Phantom Horse 3: Phantom Horse Disappears Read online

  Suddenly I was woken by lights. I tried to sit up, but I was stiff all through and the water under the peaty earth had soaked through my clothes. I had been dreaming of home. It was a terrible shock to come back to reality, to know that Phantom had gone, that the pain in my foot was hardly bearable and that somehow I had to keep secret the truth of what had happened. I could hear Donnie O’Reagan’s voice now and it was as soft as the sound of the water dripping through the peat.

  He had another man with him and they had brought a horse rug. It was large and smelled deliciously of horse. He talked to me in the soothing voice he used with his horses, which would calm the most excitable four-year-old. “Just ease her in … she must be in awful pain. Gently now. We won’t hurt you … It’s all right, my darling … steady now.”

  They slid the rug under my aching body. I did not want to talk nor think, but just to exist for the time being, until somehow things came right again.

  They carried me gently, talking quietly to one another, and I learned that the sick O’Reagan child was in hospital with peritonitis, and that all afternoon he had been hovering between life and death. The moon looked larger now and the moors were like fairyland. And at last I could see the lights below, the lights which led us home.

  I started to wonder what Cousin Mary would have to say and how Angus had fared. The grey house looked desolate and lost in the moonlight, and I wished that I could be taken to Donnie O’Reagan’s overcrowded cottage instead.

  “You’re awful light,” said Donnie O’Reagan as he reached the gate which led us across a paddock to the house. “You must be eating more and don’t worry about your little horse, my darling, we will be finding him in the morning for sure.”

  Cousin Mary opened the front door. She looked desperately tired and her wispy hair had come unpinned.

  “You found her then, O’Reagan. Good man,” she said. I wished that she would call him Donnie, or Mr O’Reagan. Just O’Reagan seemed so impersonal for such a kind man.

  “We will take her upstairs. She’ll be needing the doctor for sure,” said Donnie O’Reagan. “Her foot looks awful bad. And she lost her little horse. It’s breaking her heart.”

  I wondered how he knew.

  “It’s an awful shock to lose a horse,” he continued. “A terrible shock for a young girl.”

  They slid me on to the bed still in my wet clothes. Angus was standing in the doorway, barefooted, with his hair on end and his pyjamas parting body and soul as usual. He glanced anxiously at me.

  “You look awful,” he said. “I think you should be in hospital.”

  Cousin Mary tried to give Donnie O’Reagan and his helper some money, but they shook their heads muttering, “We couldn’t, thank you, missus, not for the poor soul. You’re welcome.”

  I wished they could stay, for at that moment they seemed the kindest people in the world. But their boots clumped steadily down the stairs and Cousin Mary said, “Let’s get your clothes off you. It’s nearly midnight and they’re soaked through.”

  Angus fetched me three hot-water bottles, two aspirins and a glass of water in the meantime.

  I heard Cousin Mary mutter, “No food tonight,” and something about hospital and an anaesthetic in the morning. She put me in the frilly nightie Aunt Nina had given me, so it was some use after all. She gave me the aspirins and held the glass of water to my lips while Angus opened the bottom of my bed and slid the hot-water bottles inside.

  “You should be in bed, Angus. You caused all the trouble,” Cousin Mary said. “Boys! Thank God I never had a boy. Why did you go out alone? And did you have to fall off? What your parents will say I can’t think. I shall never trust you again. Now go to bed.”

  I was sorry for Angus, but could think of nothing to say except, “It wasn’t his fault there are madmen on the hills.” But, of course, I couldn’t say that.

  Cousin Mary fetched some water in a bowl, soap, my sponge and a towel. I said, “It’s all right, I can wash myself. I’m all right, or I will be in the morning. It’s just my foot.”

  “We had a puncture,” said Cousin Mary, “and I couldn’t undo the wheel nuts. Otherwise we would have been back by six o’clock. Now go to sleep and don’t worry about Phantom. He will turn up for sure.”

  When I wakened again a man in a suit was standing over me with a clean white handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was tall and fairheaded. “You have been in the wars,” he said. “Let’s look at your foot.”

