One
Harry Argyle never saw the horse. Not fully. He saw something with a huge black arse and, knowing that hitting things with big arses never turned out pretty, he swerved. A sideways skid and spray of gravel later and his ute was nose down in the overgrown gutter that ran alongside Redbank Road – the one the district council never mowed or repaired no matter how many times he complained – and repeating a word that’d earn him a solid clip over the ear from his mum, should she hear it.
He swore again to dispel the last traces of his shock and jammed the ute into reverse, easing it out of the gutter and back onto the unsealed road. Fat arse had turned around and now stood blinking at the headlights and puffing steam into the cold night, and regarding Harry as if he was the anomaly in this scene.
“A horse. Jesus.” He scratched his head and stared at it.
The dumb thing took a step forward, its fine ears at attention. He could see now that its coat wasn’t black but a rich dark brown. A white star shone in the middle of its forehead.
“To line up where the bullet goes,” muttered Harry, although he didn’t mean it. He liked horses. They reminded him a bit of himself: not the smartest animals in the world, but big, brown-eyed, friendly, and kind of sweet.
He changed into neutral and left the car to idle. Outside the warm interior the night had chilled considerably. Sign of another fine one tomorrow. It was almost November and so far spring in this lower south-eastern corner of South Australia had been perfect. Periodic soaking rains followed by sunshiny days that stimulated the pasture and left his family’s stud Simmentals grazing in lush, knee-high grass.
The horse whickered a soft equine hello and took a step forward. Harry scanned the road, checking for other cars. The moon was a thin crescent, the southern constellations bright, the night inky. Only his headlights lit the narrow country road. Redbank Road tended to be the reserve of local property owners and the occasional hoon looking for a patch of gravel on which to practice being a dickhead, but even they’d been put off by the potholes that pockmarked the surface, thanks to a wet winter. Harry used it on his trips into town from the farm because he liked the quiet, plus it took him past Maya Higgins’s house, allowing him to wistfully wonder what she was dreaming about in her bed. Wishing it was him.
The horse took another couple of steps toward him. Harry walked closer and held out his hand for the horse to sniff, then stroked its nose, smiling in spite of himself. From its docility he figured it was someone’s riding horse. He scanned its body as best as he could in the headlights. Frowning, he crouched to inspect the animal’s forelegs closer. The horse sniffed and nuzzled Harry’s hair as he reached out to trace the cut marks. They didn’t look too bad, superficial scratches from barbed wire probably. He glanced across the road toward old Gav’s farm. Gav was a drunken no-hoper who did nothing to upkeep the property he’d inherited by default from his uncle thirty years before. Every time Harry looked at the place he seethed at the waste.
He rose and with another light pat of the horse headed back to the ute for a torch, wishing Lucy was in the back so he could let her off to go sniffing. But his kelpie was at home with the other dogs, sleeping off a day’s activity.
He directed the torchlight across the road and studied the fence line, searching for a breach. Even in the darkness the shocking state of Gav’s farm was obvious. So sagged were some of the wires that the animal could have crossed at any number of places. He eyed the horse again and shone the torch over its flanks. Could be a jumper given its build, not that the fence would pose much of a challenge, especially for a horse with a hankering for green feed. Something Gav’s place lacked badly.
Harry swept the light across the other side of the road just to make sure. He needn’t have bothered. That land belonged to the Davidsons and they were pretty smart operators. Their twin girls were toddlers, not even at the pony-riding stage, and Harry doubted they’d offer horse agistment, whereas old Gav would chase every cent he could get. Plus Harry thought he’d seen the horse before when he’d passed. Just a glimpse of its hindquarters as it ambled over the hill, but definitely at Gav’s.
With a sigh he turned off the torch and dumped it on the ute’s bonnet before unbuckling his belt and threading it out of the loops of his jeans. He circled the leather around the horse’s neck, making a clicking noise with his tongue as he tugged. After a yearning glance toward the opposite paddock, the horse dropped his head in resignation and followed like a dopey puppy.
