The end of the road, I thought. The end of the damn bloody road.
If Enso had looked angry before, he now looked explosive. The short thick body moved like a tank round the desk towards where I sat, and I knew what Alessandro meant about not knowing what he could be like. Enso up in Railway Field had been an appetiser: this one was a holocaust.
He waded straight in with a fierce right jab on to the elderly doctor's best bandaging, which took away at one stroke my breath, my composure and most of my resistance. I made a serious stab at him with the paper-knife and got my wrist bashed against the edge of the filing cabinet in consequence. He was strong and energetic and frightening, and I was not being so much beaten by Enso as overwhelmed. He hit me on the side of my head with his pistol and then swung it by the silencer and landed the butt viciously on my shoulder, and by that time I was half sick and almost past caring.
'Where is Alessandro?' he shouted, two centimetres from my right ear.
I sagged rather spinelessly against the desk. I had my eyes shut. I was doing my tiny best to deal with an amount of feeling that was practically beyond my control.
He shook me. Not nice. 'Where is Alessandro?' he yelled.
'On a horse,' I said weakly. Where else? 'On a horse.'
'You have abducted him,' he yelled. 'You will tell me where he is. Tell me- or I'll break your bones. All of them.'
'He's out riding a horse,' I said.
'He's not,' Enso shouted. 'I told him not to.'
'Well- he is.'
'What horse?'
'What does it matter?'
'What horse?' He was practically screaming in my ear.
'Lucky Lindsay,' I said. As if it made any difference. I pushed myself upright in the chair and got my eyes open. Enso's face was only inches away and the look in his eyes was a death warrant.
The gun came up. I waited numbly.
'Stop him,' he said. 'Get him back.'
'I can't.'
'You must. Get him back or I'll kill you.'
'He's been gone twenty minutes.'
'Get him back.' His voice was hoarse, high-pitched, and terrified. It finally got through to me that his rage had turned into agony. The fury had become fear. The black eyes burnt with some unimaginable torment.
'What have you done?' I said rigidly.
'Get him back,' he repeated, as if shouting alone would achieve it. 'Get him back.' He lifted the gun, but I don't think even he knew if he intended to shoot me or to hit me with it.
'I can't,' I said flatly. 'Whatever you do, I can't.'
'He will be killed,' he yelled wildly. 'My son- my son will be killed.' He waved his arms wide and his whole body jerked uncontrollably. 'Tommy Hoylake- It says in the newspapers that Tommy Hoylake is riding Lucky Lindsay this morning-'
I shifted to the front of the chair, tucked my legs underneath it, and made the cumbersome shift up on to my feet. Enso didn't try to shove me back. He was too preoccupied with the horror trotting through his mind.
Tommy Hoylake- Hoylake is riding Lucky Lindsay.'
'No,' I said roughly. 'Alessandro is.'
'Tommy Hoylake- Hoylake- It has to be, it has to be-' His eyes were stretching wider and his voice rose higher and higher.
I lifted my hand and slapped him hard in the face.
His mouth stayed open but the noise coming out of it stopped as suddenly as if it had been switched off.
Muscles in his cheeks twitched. His throat moved continuously. I gave him no time to get going again.
'You were planning to kill Tommy Hoylake.'
No answer.
'How?' I said.
No answer. I slapped his face again, with everything I could manage. It wasn't very much.
'How?'
'Carlo- and Cal-' The words were barely distinguishable.
Horses on the Heath, I thought. Tommy Hoylake riding Lucky Lindsay. Carlo, who knew every horse in the yard, who watched all the horses every day and knew Lucky Lindsay by sight as infallibly as any tout. And Cal- I felt my own gut contract much as Enso's must have done. Cal had the Lee Enfield 303.
'Where are they?' I said.
'I- don't- know/
'You'd better find them.'
They- are- hiding.'
'Go and find them,' I said. 'Go out and find them. It's your only chance. It's Alessandro's only chance. Find him before they shoot him- you stupid murdering sod.'
He stumbled as if blind round the desk and made for the door. Still holding the pistol he bashed into the frame and rocked on his feet. He righted himself, crashed down the short passage and out through the door into the yard, and half ran on unsure legs to his dark red Mercedes. He took three shots at starting the engine before it fired. Then he swept round in a frantic arc, roared away up the drive and turned right on to the Bury Road with a shriek of tyres.
Bloody, murdering sod- I followed him out of the office but turned down the yard.
Couldn't run. The new hammering he'd given my shoulder made even walking a trial. Stupid, mad, murdering bastard- Twenty minutes since Alessandro rode out on Lucky Lindsay- twenty minutes, and the rest. They'd be pretty well along at Waterhall. Circling round at the end of the Line gallop, forming up into groups. Setting off-
Damn it, I thought. Why don't I just go and sit down and wait for whatever happens. If Enso kills his precious son, serve him right.
I went faster down the yard. Through the gates into the bottom bays. Through the far gate. Across the little paddock. Out through the gate to the Heath. Turned left.
Just let him be coming back, I thought. Let him be coming back. Lancat, coming back from his walk, saddled and bridled and ready to go. He was there, coming towards me along the fence, led by one of the least proficient riders, sent back by Etty as he was little use in the gallops.
'Help me take this jersey off,' I said urgently.
He looked surprised, but lads my father had trained never argued. He helped me take off the jersey. He was no Florence Nightingale. I told him to take the sling off as well. No one could ride decently in a sling.
'Now give me a leg up.'
He did that too.
'O. K.' I said. 'Go on in. I'll bring Lancat back later.'
'Yes, sir,' he said. And if I'd told him to stand on his head he would have said yes, sir, just the same.
I turned Lancat back the way he had come. I made him trot along the walking ground. Too slow. Much too slow. Started to canter, breaking the Heath rules. It felt horrible. I twitched him out on to the Bury Hill ground which wasn't supposed to be used for another fortnight and pointed him straight at the Bury Road crossing.
Might as well gallop- I did the first five furlongs on the gallop and the next three along the walking ground without slowing down much, and frightened a couple of early morning motorists as I crossed the main road.
Too many horses on Waterhall. I couldn't from more than half a mile away distinguish the Rowley Lodge string from others. All I could see was that it wasn't yet too late. The morning scene was peaceful and orderly. No appalled groups bending over bleeding bodies.
I kept Lancat going. He'd had a hard race two days earlier and shouldn't have been asked for the effort I was urging him into- he was fast and willing, but I was running him into the ground.
It was technically difficult, riding in clavicle rings, let alone anything else. However, the ground looked very hard and too far down. I stayed in the saddle as the lesser of two considerable evils. I did wish most fervently that I had stayed at home. I knew all about steeplechase jockeys riding races with broken collar-bones. They were crazy. It was for the birds.
I could see Etty. See some of the familiar horses.
I could see Alessandro on Lucky Lindsay.
I was too far away to be heard even if I'd had any breath for shouting, and neither of them looked behind them.
Alessandro kicked Lucky Lindsay into a fast canter and with two other horses accelerated quickly up the Line gallop.