Free The Horse With My Name by Bateman Page A

the red roof of what I presumed to be the stables beyond. As I parked, the front door opened and the two guys who’d admired my jacket earlier came out, though this time neither of them were packing lead. They were much friendlier. They introduced themselves as Derek and Eric and asked me what part of Belfast I was from. They said they’d grown up around the corner from there and asked me if Lavery’s bar was still in business because it had been a while since they’d been back. I said it was and always would be. We were getting on like old mates, but there was no doubt in my mind that no matter what corners we might have passed each other on years before, they would still break my legs if McClean asked them to.
    ‘Is the man in?’ I asked. ‘I got delayed.’
    ‘Nah – he’s running late. He sends his apologies and would you wait.’
    I nodded. They invited me inside and I said I’d rather take a look round, if they didn’t mind.
    ‘Not at all,’ said Eric.
    ‘He said you’d want to,’ said Derek.
    ‘Feel free. We’ve no secrets here.’ He laughed as he said it and I grinned back. Then they searched me for a camera.
    ‘Sorry,’ said Eric, ‘we have to be careful.’
    ‘In this business,’ said Derek, ‘information means money, and money means information.’
    ‘It’s a bit wasted on me,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t know a thoroughbred from a pantomime horse.’
    I winked like a professional and wandered away, absolutely convinced that as soon as I was out of view they’d be scurrying back inside to watch my every step via one of the many security cameras mounted about the property.

8
    I had taken the precaution of bringing sugarlumps, pilfered from the home of the Irish all-day breakfast. I was going up and down the stalls patting heads and feeding cubes and thought I was getting on rather well when there was a shriek from behind and a girl came powering out of the afternoon brightness into the rather pleasant gloom of the stable.
    ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!’ she yelled as she approached, her voice English plummy.
    Naturally I assumed someone else had done something awful. A stable lad had stuck a pitchfork into half a million’s worth of prime horseflesh or a carelessly dropped hand grenade was about to blow; but no, when I turned she was certainly shouting at me. Her cheeks were red and her nostrils were flared and her big brown horse eyes were mad as hell.
    ‘Nothing . . .’
    She let out another shriek, this time generously soaked in derision, and grabbed hold of the hand I was now holding tightly closed. ‘Open it!’ she screamed.
    She had a more than decent grip, so fearing for my safety,I reluctantly uncurled my fingers. ‘Sugar . . . horses . . .’ I stammered.
    She glared at the half-dozen sugarlumps sitting on my palm, then slapped them wildly out of it. ‘Are you insane ?’ she hissed.
    ‘I th-thought . . . horses loved . . . Trigger . . .’
    ‘Have you any idea what . . .’ Then she let out a frustrated grunt and stamped her feet down on to as many of the cubes as she could find. She was slim and somewhere around the twenty mark; her hair was mousy brown, cut short so that she wouldn’t have to bother with it, but obviously did. It didn’t seem the time to ask what a fine young filly like her was getting so upset about. So I just continued to look hapless while she opened the first of several stall doors and began to urgently examine the creatures within.
    ‘Sorry,’ I said.
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ she snapped. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Who told you you could come in here? Didn’t you think to ask ? Have you any idea what this can do to their blood sugar? How it can affect our readings? How do I know they’re not full of dope? Don’t you know never ever ever to give a thoroughbred something to eat without checking first?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
    She gently slapped the side of the horse, then came out of the