Black Ice (25 page)

I  looked  at  the  ponies  again. What's good  enough  for an Icelandic shepherd is good  enough   for  a  Fleet  Street  hack, that's what  I always say. You never  know: they might  be on a good  mileage  rate.

But first I had  to see what shape  I was in. Christ! I lurched up, feeling terrible. The journey in the boot of the car and  the hammering I'd  taken  under  the water  had beaten  every ounce of strength out of me. I felt like a cut-out-paper man- I had the general shape, but none of the substance. Still,  I was- for the moment at any rate- upright.

The ponies had moved off when I got to my feet. Now I had to address myself to horse psychology. It was around thirty  years since  I'd  done  that  with a little fat grey kept  by an even fatter girl near  Sevenoaks. She let me ride the pony if I kissed her in the stable. I was crazy  about  horses, so I did.  It was my first conscious act of compromise and the first bitter  realisation that nothing comes  without  a price. It would  probably have  been more acceptable the other  way round.

One  thing about her pony, she didn't like being caught. So I had  to learn  all sorts of subterfuges.

One  thing  horses don't like are  creatures taller  than  themselves. Which  is why they moved off when  I stood  up. But something low  on  the  ground, like  a  smaller   animal, often makes them curious. That's why they were giving me the once over when  I woke up.

Knees creaking, I bent slowly, agonisingly, to my haunches.

And  I inspected the opposition.

The  one  that  had  come  to have  a look was  the  boss, a big grey, fourteen hands or more. He'd  trotted  off with neck arched and  his tail in a proud  curve.  Any other  day  I'd  have loved to ride him. Today, with no bridle and no saddle and no strength no thank  you.

What  I wanted  was something small,  dull,  placid  and  safe.

Then  I saw her, Doris. I thought of the name immediately. She was a little  piebald, black  and  white,  and  by the look of her she'd   dedicated all  her  waking   hours   to  eating. The   basic design  was card-table, flat-backed with  a leg at  each  corner. She was just what I was looking for. And when I moved and the others twitched their  ears  and  shuffled  off, she  stayed, nose down,  hunting one last  blade of grass.  Doris. She had  to be a Doris.

The   problem   was,  how  could  I  interest   her?  The  second problem was  how  could  I  hold  her? And  the  third  was how could  I mount  her?

First   things   first.   I  looked  around  to  see  what   natural resources nature had  given me. Answer: rocks. I could  knock her out  with a rock and  sit on her until she woke up. Ha,  ha. I checked   my  pockets.  If only  I  hadn't stopped   smoking  ... shake  a matchbox and  horses are always curious.  Ah, the car keys. They'd survived  the buffeting.

Doris  was already having  a good  look at  me while she ate. When  she  heard  the keys, her ears  went on red alert  and  she lifted her head. Then she turned  her head on one side. Did she like it? Was it worth coming over for a look? Or was she far too sophisticated for all that  catchpenny stuff?

Not  Doris.  She  came  swinging  over,  not  too  quickly,  but definitely interested.

As she came  I pulled  my tie undone. It wasn't much  more than  a damp piece  of string now,  but  a  piece of string  was exactly what I wanted. I looped it round into a thumb-knot and held it in my left hand.

Then   I jangled   the  keys again.  I  made  those  clicking  and cooing  sounds that  I  used  all  those  years  ago.  I don't  know about ponies  but  the Sevenoaks girl  always  liked  them.  On came Doris. Good as gold. Then, a yard away, she stopped. She stood  there.  Come  on, old girl, come on, darling, come here.

A whinny  vibrated in the air and  Doris looked up. The  herd was at the top of the bank now and just about  to disappear over the top. The grey, acting  as courier on this package, was giving her the last call. As soon as I saw he was going to whinny again, I  began  coughing. Not too loudly,  not enough  to frighten  her, but  enough  to cover  his last call and  to distract her from  the herd.

Then,  without any  encouragement, she  swung  down  her beautiful head  and  pushed  her nose into the hand  which  held the keys.

'Oh, you lovely  big softie,'  I said,  and  the soiled,  stained, ragged   neckwear  officially  authorised  by  the  Groombridge

Cricket  Club  slipped  over her head and  tightened just  behind her ears. I'd got me a hoss. Question was, could I ride it now I'd got it?

With  pain springing in every  move, I weaved  unsteadily to my feet. Doris didn't panic.

