SIXTEEN HORSES GREG BUCHANAN Contents 1. 2. PART ONE: ILMARSH Day One CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN Day Two CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN One Month Ago CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Day Three CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Two Years Ago CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Day Three CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE PART TWO: THE HOLE IN THE WORLD Day Four CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR Two Weeks Later CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE CHAPTER FORTY-SIX THE HORSES Day Twenty-Four CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FORTY-NINE CHAPTER FIFTY Day Twenty-Five CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE Day Twenty-Six CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX PART THREE: A BIRTH OF SMILES Day Twenty-Seven CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT Day Twenty-Eight CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE Day Thirty CHAPTER SIXTY CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO Day Thirty-One CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR Twenty Years Ago CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE Day Thirty-One CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE CHAPTER SEVENTY Day Thirty-Five CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE Day Thirty-Nine CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE CHAPTER EIGHTY CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO Day Forty CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE PART FOUR: SIXTEEN HORSES CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE CHAPTER NINETY CHAPTER NINETY-ONE CHAPTER NINETY-TWO CHAPTER NINETY-THREE CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE CHAPTER NINETY-SIX CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT CHAPTER NINETY-NINE CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO EPILOGUE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS For Charlotte The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ Robert Frost (1922) 1. Tufts of cloud burned black before the sunrise, the horizon littered with the flotsam of old and rusted silhouettes. They were alone. ‘Chemtrails,’ the farmer had said to Alec, early on their walk. Other than this, he had been silent. And now their torches revealed the edge of a bank, right before the crest of a shallow stream that cut through the farmer’s reclaimed marshland. Along its muddy edge and all around, the reeds sang with flies and crickets and buntings. ‘Where are they?’ Alec asked, shivering. It was 6.55 a.m. He’d left his jacket in his patrol car. ‘There weren’t any sheep over here,’ the farmer said, ignoring the question. He leapt over the bank, his boots slipping slightly on the incline. ‘They normally love coming over here.’ Alec stared at the mud, and the farmer grinned, his cheeks ruddy beneath his dirty white beard. With that thick wax coat and that gut and that voice, he could have been a lunatic Santa Claus. ‘You won’t fall,’ he said. ‘Not afraid of a little dirt, are you, Sergeant Nichols?’ ‘No.’ Yes. ‘I just hope you aren’t wasting my time. And these flies . . .’ Alec swatted one away from his rolled-up sleeve, a great bulbous thing that had nestled on the hairs of his forearm. He was food for this whole place. ‘Try covering up next time,’ the farmer said. Alec grimaced. He stepped back, tensing before rushing over the ditch. He came down with a thud, right into the thick and gelatinous mud. He splattered his black trouser legs and the farmer’s jeans. The other man tutted, smiling. ‘What have we come to, eh?’ Alec brushed at the muck around his ankles, but this only spread it further. His palms grew filthy. The farmer walked on. He gestured past a large, half-empty water tank around two hundred feet away, its translucent plastic grown stained with time, the smear of a smile where fluid had lapped within. ‘We found them near there.’ His face fell. Alec checked his watch. 7.06 a.m. The sun would soon rise. They kept on, the silence drowned out by the buzzing of the flies and the distant hellos of scraggly sheep out there in the semi-darkness. ‘Jean’s moving out,’ the farmer said. ‘Did you know?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Jean . . . The lady who lives down the lane,’ the farmer said, frowning. ‘She’s moving out, selling up her farm.’ ‘Oh yes, Jean . . .’ His voice drifted. ‘I saw the sign.’ Alec had driven past it on the way here, a farm twice the size of this one, its animals and land and people in far better condition. He had not known the name. He knew few out here. One more reminder that he did not belong, he supposed. ‘They’re selling up to live with family, so she says.’ ‘I think I saw them in town a few times,’ Alec said. They were almost at the water tank, at the smile. ‘Were they the ones who made those wagon wheels? They’d mix sausage meat into a kind of – well, kind of cinnamon swirl, I suppose. It’s delicious. Did you ever try one?’ He swatted another fly away from his face. ‘No,’ the farmer said. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’ ‘Really? My wife tried doing that a few years back, and—’ ‘No,’ the farmer said, and the conversation died. The world was still dark, even if only for a little while. The sun was almost free. The day had almost begun. Fifty feet away, the field gave way to freshly tilled brown soil, forming mounds everywhere on the uneven earth. Chalky rocks littered the plot in every direction. Each step in this place was as muddy and wet as the last. Further still, a thin metal fence marked the edge of the land, clots of wool decorating the wire like fairy lights where the sheep had once tried to break through. But there were no animals in sight now. There was nothing but detritus. ‘I don’t see what—’ ‘There,’ the farmer interrupted. ‘In the ground.’ Alec looked down. For a moment, he saw nothing but dirt. ‘I don’t—’ Alec stopped talking, a breeze moving past them both. Something shook along the soil. He removed his torch and stepped forward, pointing its light at the source. Just three feet away, almost the same colour as the mud itself, there lay a great mound of black hair, coiled in thick and silken spirals. He moved closer and knelt down. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs, reached into his pockets, and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He tried to pull them on in one smooth motion, but his fingers – clammy, damp from the walk – clung to the latex before he could get them fully in. He had to inch each one into place before he could touch those cold dark circles. He stared at them all the while. He lifted some of the hair up, surprised
