Chapter 30
Dusk was falling as Jimmy drove back to George Blackstone’s farm. Cloud and the rest of the ponies stamped restlessly in the back of the lorry as he negotiated the potholed track to the farmyard. The yard was empty. Jimmy swung through the gateposts and parked by the side of an open barn. He jumped out of the cab and strode over to the back door of the farmhouse. His arrival set Blackstone’s two border collies off in a frenzy of barking. Tied to a post inside the barn, the dogs strained against their ropes in their eagerness to reach Jimmy, who usually had a treat and a kind word for them.
The Blackstone farm was a gloomy place. It had been a thriving business when George’s parents were alive and the yard and farmhouse had been as neat as a pin. But over three decades it had slowly fallen to rack and ruin. George Blackstone was as mean as he was idle, and hadn’t spent a penny on the place in years. Buildings were patched together with old timber and hope and the field next to the barn resembled a tractor graveyard, a place where the farm’s once fine fleet of vehicles had given up and died.
Jimmy paused for a second by the back door. He hoped Blackstone would be pleased that he’d returned Cloud but you never knew. It had been a long day and the last thing he needed was a tongue-lashing. He rapped on the door and let himself in.
“Jimmy, is that you?” barked a querulous voice from the depths of the old farmhouse. Jimmy’s heart sank to the bottom of his mud-splattered boots.
“Just coming, Mr Blackstone. And I’ve a surprise for you!” he replied, shaking off his wellies in the filthy hallway. George Blackstone was sitting by a smoky fire in what had once been his mother’s best parlour. But her beloved knick-knacks had long been sold off and the once cream walls were now yellowed with nicotine. A half-drunk bottle of whisky and a dirty glass sat on a small table next to Blackstone’s armchair. Jimmy quailed. His boss was a vindictive drunk.
“Did you bring back my ponies?” Blackstone demanded, his sour breath causing Jimmy to gag.
“Yes, Mr Blackstone. And not just the Dartmoor ponies. You’ll never guess what else I’ve got in the back of the lorry!”
“Go on – surprise me,” the old man replied.
“You remember that pony you bought off Tory Wickens all them years ago?” Blackstone nodded. It still sent his blood pressure rocketing whenever he thought about the money he’d wasted on that no-good Connemara.
“Well, it was caught in the drift and I’ve brought it back for you.”
It took a moment for the penny to drop but when it did an unpleasant leer spread across his face. Jimmy could almost see the pound signs light up in his rheumy eyes.
“Well, well, that’s a turn up for the books,” he said, picking up his walking stick and pushing Jimmy roughly out of the way in his haste to see Cloud.
Together they went out into the yard. While Jimmy shut the gate Blackstone let the lorry’s ramp down with a clatter. He peered into the dark interior of the lorry but all he could see were half a dozen terrified Dartmoor ponies staring back at him.
“Where is it then?” Blackstone howled. Jimmy rushed over to the lorry, tripping up the ramp in his hurry to herd the ponies out into the yard. Standing at the back of the lorry was Cloud, the whites of his eyes piercing the gloom. Blackstone laughed nastily and followed Jimmy up the ramp.
“Go and see to the others, boy. You can shut the ramp behind me. I need to teach this one a lesson. No-one gets the better of George Blackstone,” he said softly.
Jimmy suddenly felt sorry for the dappled grey pony. But his fear of Blackstone was far greater and he turned away from the lorry and did as he was told, flinching as he heard the desperate crack of wood meeting horseflesh.
An hour later George Blackstone’s Dartmoor ponies had been fed and watered and were huddled together in the far corner of a small paddock at the rear of the farmhouse. Jimmy had checked them over, paying special attention to the three yearlings he would be driving to the horse sale in Tavistock the next day. He fed the border collies and gave the yard a half-hearted sweep, but his gaze kept returning to the lorry, which stood in the glow cast by the security light above Blackstone’s back door.
After the first sickening crunch of wood on horse everything had been silent. Jimmy had gone about his jobs methodically, trying to blot out images of splintered bones and dark weals on once white flanks. But he couldn’t put it off any longer. Leaning the broom against the back wall of the farmhouse he walked over to the lorry, clearing his throat nervously as he went.
“Mr Blackstone?” His voice came out croakily and he tried again, louder this time. “Mr Blackstone! Is everything alright in there?”
There was no reply. Jimmy released the ramp and crept up. He stood for a moment trying to see, but the back of the lorry was in complete darkness. He became aware of laboured breathing. “Mr Blackstone, are you OK?”
He remembered the small pen torch on his key ring and grappled around in his trouser pocket until his fingers closed around it. The tiny beam of light was next to useless but Jimmy shone it into the depths of the lorry anyway, praying it would reveal nothing but a lame, bedraggled grey pony and that his boss had gone back into the farmhouse while he was out in the paddock tending to the ponies. His hand was shaking, causing the pinprick of light to dance like a firefly inside the lorry. Jimmy took a deep breath and tried to steady both his hand and his nerves.
But when the light came to rest on a prone body lying on the straw all coherent thoughts vanished. Jimmy opened his lungs and screamed.