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Alan Blunt looked up from the papers spread out over his large oak desk. “The Scorpia Syndicate are prepared to pay a considerable sum for Cossack’s services. Why hasn’t the contract been signed yet?”
“Have you seen which mare they propose to send?” The stud manager’s face was as unreadable as ever, but her mouth was set in a thin, hard line. Tulip Jones was the best in the business, but in Blunt’s opinion, she had an irritating habit of questioning his decisions.
He shuffled the papers until he found the correct one. “Mrs Rothman.”
“Cossack has history with her. The last time they were put together, he broke a stablehand’s arm and refused to mount. It cost us a refund of the fee plus their travel and other expenses. Luckily, he serviced five other mares that day or it could have been a PR disaster.”
“So why do her owners want to try again? Cossack isn’t known for his accommodating nature.”
“Her previous owners sold her to Scorpia. Their analysts have convinced them that the potential gains outweigh the risk.”
“Make sure the indemnity and release is watertight. I want full recompense if he’s injured and no come back if we have to call the knackers in for her. If they want his services that badly, maybe they shouldn’t have sold him to us in the first place.”
Jones popped a peppermint into her mouth and pouched it in her cheek like a hamster. Blunt found it an annoying habit. He suspected that was why she did it. “They won’t agree those terms.”
“They will if they want their mare covered by the most expensive stud in the world.”
That was exactly what Scorpia did want.
Two weeks later, the contract was signed, and their prize mare was on her way from Wales to Newmarket.
****
“You have got to be fucking joking, Tulip!” John Crawley, assistant stud manager, stared at his boss with ill-disguised horror. “A school visit?”
“They’re just children, John. I’m not suggesting we bring a pack of rabid wolves into the stud.”
Crawley shuddered. “Give me rabid wolves, any day. I’m allergic to children.”
“Try antihistamines.”
“I was thinking more of ketamine.”
“Blunt doesn’t approve of recreational drugs.”
“I meant for them, not me.”
“They’ve probably got their own suppliers. Stop being so negative, John. Blunt says it’s good PR.”
“Blunt won’t be the one dealing with questions like ‘what’s that long thing, mister?’ while the rest of the horrors stand around sniggering. Anyway, I thought we’d decided watching a covering was inappropriate for the little darlings?”
“Brookland is a progressive establishment and believes in expanding its pupils’ horizons.” Jones sounded like she was parroting a prospectus. Knowing her, she probably was.
“So you’re going to expand their horizons by letting them watch the Assassin live up to his name when he gets within kicking or biting distance of Rothman? Have you put in an order for a chain mail cape? He can bite through leather if he wants.”
“Cossack’s mellowed.”
“Has he fuck,” Crawley said morosely. “He booted one of the stablehands in the nadgers yesterday and ruptured one of the lad’s testicles. The insurers weren’t impressed.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t rupture both.”
“That’s what I told them. It didn’t go down well.”
“Send them a note of his earnings last year. Cossack’s, I mean, not the stablehand’s.”
“Not helping, Tulip. Tell Brookland we’ve had an outbreak of foot and mouth. Or measles. Or swine flu. Or the whole lot at once.”
“They’re arriving in four hours.”
“I’ll have my notice on your desk in 15 minutes.”
Mrs Jones popped a peppermint into her mouth, favoured him with one of her most insincere smiles and left him to start filling in the inevitable risk assessments, one of which concerned the not inconsiderable risk to his mental wellbeing that stemmed from having to explain pedigrees when all the little brats wanted to do was talk about sex. That was what they always wanted to talk about, much to their teachers’ embarrassment. And then there were the letters of complaint from the parents when all their offspring wanted to talk about at family gatherings was the size of a horse’s cock.
There were times when John Crawley really fucking hated his job.
