Free The Horse Dancer by Jojo Moyes Page B

watching as money changed hands a few yards away. Tattooed men from mobile homes just visible beneath the pylons sat in the front of gleaming trucks with oversized wheels, mobile phones clamped to their ears, the ever-present cigarettes held between stubby, grimy fingers. They peeled notes from huge wads of cash, spitting into their palms as they shook hands, their cold, glinting eyes betraying the lack of trust and friendship in the gesture. The Maltese side, shorter, sleeker than the travellers, in scruffier vehicles but with immaculate clothes, were on one side of the road, the travellers on the other. Cowboy John leant against a van, puffing meditatively at a roll-up, pointing at the horses and chatting to someone in the passenger seat. A boy Sarah didn’t recognise sat bareback on a black horse, legs thrust forward, guiding the animal in and out of the cars on a halter.
    A short distance away, Maltese Sal checked the buckles on his horse’s harness, chiding it when it fidgeted, a broad smile revealing one gold tooth, a cap rammed on his closely cropped head. He was laughing, berating his opponents’ horse, mimicking the unfortunate angle of its legs, the supposed narrowness of its chest.
    ‘They hate him,’ Ralph observed, lighting another cigarette. ‘He got caught with someone’s missus last year. They’ve made it a seller.’
    ‘A seller?’
    Ralph looked at her as if she was stupid. ‘If he loses he has to give up the mare.’
    ‘Won’t that make him mad?’ she said.
    Ralph spat on the floor. ‘Nah. The Pikeys know all Sal’s lot are mob-handed. And they’re tooled up, just in case. But I reckon we’ll stay on Vicente’s truck – case we need to get away in a hurry.’ He laughed. He always relished the prospect of trouble.
    The men were climbing back into the trucks and Sarah shivered, unsure whether from nerves or excitement. Above them, supported by giant, rough-cast concrete pillars, traffic thundered on the flyover, the beginning of the rush-hour evident in the increasing density of vehicles.
    Someone whistled, a dog barked, then Ralph was pulling her to the slip-road. Three trucks reversed, headed back the way they had come, in a pre-agreed formation. They disappeared, ready to join the traffic on the flyover, and then it was just the men standing on the slip-road, and the horses, steam blowing through their nostrils, their hooves picking daintily at the road surface, held firmly at the head by their handlers. Behind the grey mare, Sal crouched in his bright red sulky, legs braced, reins held loosely in one hand, glancing behind him repeatedly, waiting for the signal. His presence was magnetic. Sarah found herself watching him, his wide, confident grin, his eyes, which seemed to know everything. Ralph, beside her, lit another cigarette, muttering under his breath: ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes . . .’
    All eyes were on the traffic on the flyover now. The men muttered to each other. Still the traffic came.
    ‘I bet Donny’s got pulled over. He’s got no bloody car tax.’ Someone laughed, breaking the tension.
    And then there was a shout, and above them, just visible, one of the travellers’ pick-ups, its hazard lights flashing through the safety barrier. ‘Go!’ someone shouted. ‘Go!’ And, in one fluid movement, the two horses were on the slip-road, sulky wheels almost touching, their two drivers hunched forward, whips held high as they urged them along the emptied stretch of road.
    ‘Go, Sal!’ Ralph was yelling, his voice high with excitement. ‘Go!’ And Sarah felt him grab her sleeve, pulling her towards Vicente’s pick-up, which was already revving, preparing to follow the racing horses already almost out of sight.
    He shoved her aboard, and then she heard the horns of the stationary vehicles, the screech of rubber, her hands wrapped around the bars on the back windscreen, the wind in her ears.
    ‘He’s doing it!’ Ralph was yelling! ‘He’s ahead!’ And she saw