So when he sees Kelpie being given a carrot, he retaliates. His kick lands with such a thump that the human holding the treat is flung backwards. The horse rears up, remembering from his past that aggression such as this is followed by a lash.
His front hoof catches the human, even as it is falling. The crack of a bone, the body twisting as it falls. A whimper. The human lies without moving.
Dart gallops away down the field.
When the shop manager calls to say the parts are ready for collection, Simon and Julian drive into town to pick them up. As they walk back to the car, Simon says: ‘You’re l-l-low Julian, what’s up?’
‘It’s Seymour. It freaked me out the other night, him talking to you all like that. I can’t work out what’s eating him. My father does my head in. Let’s not go back just yet, man. Cool?’
Simon has rarely heard Julian criticise his father. He follows him into a newsagent’s. ‘It was a bit w-w-weird, him saying all that. L-L-L-ike we’d done something w-w-wrong.’
‘He’s uptight, that’s all.’
Julian greets the man behind the counter by name, then charges crisps and chocolate to his father’s account. Simon wonders if Seymour minds.
‘Bye Mr Rao, nice to see you again,’ Julian says as they leave the shop. ‘My father needs to get himself together, work out what he wants.’
A short distance down the canal path, they see the gang, boys with shaved heads and heavy boots clustered like flies on rotting flesh around a person which they are thrusting between them. Julian recognises Sunil Rao, the twenty-year-old shop owner’s son. Hemmed in between the canal and the bank, the young man is trapped. His cry for help is smothered when one of the skinheads leaps on his head. He crumples to the ground. The gang screech triumphantly.
‘We’ve got to help him!’ Simon shouts and hurtles down the path. He is not aware that Julian is hanging back.
Gravel ricochets off the path as the gang’s boots thud into the victim’s body. As Simon approaches they scatter briefly and Sunil, taking his chance, scrambles up on to the bank and vanishes into the undergrowth.
The skinheads see Simon is alone. Fanning out across the canal path, they form a wall of flesh and start to move towards him. He isn’t aware that Julian is watching from a distance.
‘What’s your problem, mate?’ calls a skinhead who moves to the front like a general with his troops. ‘What you looking for? Your darkie friend? Scarpered off, has he? Like your hippy friend wants to do.’
The boy grins without smiling. He’s so close Simon can see each spot on his face.
‘I j-j-just wanted you to stop b-b-beating up that b-b-boy,’ says Simon.
‘Coo, don’t he speak posh! But he can’t say nuffing r-r-right,’ mocks a tall boy with narrow eyes. ‘What’s your problem? Gotta s-s-stammer, have ya?’’
The boys skirt around Simon, blocking his escape.
When a woman starts walking her dog down the canal, she sees what is happening, whistles for her animal and disappears.
A bird lands clumsily on the verge. A boy lashes out with his boot; the bird flaps away, indifferent and lazy, and settles a little farther away. A cloud covers the sun.
Simon says: ‘Get out of my way, p-p-please.’
The boys are fifteen or sixteen years old; one gangly from a growth spurt, the rest retain remnants of boyhood. Their fathers could probably make them cry but here the boys bounce with bravado.
‘I sees you going into that Paki’s shop. You got a big motor, ain’t ya? Giss the keys then.’
The tall boy grabs Simon’s sleeve with one hand and thrusts out the other. Tattoos decorate his knuckles.
‘Leave him alone!’ Julian voice is faint.
‘Come on, h-h-hippy boy. Your boyfriend over there ain’t going to defend you. Your wimpy f-f-friend is leaving you to us.’ He stamps fiercely and hoots when Simon jumps.
There’s ringing in Simon’s ears. Everything is slowing down. ‘I’m taking the keys, mate. I’m finding them for meself and you can’t stop me.’
‘Get off me!’ Three boys pin Simon’s arms to his body while a fourth digs in his pockets, thudding his boots into his shins as he does. He grunts with pain.
The fifth boy jigs about on tiptoes taking dainty dashes like a nervous ballerina rehearsing her entry.
The leader crows: ‘We’re going to get your motor, mate…Got ’em!’ He dangles the keys above his head.
A yowl of triumph.
Almost as an afterthought, the spotty boy smacks Simon in the face. Blood sprays from his nose. Simon keels slowly backwards. There’s a flash image of Julian standing near the canal entrance, his inhaler clamped to his mouth, before canal water closes over his head.
Screaming, the skinheads race past Julian and send him spiraling backwards into the undergrowth.
By the time he’s struggled to his feet, Simon is sprawled on the canal edge.
‘Fuck, fuck,’ he groans, spitting out green slime and blood. ‘They’re g-g-going to n-n-nick the Land Rover. What’s Seymour g-g-going to say, oh C-C-Christ…’
‘Who fucking cares?’ Julian gasps.
Saliva pours into his mouth. The last time he witnessed overt violence was in the psychiatric hospital where he spent a month in the last term of university. A patient flipped when someone used his towel and attacked one of the nurses. He has never told his friends about his problems; it’s too private.
Julian’s body has gone into overdrive. Sweaty and faint, he can only think of running away yet he’s faint with anxiety. The canal, once a verdant place of peace, has become terrifying.
‘I’ve got to get away,’ he whispers, ‘please help me.’ Both he and Simon are panting.
‘Okay Julian, we’re safe. They’ve g-g-gone. C-C-Can you walk?’ They stumble towards where they parked the Land Rover. No sign of the boys.
