‘In those pyjamas, you’ve actually got a body.’

‘I usually wear ten layers, but it’s getting warmer.’

‘That is so awful, what happened to you.’

Don’t be too nice, she thought, not wanting to cry. Kindness is the greatest aphrodisiac; she couldn’t believe he was being so lovely.

‘If someone did that to Tag or my dogs, I’d rip them apart.’

He put the empty dish in the washing up machine and took some chocolate tart out of the fridge.

‘Did you have any children?’

‘We were waiting for the court case to be settled.’

‘What sort of bloke was he – Ben? Attractive?’

‘Very. Honourable,’ she hugged Banquo, ‘like a Labrador but tougher, and very straight. I get panic attacks I’ll never see him again. I want to Skype him in heaven to see if he’s let the Staffies sleep on his cloud.’ Her voice broke again. ‘When we first got them he insisted they lived outside but within a month they were up on the sofa enjoying
The X-Factor
.’

But she had lost Rupert, who’d turned up the sound.

‘Here’s Love Rat’s filly Flippity Gibbet being ponied down to the post, looks good, just three or four ribs showing. She’s got his ears and wide eyes.’

He emptied the bottle into Gala’s glass, never taking his eyes off the horses.

‘Come on little girl, come on little girl … fucking marvellous!’

The dogs all wagged their tails as Flippity Gibbet scorched past the post, three lengths clear.

Gala was shocked at the joy she felt, as a euphoric Rupert opened another bottle. Next moment there was a bleep, Weatherbys’ tracking system telling him any time of the day, anywhere in the world, that his horses had won or been placed in a race.

‘Do you switch it off in bed?’ Gala was appalled to find herself asking as he filled up her glass and quickly added: ‘To Flippity Gibbet!’

‘To Ben,’ said Rupert, raising his glass to her. He sat down on a kitchen chair, looking at her. ‘I cannot imagine a fraction of what you feel. But my great mate Billy Lloyd-Foxe died last year.’

‘To Billy, then.’ Gala raised her glass. ‘He sounds so lovely.’

‘He was. We go back such a long way, it’s hard to kick the habit: even now if I have a win, or have a problem with a horse, I reach for my mobile. I’ve just bought a terrific South African
stallion called Blood River to inject a bit of hybrid vigour into the stud. I wanted to share that with him … I keep texting him jokes.’ Then, feeling he was displaying weakness: ‘Are you being driven crackers by my father?’

‘I love him. He’s so appreciative and up for everything. When it’s warmer, I’d like to take him to the races.’

‘Not on Ladies Day in a high wind. We took him to Cheltenham last year, talk about Cleavage Hill – he practically fell out of the box, training his race glasses on all the boobs! So you’re OK here?’

‘I love it. I adore Taggie.’ Gosh, she must be pissed.

‘Mrs Rochester.’ Rupert raised an eyebrow. ‘Much preferred to Mr Rochester, who is far too old for you.’ He glanced at himself in the kitchen mirror and then laughed.

‘Oh God,’ gasped Gala, going crimson. ‘I’m sorry, someone called Janey was so pushy.’

‘She’s a cow, don’t worry.’

‘And I love Dora and Lark and Louise and Marketa and Meerkat and Gee Gee and Roving Mike and Gav – I wish one could cheer him up – and Pat is such a laugh.’

‘Need to be tough to run a stud, although he cried his eyes out when a young stallion had to be shot last year. What did you think of Fleance?’

‘Awesome. I’ve never ridden anything so fast, like a Ferrari. The more he quickened, the more he found. He could easily step up in trip and get one mile two furlongs.’

Drink had unlocked her tongue.

‘You don’t mind me going down to the yard? I don’t want to get in anyone’s way, particularly yours and Taggie’s.’

‘You won’t. I mean it – get a couple of stone off and you can ride out. Dad can have a lie-in. I’ll take you round the yard tomorrow.’

‘I’d better go to bed. Thank you so much for the drink.’

Falling over Cuthbert, she steadied herself by clutching the kitchen table, and nearly stumbled again as she started up the stairs, giggling: ‘Oh dear, I’m tripping up on step.’

Typical Rupert. He suddenly decided he liked Gala.

‘Lovely woman,’ he told Taggie the next morning. ‘Had a ghastly time, don’t know how she survived. Better marry Gav.’

Geraldine, his PA, was less amused. ‘He’s been slagging her off for months, now you’d think he invented her,’ she said sourly.

Slightly regretting that he’d got pissed and so intimate with Gala, however, Rupert was cooler with her when he took her round the late-afternoon check, known as Evening Stables.

With 200 horses to look at, Rupert allotted a minute a horse, only pausing to feel its legs and sometimes fire off details of illustrious sires or dams, big races won and future prospects. Gala, who wanted to examine, marvel and ask questions, got hopelessly left behind.

‘Come on, come on. Buck up, for God’s sake,’ called back Rupert, and Gala felt last night’s intimacy slipping away.

‘Like the American tourist in the Louvre,’ she was amazed to hear a nearby Gavin murmur. ‘“If you keep stopping to look, we’ll never get round”.’

Gala laughed and again thought how nice he was when he added: ‘The first boss I worked for used to blindfold the lads and expect them to recognize horses by their legs.’

‘Could they do the same with women?’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ yelled Rupert, who’d reached the end of
the row. ‘Why the hell did you bother to come?’ And stalked back to his office.

From then on, as often as possible Gala did wander down to the stud to chat, especially to Gee Gee the gentle giantess, who as well as being the only girl considered strong enough to handle the odd stallion, was mostly in charge of the mares who came to give birth and be covered again.

One evening, Gala was comforting a homesick virgin mare, who’d won several races and who, the moment she ovulated, would be fitted into Peppy Koala’s frantic schedule.

‘Poor little duck,’ said Gala, stroking her. ‘After all those fists being shoved up your ass or thrust into your vagina, Peppy’s prick will seem like a day in the country.’

She must get back to Eddie. Next minute, Gee Gee came out of Cordelia’s box looking worried. A very special foal of Love Rat’s was due any minute, but Rupert’s favourite mare suddenly appeared in great distress.

‘I’ve rung Rupert but he’s not answering, nor is Pat and I can’t get through to the vet.’

‘Let me have a look.’ Entering Cordelia’s box, Gala stroked the sweating mare who was moving around, pawing her belly, then collapsing on to the straw.

‘May I try? I think I might know what could be wrong.’

Sliding her long slim hand into Cordelia’s vagina, Gala discovered, as she had suspected, that the foal’s back legs were pointing upwards, threatening to puncture the mare’s rectum.

‘All right, little girl.’ With infinite gentleness, she edged the legs round so they were pointing out of Cordelia’s cervix, enabling the foal to slide very easily out into the world.