This  is the  point  in all good  cowboy  films  where  the  hero grabs the horse's mane, leaps astride and gallops off. With most horses, if you tried that you'd  be left with a handful of hair and the dying clatter of hooves as it vanished  over the horizon.

But Doris wasn't an inch over twelve hands. Tired  as I was, there  had  to be some  way I could  get on  board  her.  I leaned against her,  resting  and  thinking. She dropped her  head  and started  casting   about  for  breakfast   and,   when   something caught her eye, she moved off a couple of steps- and down six inches.

She'd stepped into a gulley. Still hanging on, I edged my way up a bump of rock so that I was now almost looking down on the broad, black and  white  back of our  Doris.

I could  mount  her easily from there.  Except  for one thing.  I couldn't.

It hadn't struck   me  until   that   moment.  I  was  far   too weakened  to ride her. I couldn't even begin to sit upright on a moving horse. I'd caught her, got her in position, and now there wasn't a thing  I could do about  it. I could've cried.

In despair, I flopped  against her. She stood  there,  willingly enough. Then  a thought occurred to me. Whatever the Pony Club  might  think,  there's no law that  says you have to have a leg on either  side.

I  put  my arms  over  her  back.  Then, with  a small  hop,  I draped myself stomach-down across it. At first I felt dizzy and couldn't get my breath because of the weight  on my stomach. But gradually I got used to it. I reached  out my hand  and  took hold of the tie and gave it three sharp tugs. At the same  time I tapped  on either side of her ribs with my knee and  hand, to impersonate the rider's leg action.

'Walk  on,'  I said.  'Walk  on, old girl.'

Now I don't suppose Icelandic horses speak English,  but the tones you use to animals are  universal. Doris,  not in the least unsettled by this flopped-out wreck on her back, lifted her head and  began  to amble  down  the track.

My face was full of her coarse scratchy hair and  the sweaty stink  of  her  and   I  could  feel  her  strong warmth rising  up through my own body. She reminded me of a girl I once knew in Aberdare. 'I know I got a big bum,'  Hazel used to say, 'but  it's only so I can  roll nice for you, see.'

Doris  rolled on.

I counted every time her front right hoof rose and fell. When it got to a hundred, I began again. Time after time after time. I watched  the  rough   lava  and   the  green   moss  rise  and   fall beneath my eyes. I rocked and rolled with Doris, love of my life, and  I'd  have  been going still if she hadn't pressed  the ejector button.

One  minute I was hanging  there, like a western baddie being taken back to town. The next, I was flat on my back on the floor looking  up at the sky.

It wasn't malice  that  had done  it. It was hunger.  Doris just

chanced  to see a tempting clump of grass, put her head down to grab  it, and  I was fired down  the chute.

Well, I'd  done it before, I could do it again.  I pushed  myself into a sitting position and I was reaching out for the cricket club tie, when Doris threw  up her head, pricked her ears and with a swerve and  kick of her fat haunches tore off back up the track.

I looked towards  the road. It wasn't more than four hundred yards away. From where I was, I could see two coaches and one car  curving their  way slowly  up the  hill. Even  I could  make that,  somehow.

If it hadn't been for the Triumph Trophy that came kicking and  skidding towards  me. Oscar Murphy had  come  back  to tidy up after  all.

And everywhere you looked, on either side of the track, there were gulleys,  ravines,  sinks,  potholes  and  craters  - a hundred places where  you could discreetly  tuck away  the remains  of a discarded journalist.

40

With  a plummeting heart, I watched  the bike come nearer and nearer. He slowed and  used his feet to get around the potholes and the craggy chunks of outcrop. There was no hurry. I wasn't going anywhere. Five yards  from  me he stopped, bracing the bike on either  side  with  his legs. He  pushed  up  the stocking mask. The wide smile on his black face was the smile of a happy man.

'You  know, you really are cute,'  he said,  in tones of some admiration. If  I’d had doubts before, that  cleared  them up: he was bats. 'How'n hell you get so far?'

'I got a lift.'

'A lift?'

As his confidence wavered  he began to look around, so I told him: 'From a pony. Called  Doris.'

'A  pony  called  Doris.  I don't get that.  English  jokes,  huh? One  of those wild ponies?'

