Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

on over the door but he’s having none of it today so I open the stable door and slip in next to him, bolting it again so he can’t barge his way out.

The stable smells of manure, warm hay and Merlin. I love it. Merlin’s in danger of treading on my feet so I push his chest to ease him back then slip his head collar and lead rope on. He almost trots through the doorway then spins around as I try to tie him up. He’s like a kid who’s had the equine equivalent of Smarties today –as if someone has fed him carrots and oats – and here was I expecting him to be lethargic with the hot weather we’ve had recently. It promises to be an exciting hack.

I brush Merlin until his black coat gleams and he calms a little until I attempt to pick out his hooves and then he’s a complete prat, shifting his weight and refusing to lift his feet. I’m knackered by the time I fetch my pride and joy – my beautiful, expensive vegan-friendly saddle and tack from the barn. No leather for me. Sunlight slices through the small window catching dust mites and cobwebs, and I sneeze and wipe my nose on my hand.

When we go through the gate into the paddock Merlin lifts his head and squeals with excitement. I walk, or try to walk him, calmly across the paddocks and glance back at my family home. It nestles at the bottom of the slope surrounded by low walls and pathways made from sandstone. I’m so lucky to live here. There aren’t many properties that can boast fields leading into woodland with endless bridleways.

As we enter the woods the trees shimmer and rustle in the gentle breeze and shafts of sunlight warm the damp earth, releasing a pungent odour of leaf mould. Thick ferns camouflage logs and holes so I keep to the path. Merlin is still skittish and I need a firm grip on the reins to control him. I hear children’s voices in the distance and a terrier runs along a path nearby, making Merlin prance sideways. ‘Sshhh, you’re okay,’ I say, patting his neck. ‘It’s only a little dog.’

He calms down at the sound of my voice and his pace slows, but not for long. He’s like a jack-in-the-box waiting for the lid to be opened. When we get to the spot where the track widens I loosen the reins and tap his sides lightly. He tosses his head, gives a small buck of excitement, then we’re off at a canter up and down the hills. It’s exhilarating and my heart lifts with pure joy. Further along the bridleway I see a small wooden shack tucked between the trees. It always reminds me of something out of a fairy story but it’s probably just a gamekeeper’s shed. For some reason, Merlin is a bit nervous of it so as he gets nearer I sit deeper into the saddle and tell him he’s a brave boy.

We’re almost alongside it when someone suddenly flaps a bright orange carrier bag out of the small window. Merlin rears up and I catch my head on a branch, jarring my neck. Fuck! ‘Whoa, steady boy, steady.’

But this time Merlin won’t be soothed. He’s spooked and his flight instinct has him spinning 180 degrees to face the direction we’ve just come from. He lowers his head to release the bit and bolts at full gallop. I barely have time to steady myself and my foot slips forward in the left stirrup. Trees flash past and the ground races beneath us. I feel the power of his muscles hurtling us along narrow tracks. Please don’t let anyone come the other way. Where’s the little dog? Where are the children? Oh God, they could be killed.

My heart crashes like a wrecking ball against my ribs. I’m in danger of falling off but manage to bring the stirrup back under the ball of my foot then apply pressure with my lower legs. I have to fight my instinct to lean forward and grasp his mane as this would only make him go faster. Instead, I try to force my weight deep into the saddle but it’s not easy when I have to duck under low branches. Twigs slice across my face and I feel a trickle of blood on my cheek. ‘Whoa, steeeaaddy, whoooaa, Merlin. It’s okay.’

I flex the reins to gain control. Thank God I’ve been riding for years. A less experienced rider would be on the ground by now and possibly trampled or dragged along by a foot trapped in a stirrup.

We leave the shed far behind and Merlin slows until we’re walking again. He’s covered in white sweat and we’re both breathing heavily. That was bloody scary! I’ve heard so many horror stories of people dying or suffering life-changing injuries in riding accidents. We take our time going home and I think back over what I saw – an arm emerging from the window and shaking the bag. A kid pratting about? I’d like to think so but the arm had been clad in a light blue sleeve and I know someone who has a jacket just like that. Someone who’s well aware of Merlin’s fear of carrier bags.

But that would mean the carrier bag was used on purpose to scare Merlin and cause… What? An accident? Even a fatal accident?

I shudder to dislodge the icy suspicion that trickles down my spine. I’m being ridiculous. Putting two and two together to make five. Because Lucy and I might not get along but there’s no way she’d want to cause me actual harm. Is there?

Chapter 18

The Previous February | Sarah

I flick past news of floods and politics then freeze in horror at the next headline.

Businessman stabbed to death in holiday lodge.

‘I can’t breathe as I read on. They know who he is. His wife has identified him. Oh, Sweet Jesus. The feeling that