****
At 15.8 hands high, Estrov Gregorovich – stable name Cossack, known to his detractors as the Assassin – was by no means large for a flat racer, but he was agile and preternaturally fast, running with a fluid, balletic grace that few horses could match. He was also easily the most dangerous horse that John Crawley had ever had to deal with. If he’d been human, Cossack would have topped Interpol’s Most Wanted list.
The Bank, as Blunt’s stud was succinctly named, had snapped him up for a surprisingly low price when an injury had ended his racing career. A transport plane bringing him back from the States had aquaplaned in a torrential downpour on a flooded runway, injuring the Scorpia Syndicate’s highest earning stallion. Ever ones to cut their losses, they’d been open to an offer from the Bank and so Cossack had arrived in Newmarket and started a lengthy – and eye-wateringly expensive – convalescence and recovery.
Blunt’s decision had been amply repaid when Cossack had demonstrated his prowess at stud, with his three-year-olds claiming impressive victories in all the British classics including the 2000 Guineas, the Epsom Oaks and the St Leger. His stud fees had promptly rocketed and with every success had just kept on climbing to reach an astronomical £200,000 a pop. No wonder Scorpia wanted in on the action. They liked to play a long game and the progeny of Cossack and the impressive Mrs Rothman could well be world-beaters.
There was just one fly in the ointment…
Cossack hated her.
***
Mrs Rothman stalked down the ramp from the horsebox, looking around with what appeared to be utter disdain.
She was led into one of the large breeding stalls where to be checked over by an independent vet who would certify that she had arrived without any injuries.
While she was being examined. Alan Blunt stood up from behind his desk to welcome Sorpia’s representative, Zeljan Kurst, a man with all the charm and empathy of a single cell organism.
“Coffee? Tea?” Blunt offered.
“Something stronger,” Kurst said gruffly. “Your roads are abysmal, and the journey here was interminable.”
Alan Blunt was not inclined to diplomacy and as the ink was already dry on the contract, he felt no need to apologise for the state of British roads. But with Cossack due to cover Scorpia’s prized mare in two hours, a stiff drink wouldn’t go amiss.
He sacrificed a large measure of his third best scotch, reasoning that Kurst almost certainly had a palate somewhat less refined than that of the cook’s dog, and handed it to his churlishly overbearing client.
Kurst gave it a cursory sniff then threw the large measure down in one gulp, plonking his glass back down on the tray with a heavy smack.
Blunt inwardly winced and poured another. It was going to be a long day and no doubt a waste of a good single malt. He’d hoped Scorpia would have sent Brendan Chase. At least the Australian was moderately polite, whereas Kurst clearly thought politeness was a weakness.
“Will your stallion get it up this time?” Kurst demanded, before tossing the next whisky down with the same indecent haste.
“I can assure you that Estrov Gregorovich has no problem ‘getting it up’, Zeljan. He can cover five mares a day.
“If he can be bothered,” Kurst said with a disdainful sniff. “I know perfectly well what Cossack is like. He does exactly what he wants, when he wants, Your operation has more holes than a tramp’s vest, and you know it. I also know exactly how many times the Assassin has failed – or refused – to rise to the occasion.”
Blunt smiled a bland, grey smile. “The contract makes it clear this is at your own risk, Zeljan. We gave no undertakings regarding his performance.”
Kurst’s answering smile was as thin as morning mist and about as warm.
“Would you like a tour of the stables … just so you can be sure your spies are keeping you up to date?”
Kurst barked a laugh and clapped Blunt so hard on the shoulder that he staggered under the weight. “Lead on.”
****
John Crawley had to admit that the glossy chestnut was an impressive beast, with clean limbs and a proud step. And malicious eyes.
In the veterinary unit, Mrs Rothman’s inoculations had been checked and she’d been given an examination to ensure she’d sustained no injuries in transit. Her tail was now being bandaged by a very wary-looking groom and in a few minutes she’d be fitted with a sturdy leather cape to prevent any injuries if Cossack decided to use his teeth. She’d also have to wear boots, as a kick in the bollocks would be very expensive. Cossack was – quite literally – a picky fucker, and they couldn’t afford him to be out of action for very long, so kicks were definitely to be avoided.