  The sun was streaming through the window. Fiona stood just behind him and Cousin Mary was on the other side of the bed. They looked like anxious hens.

  “She’ll have to go into hospital. I’ll send for an ambulance,” he announced, replacing the bedclothes. “They’ll give her an anaesthetic, so nothing to eat for the time being.”

  “Can Angus come with me?” I asked. “Please …”

  “I don’t think that will be very suitable,” replied Cousin Mary. “He’s caused enough trouble already.”

  They left together and I saw that my room had been dusted and there were fresh flowers on the table. Presently Cousin Mary returned.

  “You’re to swallow two of these tablets,” she said. “Doctor’s orders. The ambulance will be here quite soon. Where’s your dressing-gown?”

  I wanted to hop downstairs, but the ambulance men carried me down on a stretcher. I felt an idiot being carried. All the time I was trying not to think about Phantom. Angus was standing outside on the gravel, looking lost and unwanted. He didn’t say anything; perhaps he was too depressed or was afraid that anything he said would be interpreted the wrong way.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” I told Cousin Mary. “I didn’t have to fall over the edge. He wasn’t even near me.”

  “Exactly,” replied Cousin Mary. She sat in the ambulance with me saying nothing. I couldn’t look at Donnie O’Reagan’s place because I was afraid it would make me cry.

  “O’Reagan’s looking for your horse,” said Cousin Mary after a time. “He’s making inquiries.”

  But the boy will have hidden him, I thought. He will be shut up somewhere like Angus was, banging at a door hour after hour, waiting for me. And I’ll never find him. I can’t even look for him while I’m like this.

  “He knows everyone. It will only be a matter of time.”

  “I’m really sorry we’ve put you to so much trouble,” I said.

  “It can’t be helped, can it?”

  “Angus didn’t mean to fall off like that.”

  “And you didn’t mean to lose your horse.”

  I was glad when we reached the hospital, though it was nothing but lights and nurses and an overpowering smell of disinfectant. I saw a young doctor. My foot was X-rayed and Cousin Mary followed me from department to department like a long-suffering nanny. The doctors laughed and joked and the nurses were kind. Then at last someone slipped a needle into my arm and I passed out.

  When I came to I was on a bed with my foot in plaster. A nurse brought me a cup of tea and sandwiches. Later, I hopped out to the carpark and we started for home. While I was still sleeping off the anaesthetic, Cousin Mary had made arrangements for somebody to take us back.

  It was mid-afternoon by this time and the car was like an oven because it had been standing in the sun.

  Cousin Mary hardly spoke and I relapsed into dreary thoughts about Phantom. I wondered what Dad would say when we told him. He might go straight to the Irish Government or ring up the British Ambassador if there was one. And he would find out about the guns, because he always found out everything. The drive home seemed to last for ever. My foot itched inside the plaster and I felt sick because of the anaesthetic. I kept my eyes glued to the windows, hoping to see Phantom standing on some distant hill, but there were only donkeys and black-faced sheep and great cone-shaped piles of turf drying in the evening sun.

  Fiona and Angus had prepared a meal. There seemed to be an uneasy truce between them. The dogs welcomed us at the door and I longed to run down the drive to ca
ll on Donnie O’Reagan, to rush into his cottage crying, “Any news?” Instead I hobbled to the kitchen sink, washed my hands and sat down to high tea.

  We made no conversation beyond, ‘Pass the butter, please,’ or ‘Can I have some more?’ I think we were all too tired to talk. Fiona looked as though she had not slept for a week, my brother had dark circles under his eyes, and Cousin Mary seemed fraught with anxiety.

  Finally she said, “I wonder whether we should tell the police about your horse, Jean?” which made both Angus and me jump out of our skins.

  Fiona went a little whiter and Angus asked, “Tell them what?”

  “That he’s lost, of course,” replied Cousin Mary impatiently, “with all his tack.”

  “Will they come here?” asked Fiona.

  “Why should they? They will just know to whom he belongs if they find him wandering on the road.”

