Dead Heat by Nick Oldham

riding.
    Charlotte was in the front passenger seat next to her mother. Henry saw that the youngster was looking pretty morose. She got out and sauntered towards the stables, dragging her feet, watched by her mother from the car.
    Henry smiled at Charlotte’s mother as he got out of the car. She gave him an eyes-to-heaven look.
    With a couple of sections of the
Sunday Times
under his arm which he’d brought from home, Henry went to the indoor riding school. It had become his practice to watch Leanne begin her hour-long session, then mosey out to the portacabin-cum-café near to the main stable block where he would consume copious amounts of cheap coffee and a sausage sandwich and read the paper until Leanne showed up, usually red faced, exhausted and exhilarated after the lesson.
    There was a small seating area down one side of the school with two tiers of benches. He sat himself down, shivering in the chill, blowing out his breath in spurts, trying to make smoke rings.
    Riding was not for him. Horses did nothing for him. Not since the time when, as a young, headstrong police constable, he’d thought that life in the Mounted Branch looked glamorous, controlling football crowds and attracting young ladies who swooned over huge sweaty beasts – and horses too. He had managed to get a place on the coveted sixteen-week equitation course, where he then discovered it was not as pleasant as it seemed from the outside. The course was held in deep mid-winter and stables are harsh, unforgiving places to be when the temperature drops below zero. He found he detested the hard work involved, nor – and more fundamentally – did he particularly like horses either. But he stuck it until the eighth week, when he came a cropper. During a lesson on a particularly stroppy horse, it bucked and threw him. He broke his right wrist and bruised his lower spine. And that was the last he ever saw of the Mounted Branch. He had learned enough about riding to see him through the occasional holiday escapade when the girls wanted an hour’s cross-country, but that was all. No regrets about not becoming a mounted officer.
    Leanne’s class came into the indoor arena and began to work out.
    His daughter was proficient on the back of a horse. She had been riding about six months – longer than any other interest she had ever had – and worked hard to progress her ability. She seemed good at the basics and her balance was near perfect.
    Not that Henry knew much about things like balance and the seat, but she seemed to be a natural.
    He watched the lesson for a while, then decided it was time for food and drink. He edged his way across the bench, past Charlotte’s mother, who was perched at the end. She moved her knees for him. He said thanks and smiled again. He did not ever remember her staying to watch her daughter ride in the past.
    The portacabin café was a haven of heat. He settled down at a Formica-topped table in one corner with a chipped mug of coffee, toasted sausage sandwich and newspaper spread out in front of him.
    There were a few people in the cabin, mostly young girls giggling in huddles, discussing boys, pop stars and horses, in that order.
    Again, Henry was slightly surprised to see Charlotte’s mother buying herself a coffee at the counter. He had never seen her in the cabin before today. He thought nothing of it and began to read the headlines about the police in London discovering deadly poisons in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. It was an ongoing story, one he had been following with relish and not a little envy.
    He was, he had to admit, beginning to miss being a cop. He felt like he was in limbo, trapped and unable to do anything. If only he had a crystal ball and could forecast his future – one way or the other – he would be a whole lot happier.
    As he read the story he became aware of someone standing in front of him. When he looked up, for some reason it was not