Away from the headlights, Harry waited for his eyes to adjust to the night. On Gav’s side of the road the grass was tall and rank; great tussocks of phalaris and Victoria ryegrass mixed with swathes of bracken that hadn’t seen a slasher in years. The horse trailed him along the road edge, a great amiable bulk of warmth at Harry’s shoulder. At the far end of the paddock a fencepost listed heavily outwards, its base almost rotted through, its collapse prevented only by three strands of loose barbed wire. The horse wouldn’t have even needed to jump. A couple of steps would have done it, although one misstep and it could have knotted itself in a disastrous tangle.
Harry stood studying the fence, the horse calmly by his side as though in shared contemplation. This needed more tools than he had at hand, but he could manage enough of a running repair to keep the animal safe at least for the night. Releasing another disgruntled huff, he led the horse back to the gate and through, unwrapped his belt, and gave its silky coat another pat. He watched it for a moment as it shook its head and ambled away, sniffing the ground, then he latched the gate and headed back to the ute.
Harry had pliers and baling twine and not much else, but if he could tighten the wires enough, maybe string a bit of orange twine, it’d at least hold the post up. The horse hung close as he worked, its eyes catching the shine of the moon, strangely comforting. Satisfied he’d done all he could, Harry gave the horse a last nose rub, cast a filthy look toward the farmhouse, and strode back to his car.
***
“For fuck’s sake!”
Harry slammed the brakes of his ute as once again the tyres skidded on the gravel. At least today the horse wasn’t on the road. He stood at the edge, oblivious, happily tucking into a patch of purple flowering lucerne. Not that it needed the extra feed. Clearly someone was looking after it – a horse couldn’t get that fit and sleek on Gav’s pastures alone.
Good thing Harry had decent tools in the tray, not that he should have to repair Gav’s bloody fence anyway. That was the landowner’s responsibility, but relying on the old drunk was a waste of time. Something the horse’s owner should surely know by now. Cattle and sheep could be problems enough, but horses, with their flighty, dumb natures, could cause all sorts of havoc. What if it’d been hoons driving along the road, or a young mum distracted by her children? Or Maya? Could’ve been a disaster.
The thought made Harry fume. It pissed him off mightily that people could be so irresponsible. Whoever owned this animal needed a good kick up the arse, and when Harry found out who it was he planned to let rip.
He spent half an hour going over the roadside fence, cursing for most of it, and wondering why he was wasting his time. But if he didn’t do it he suspected it simply wouldn’t get done, and it wasn’t the horse’s fault. He’d hate to see the animal hurt because he was too absorbed in his own grumpiness to do the right thing.
Satisfied, he headed to Gav’s place, determined to take his mood out on someone.
The old man took his time answering. Noises echoed within. Muttered curses and things being knocked. The door opened a crack, emitting a disgusting whiff of sweat and alcohol tinged with a sour undercurrent of urine. Another blast of fury at the horse owner thundered through Harry. It was probably the agistment fees that were keeping Gav in booze.
“Yeah?”
“Who owns the horse, Gav?”
The old man rubbed his eyes, his raised arm releasing a waft of body odour. “Young girl. Why?”
“Because the bloody thing keeps getting out. Twice this week.”
Gav looked at him as if to say “So?”
“You need to fix that fence. With the road the way it is someone could get killed.”
“I’ll get onto it,” said Gav in a way that revealed he’d heard all this before and knew what answer to give, but his weary, couldn’t-give-a-rat’s-arse tone shone through.
“When?” Harry persisted.
“Next couple of days.”
He began to push the door shut. Harry stuck his size thirteen foot against it. “Make sure you do.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ll be back to check.”
Gav’s gaze, until now rheumy and uncaring, developed a touch of steel. Harry matched it with an expression equally as tough, and from a bloke who stood a shade short of two metres tall and weighed over a hundred kilos, tough had serious meaning. Gav looked away first.
Message delivered, Harry removed his boot. The door slammed shut immediately. He took a few steps away and inhaled, grateful for the fresh air.
What made a man get like that?
He shook his head. How the old soak treated himself was no business of his, but the moment he put others in danger, especially people Harry cared about, that was a different matter. Maya used this road. If anything happened to her he’d never forgive himself.
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