“Hilary? What are you doing out this early?”
“Thought I could help you muck out this morning…”
“What? Are you feeling alright?”
“Stop it… You’re down one now Adam has gone home and I don’t think we’ll see Olivia until later. Come on, it’ll be like the old days. As long as you think I can meet your exacting standards, Miss Benson!”
“Oh, really? Well, thank you, Hilary. I do appreciate the help. Come on, let’s grab pitchforks and barrows and get started.”
It had been a long time since Hilary and I’d been side by side working like this. I understood she had important things to do and realised she was often up earlier than me working. Her place was online and, on the phone, planning the season, preparing for events and mine was with my horses. However, as the radio played and we chatted over the stable doors it was like the days a few years ago when Hilary had just been starting out as a pro-rider. Days when we worked side by side every morning together.
* * *
I’d woken with an uneasy feeling, I’d heard Adam driving away and couldn’t go back to sleep, torn by what I’d seen him do to Olivia. I would have wanted to do the same, but had more self-control, at least I hoped I did.
I’d been furious when she’d ridden Bob into the arena boards, he was the most trusting of horses, despite being a stallion you could trust him with your heart and she had abused that trust. Forcing him to do something which hurt him, but he unquestionably did all he could to answer the commands of his rider. I would have words with Olivia later. We would spend the weekend working on her manners and control, she may be the best rider in the world, but if she fell to pieces because she lost her temper then it would all be for nothing.
I shook out a bag of shavings, stepping back to see a perfectly clean stable. Bob butted me, clearly unimpressed as I didn’t have a treat for him. I led him back into the stable and watched with the same childish joy as I always did as he rolled, covering his coat in wood chips.
“I’ll get rid of my barrow and then I’ll put a brew on!” Sally acknowledged and I trudged towards the muck heap, pushing the barrow up the rickety plank to get the load of muck dumped at the top of the heap, trying to be particularly careful not to slip and fall in the mire which would no doubt happen just as Sally turned the corner to watch my messy humiliation.
I’d seen the pitchfork, stuck like a flagpole in the steaming heap each time I’d emptied my barrow and it had bugged me. It was unlike Sally to leave tools out overnight and there was no reason for this being there like that. I stepped off the wooden board, my feet sinking into the soft, warm wood-chips and approached the pitchfork. Grabbing it to pull it out of the heap but it seemed to be stuck. Confused I pulled again, there was movement but the fork was held solid. Frustrated I pulled the fork with all my might.
* * *
I heard the screams from the stable I was finishing and ran towards the muck heap, I saw Hilary standing at the top of the pile, her screams splitting the air. I climbed up to her, grasping me in my arms. Looking down, I saw what had caused her screams and fell silent.
II
Discoveries
“The selection of the British Equestrian team for the upcoming Olympics is on everybody’s lips. Will Hilary Wessington make the grade? After high scores during the season, many feel she has guaranteed herself a place and that it is a foregone conclusion she will once again don her nation’s colours”
Equestrian Weekly
11
Taking Charge
Turning, I was violently sick, splashing vomit on my boots before heaving until there was only bile left. Hilary was kneeling sobbing. Her wails cut through my consciousness. She’d brushed the muck from Olivia’s face, although it was clear this would no longer be a concern for her. She was lying there, staring at the sky, her eyes wide open in apparent fear, her lower body still buried in the shallow grave. The pitchfork was deeply embedded in her chest, the four prongs leaving red holes in her white blouse. I was silent as if time had frozen. I saw Hilary moving, she’d stood up and was staggering blindly down the manure pile, I reached out and grabbed her before she fell and landed in the mud below.
Holding her tight, I could feel her shaking, every muscle electric, she was making sounds. Not words, but random gibbering and gasping. I helped her back down to the yard.
“I’ll call an ambulance.” I pulled out my phone, its screen cracked, the case smudged with scratches. I dialled nine nine nine.
“999 Emergency, which service please?” The operator seemed detached, professional and calm.
“I don’t know?” I heard my voice, it was quiet, not sounding as if it was my own. “My colleague is dead.”
The operator calmly asked who and where I was. I slipped into autopilot, the practised speech I had ready in case of an accident when my first