  She left the room to telephone. I looked at Fiona and she looked at me. How much did she know?

  “I’ve told Fiona what happened,” my brother said. “She says they certainly won’t stop at shooting Phantom if we say anything. They killed three of her pet rabbits once, didn’t they, Fiona?”

  She looked away, her eyes misted with tears.

  I couldn’t speak. Again I was imagining Phantom shot, lying dead. I wished that Cousin Mary would leave the telephone, that Dad would suddenly appear and take over, that I was anywhere but here sitting at the table with poor, sad Fiona, and my brother who had started everything by searching the attic.

  “The telephone has been cut off again. Off to bed with you now, Jean,” said Cousin Mary. “The hospital said ‘rest’ so rest it must be.”

  I went upstairs, which took an age. I leaned out of my bedroom window and stared at the hills, wanting to be on them searching for Phantom, calling him, searching for hoofprints. I felt completely helpless sitting in my room.

  It was a lovely evening with a mist coming down on the hills and a red sky promising a fine tomorrow. Donnie O’Reagan was lunging the grey; he moved beautifully, but he had none of Phantom’s spirit nor the look of wildness which went with his windswept mane. I couldn’t cry any more. It was as though I had no tears left, but I felt sad to the marrow of my bones.

  After a time Angus knocked on the door and came in and sat on the end of my bed. “Don’t you want to know what happened to me?” he asked.

  “Fire away,” I answered.

  “They tripped Peppermint up. They had binoculars, so they must have seen me leave the stable,” he said. “It was lucky I didn’t break my collarbone or something. As it was, I passed out for a while and when I came to, Peppermint was galloping away and they had my hands tied behind my back.”

  “How did they trip him up?”

  “With wire or rope, I suppose. They called me all sorts of names and threatened to shoot me then and there. It wasn’t funny, I assure you. They kept on and on about the attic and I kept standing up for poor Fiona, assuring them she had not said anything. It was all pretty unnerving. They took me to the hut and gave me a cup of tea out of a flask. They told me how civilised they were, and in a stupid sort of way I couldn’t really believe it was actually happening. I kept thinking it must be a game. Then they started talking about a ransom to buy more arms and what they would do to me if you didn’t pay up. I wasn’t really frightened, that was the funny part. I think I imagined they wouldn’t dare shoot me, but now I’m not so sure because Fiona says they have killed one or two people.”

  “So they will kill Phantom,” I said.

  “I doubt it; he’s too valuable. They may sell him though, but we can still get him back, because you can’t sell stolen property. He will still be yours.”

  I saw myself searching the world for Phantom, growing older, still searching. “Americans come over to buy horses, so do the Dutch. He may go anywhere. We’ll never find him, I know we won’t …”

  “You’re just pessimistic because of your ankle. I would go to the police, but Fiona’s afraid they’ll get the dogs. She’s terrified of them. It’s awful. No wonder she wants to be a nun.”

  The sun had set now. You couldn’t see the hills any more. “Can’t we ring the London number?” I asked. “It’s probably the Foreign Office and they will know what to do for certain.” My brother looked out of the window. He seemed embarrassed. “Well,” I demanded. “Why not?”

  “I wish we could.”

  “You mean you’ve lost it. Oh, well done!” I cried. “Now you’ve really upset the apple cart; now we really are on our own. Why didn’t you give it to me to look after? You always lose everything.”

  “Dad gave it to me because I’m older than you. Perhaps someone took it. I left it on my chest of drawers for all the world to see.”

  “The person who took my letter,” I added. “You mean it never went?”

  “It disappeared. I’ve only just remembered.” Everything suddenly seemed too big for us to manage and my foot started to ache again. “I’ll write a letter now and post it in the morning. Someone must let them know what’s happening,” said Angus. “I dropped in on Donnie O’Reagan after tea but he hadn’t had any luck. He isn’t giving up hope, though, he’s going to a horse sale tomorrow. All his buddies will be there, too.”

  “Did he find any signs today?”