I nodded. I was lying back on my elbows. The day I thought I'd  never see had come to life all around me. Above me the sky was a lively blue,  the sea wind was as clean  as a razor  on my face, and  I could see humanity hauling its cameras up the road to see the wonders of nature. I'd fought  my way back to within sight and sound  of the world,  but they weren't going to let me get on board.  The sooner  he shot  me the better.

Then  my eyes half-focused  on a shape  somewhere behind him and  I knew I had  to keep talking.  Whatever happened I had  to keep him talking,  listening,  anything except shooting.

I pushed  myself up on one elbow and tried to look like a good listener.

'You  know,  Oscar, I don't think  Solrun  was  ever  serious about  that  Russian.'

'You  don't?' Even  he gave  me an  odd  look - it  wasn't a situation for cocktail-party gossip.

'No,  not  really.  Like she wasn't serious  about  me. She was having a last fling before she got married  to you. That's the way I'd  see it.'

I'd  always thought that  Marje  Proops stuff was rubbish. But it certainly didn't come easy off the top of my head in a one-to one situation with  a man  who was about  to make it a one-to none.

At least  I'd  got  his interest. He was standing over me and, where his camo-jacket fell open, I could see the big Colt stuck in his belt.

'Once you  get  her  back  to  the  States  ...'  As  I  talked  I narrowed my eyes so he wouldn't be able  to see where  I was looking. My sight was wavering from all I'd  been through  and at  first  I thought it might  be a mirage.  This  was no mirage. Bright   blue  anorak. Vast   white  floppy  hat.   Baggy  shorts. Striding towards  us like some  ungainly  long-legged  knobbly kneed old bird ...

Outside an  ostrich  farm,  there  was only  one other  pair  of knees like that.  Bottger,  the Esperanto-speaking German, from the flight out.

'That don't bother me,' Oscar was saying. 'I don’t give a fuck about her no more. All I want  is the kid.'

Then, even  as salvation came  nearer, he had  my attention.

'Kid?  What kid?'

The  kid in the photo?

'Mine, who else's? They  kept it from me when they ran  me

out of the country. These  friends of mine let me know. That's why I came  back.'

'You  mean she's  had your child?'

'That's what  I said. She ain't fit to have no kid of mine. Tell you something, it's strange to find you're  a father.  Makes you feel part  of things.'

He'd dropped down  on  his haunches now and  there  was a glow of enthusiasm in his eyes as he spoke. Over his shoulder I could see the tall German lumbering over some rocks.

'It changes everything. The  whole idea  of it.  I mean,  you wake up every day thinking there's  a little bit of you out there. Makes  you  think  about your  own parents, and  their  parents, and instead of feeling like just one person standing in one place during the whole history of the world, you feel more like apart of a stream, a moving stream.'

I felt sorry  for this man who was going to kill me. 'Take the kid and go, Oscar.'

His knowing grin came back. 'I'll do that, don't worry. But I ain't leaving witnesses around to talk about  it when I'm  gone.' In a kind voice, he added: 'Don't be scared, cutie, you won't feel a thing.'

He pulled the big Colt out and snapped back the slide, and it slipped  contentedly into his pink palm.

'Not just yet,'  I said.  'I don't think  the injection's working.'

'Injection?'

'A thing we used to say at the dentist.' I pushed  myself up on to my elbows. He shuffled quickly back on his toes in case- I was going  to try  to jump  him. Jump him - I couldn't even  have leaned  him.

'Excuse  me a moment,  will you? Over here,' I called out, in a feeble shout.  'Over here quickly,  please.'

He glanced  over his left shoulder and  so didn't see Bottger advancing behind  his  right.  'Don't fool yourself.  They  can't hear you down  there. They  won't  hear a thing.'

'Ah,  my friend from the plane. Why are you shouting?' When  he heard  Bottger's voice, Oscar  was on his feet in a second, his face wide open with astonishment. Bottger was then about  thirty  yards away, waving one arm  as he called out and using  the other  to help  him slither  down  a bank.  He  was so intent on that he didn't notice the gun. By the time he looked up again,  it had gone.

'You have had an accident?' He looked from one to the other.

If he's pushed,  I thought, Oscar  will shoot down  both of us. He had the camo-jacket closed over the gun in his belt and  his face was lined with concentration as he tried  to work out what was happening. I had  to give him a way out.

'Broke my leg. This young American  here was going to try to get me on his bike, but I was just explaining, I couldn't manage that.'

That was the door. The question  was, would he go through it. I saw him look quickly  towards  the traffic on the road.