Primula Bond - The Unbreakable Trilogy

‘Perhaps the whip gave it away?’

I gasp and go bright scarlet.

Dickson chuckles and taps the side of his nose like a gangster. ‘You don’t think he’d invite any random bird to stay here, would you? It used to be his favourite place in the world. He hasn’t shared it with any of the others.’

‘Others?’

‘You know. Floozies. Girls. Blimey, is that the time! I really must be going before all that lovely chocolate melts. My weakness, you see. Sweets. Chocolate.’ He licks his lips.

‘Mine too.’ My breathy laugh is snatched quickly by the cold. I can’t hear any hooves, or snorting, or jingling of bridles. His words are clanging in my ears. ‘Bring me back some, will you?’

‘Sure. But riding is the order of the day first. That’s all I know.’

‘You can’t eat horses. Or fly home to London on one. I don’t like it here, Dickson.’

‘I daresay he’s testing your patience, Miss Serena. And your stamina.’

I catch a light in his eye as he looks me up and down. What have the two men been saying about me? ‘Either way you have to do as you’re told. We all do. We’re all marked.’

‘Marked?’

He jams his cap back on. ‘It means no-one else can have you. You belong to him.’

‘I don’t belong to anyone, Dickson!’

‘You do. You signed your life to him, remember? We all sign contracts. That’s how he operates, how he keeps his people in line. He learned the hard way never to trust.’

‘Well, he has a funny way of keeping his side of the bargain, winding me up like a bloody puppet then rejecting me.’ I push past him to get to the car. ‘I’m not his property, and nor are you.’

Suddenly a blinding light flashes from somewhere. Dickson jumps straight into a defensive position, hands out in a karate block. The light flashes again in a kind of code, and Dickson gives an embarrassed cough.

‘He can see us. He likes to take a powerful telescope with him on his hikes.’

I flick a V sign in the direction of the cable car station. ‘Who’s the voyeur now, Levi?’

Dickson salutes smartly. ‘Message received and understood, Boss. Never disobey him, Miss. He can be fearsome when he’s roused.’

‘You’re all just frightened of him.’

‘No. We understand him. We know why he lost his mojo. We do what he pays us to do, he looks after us.’ He eases his bulk back behind the steering wheel. ‘But I tell you it’s not worth disobeying him, or playing games.’

‘Spooky. That’s exactly what Crystal said.’

He crosses his fingers. ‘We’re like that, Crystal and me. Go back a long way, since the bad old days. And she’s right. Once you’re over the threshold, on the payroll, it’s non-negotiable. And whether you like it or not he’ll hunt you down.’

I snigger scornfully. ‘My arrangement with him is different from yours. It’s had built-in obsolescence from the start, because it only lasts until Christmas. Or until my last photograph goes.’

‘Good luck with that,’ he murmurs, adjusting the rear-view mirror.

I flounce round towards a low grey stone building on the far side of the yard where I think I can see a dim light glowing. Behind me, the car engine starts up again.

‘For God’s sake, Dickson! At least wait to check that he’s actually coming!’

Dickson tips his cap in a suspiciously jaunty manner, slides the car out of the yard and down the rocky road towards the lake, leaving me hemmed in by the ring of mountains.

‘The pair of you!’ I yell uselessly, my words snatched by the wind as the brake lights disappear. ‘Bloody bastards!’

The day’s exhilaration is gurgling away like so much cold bath water. When I stepped aboard the sleek white jet this morning, saw the Levi font painted along its flank, and then Dickson jumped down from the cockpit like something out of Top Gun , I could barely contain myself.

My mood went lukewarm when Gustav wasn’t at Agno airport to meet me. When Dickson changed from Tom Cruise to The Sweeney and guided the silver Lexus along the valley floor below the purple mountains, circled the calm cold lake with its colourful buildings crowding round the shore, then purred up this mysterious-looking road with the overhanging boulders and rocks, I assumed that any minute we’d get to a fairy tale castle with grey pointed turrets and Gustav would be bounding over the drawbridge to greet me.

Tepid is the word for how I’m feeling now, as the bracing air with its tang of glacier slaps at my cheeks.

Oh my God. My bags are in the car. Even my handbag. All I have with me is my camera. Dickson has to come back. This is just a tease. The test he was talking about. Surely he’s not that mean, even if Gustav is.

A church bell echoes round the valley, reminding me that civilisation isn’t so far away. Even the herd of goats just visible further up in the wood must have someone tending them.

I wander back through the arch and take some pictures of it from the forest angle, the ivy clinging to the brickwork for dear life. The black pine trees lean into the wall, dark green branches poking and grabbing, as if determined to break it down and take it over. But as I zoom in on a fragile-looking wild rose, I notice that the brick isn’t as old as it looks. It’s been recently re-pointed.

Dickson isn’t coming back. Ten minutes have passed. There is only the occasional flap of wide wings breaking the silence, a woody crack as something heavy lands on a bending branch, and the whistle of the wind, but even the elements don’t seem able to penetrate this dense forest. There’s only the pervading cold and the metallic light glinting off the lake below as the afternoon draws in.

If this is some kind of sick joke then I am having a sense of humour failure. I have to find shelter. I push open the door of the little building and the dim light turns out to be an oil lamp burning in the corner. Someone has recently put a match to it. No. On closer inspection I see that it’s electric. From the sharp clean smell I can tell that someone has recently polished all the tack arranged on racks around the room, bridles, saddles and martingales, gleaming bits and buckles.

In the darkest corner is an American Western-style saddle strapped to its own frame, broad as an armchair. It gleams with saddle soap and polish. I glance around. Nothing and no-one here. Just me and the wind howling round the building. And presumably somewhere up in the forest, Gustav prowling around with his telescope.

My elegant riding boots ring out in the empty tack room. The dim light outside is laced now with approaching mist. Any minute now it will lower itself over the landscape and smother us all.

I pack my camera away. The only place to sit is that comfortable-looking saddle. I climb up and sit astride it for a moment, taking care not to thump down on my bottom which is still sore from last night’s punishment. I hold myself just above the saddle, my legs spread on either side of the wide seat. I start to rock.

The owners of the stables along the cliffs must have suspected something was wrong at home when I started hanging around for longer and longer. They might not have noticed the odd bruise, but they can’t have missed the fact that I seemed happier talking to horses than to people.

I just told them that my family was busy, that they wanted me out of the house, and after a while the stable owners liked having me around, said I was a great help, paid me to groom and exercise the horses. I spent every weekend and all the holidays galloping across the cliffs or down on the beach, sometimes roaming as far as the moors, especially in the winter when the tourists had gone back to the city.

Sometimes they allowed me to sleep in the straw loft, listening to the horses and ponies stamp and snuffle all night. Was anybody missing me back at home? Who knows? Who cares?