  Angus shook his head. “Not yet. But he says it’s only a matter of time. He says that you can’t hide a horse in Ireland for long, not one like Phantom.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “Seeing Donnie O’Reagan.”

  “Fiona thinks her father sends money for the guns; she isn’t sure, but she thinks so,” my brother said. “What a mess!”

  “Why did we come?” I asked. “Why didn’t we go to Devon?”

  “Our parents didn’t know it would be like this. But they will when they get my letter!” exclaimed my brother, leaving the room.

  I tried to sleep, but presently Fiona came in. She stared at me. “Will it be hurting?” she asked.

  I said, “Not really. I’m sorry about your rabbits, though.”

  “It was a real shame, they were so pretty,” she answered. “Truly they were. I found them hanging from a tree in the morning. They are terrible men though, truly wicked, and no one can stop them. But I am sorry for you losing your beautiful horse and all.”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to listen. I simply wanted to lie and think about Phantom and forget the rest.

  “It’s all right. Do you mind if I sleep now?”

  She crept from the room without a word and I climbed out of bed to look once more at the hills, but it was too dark to see anything. I sat there for ages and gradually the moon came up. I kept imagining I saw him, but when I looked closer it was only a boulder looking strange in the moonlight.

  They hung Fiona’s rabbits from a tree, I thought, so what will they do to Phantom if we talk? And supposing Angus says too much? I can’t stop him. I never can. I was filled with awful forebodings which turned into nightmares when I slept.

  In spite of the nightmares I didn’t want to wake up; but morning came all too soon when Angus burst into my room talking nineteen to the dozen.

  “I shall search today on Peppermint. Don’t worry, I shall find him. I’ve posted the letter to Dad. It’s gone airmail express. With luck he will telephone in a day or two and if anyone can find Phantom, he can.”

  I wished he would stop talking so that I could go back to sleep and forget about Phantom being gone for ever.

  “I want to sleep. I want to stay here all day. I don’t want to get up ever again. Everything’s too awful. It would be different if I could put on shoes and ride, if I could look, too.” Suddenly I was filled with self-pity.

  “But we’ve all had breakfast. You must get up. You’re not an invalid. You’ve only cracked your toes.”

  “Only,” I answered, “and lost Phantom. Besides, you’re not to go out alone,” I added, sitting up suddenly, completely awake. “You’ll only b
e kidnapped again and then someone else will have to pay to get you back.”

  “I shall be ready this time. I shall take a gun,” replied Angus.

  “No!” I shouted. “That’s being like them. Can’t you understand? Shooting people won’t help. It won’t bring Phantom back.”

  But he had left my room. I clambered out of bed and pulled on some clothes, hobbled down the stairs, out of the front door. I imagined Angus shooting and being shot, people searching the moors for him. But I found him still in Donnie O’Reagan’s yard and Donnie O’Reagan was holding the gun.

  He was saying, “Carrying a gun won’t help you now. I have seven children, and I would be out there looking for your sister’s horse but I can’t risk them, you understand, please God. And you’re not taking any of my horses up there, not if I can stop you. And you should be resting that foot of yours for sure,” continued Donnie O’Reagan, seeing me for the first time. “That’s what you should be doing.”

  “I want Phantom back,” I said.

  “We all do,” replied Donnie O’Reagan.

  “But nothing’s being done.”

  “I’ll find him, don’t worry your poor head. I’ll have him back here before the week’s out.”

  I didn’t believe him. He was trying to save his own skin, while I was trying to save Phantom’s. There was no way out. It was like being in a tunnel with no entrance or exit. If we went to the police the boy would shoot Phantom; if we didn’t we would still most likely never see him again. Did everyone know about the guns? Had they all been successfully silenced?

  I hobbled back towards the house, my eyes smarting with tears. Angus followed me. “I’m going to the police,” he said.

  “But they won’t believe your story,” I replied. “And who’ll support you? They’re all too scared to talk.”

  “Then I shall look on a bike,” said Angus. “I’m not beaten that easily.”

  “He could be a hundred miles away by now,” I answered. “Perhaps we should tell Cousin Mary. She might understand.”