A bleep alerted him to a message on his mobile. The word incoming was hardly comforting.
Ten minutes later he had been introduced to two smiling teachers from Brookland School, and was surrounded by a bunch of pre-pubescent demons in human form. None of the little buggers had any sort of brain to mouth filter – if they even had any brains – and they all seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with sex.
“So where do they shag, mister?” An angelic looking 12-year-old stared up at him, a pencil poised over a small notebook.
“The stallion normally covers the mare in the breeding shed …”
“What’s covering, mister?”
Crawley sighed. “It’s another word for shagging.”
The kids nodded knowingly.
The two teachers gave him a sympathetic look.
A hand shot up,
Crawley’s heart sunk like the proverbial stone.
“How often do they shag, mister!”
Crawley drew in a deep breath and launched into the standard explanation he’d given a thousand time to visitors. “In the breeding season, the average stallion will cover a mare at 7am, noon, 4pm and 8pm. We try not to give a stallion five covers a day, but if necessary, he can cover again at midnight.”
“That’s lagging!” a voice from the back of the group yelled. “My dad can do 500 covers a day!”
The kids erupted in howls of laughter.
“No wonder your mam’s always up the duff!”
“His dad runs a restaurant,” one of the teachers commented. “All right, you lot, settle down.”
Crawley cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the average stallion will cover up to four mares a day.”
“Nice job, innit,” one of the boys sniggered.
“No way you could get it up that often, Gazza!”
“As I was saying… !”
Ten minutes later, Crawley was considering herding the lot of the little fuckers into one of the breeding pens and letting the Assassin do his worst. He’d always been reasonably well-behaved around kids in the past, but lobbing in a firecracker would probably do the trick…
Mrs Rothman was standing in one of the breeding pens, staring around her in disdain as she flicked her bandaged tail from side to side. One of the stable hands tossed the heavy leather protective cape over her back as Crawley explained that was to protect her from being bitten – cue the inevitable jokes about hickeys that he’d heard a thousand time before – then one of the gates at the far end of the huge shed opened and a young bay was led in, tossing his head as he positively pranced towards Mrs Rothman’s stall.
The horse, wearing a large, strong rubber condom over his long, erect penis, was led past the gawping kids into Mrs Rothman’s stall. Fluff, as he was known to everyone in the stud, knew his business and promptly started cosying up to the mare. He wasn’t exactly a flowers and chocolates sort of horse, but he did know how to get the mares receptive. The way Mrs Rothman reacted made it obvious she was ovulating, which meant Crawley had to launch into further explanations to the sniggering little hellions.
One of the girls pulled a sketchpad out of her backpack and promptly started to draw. Crawley sneaked a quick look and was impressed by the cartoon pencil sketch of Fluff and his extremely impressive penis. She’d caught the horse’s lascivious expression perfectly, as well as the matching look on the face of his stablehand, who Crawley privately suspected possessed the sort of search history on his phone that the lad wouldn’t want his grandmother to know about.
When the teaser had incontrovertibly proved Mrs R was receptive, Crawley gave the nod to the lad who led a very eager – and very disgruntled – Fluff back to his own stall, where they’d probably both end up trying to have a crafty wank. A carrot was definitely no substitute for a shag, so far as Fluff was concerned. Crawley could see the horse’s point of view. He turned a deaf ear to the brat who wanted to know how long the horse would have a boner for and ushered them all out of the stable, wishing he had the help of a large and particularly vicious sheepdog with a profound dislike of anyone under the age of 18.
Mrs Rothman was led out into a large grass paddock, prancing almost coquettishly at the end of her leading rain. At the far side, a sleek grey stallion stood by the fence, staring superciliously at the mare invading his space. Cossack stubbornly refused to perform to order in the interior breeding stalls. When – if – he deigned to cover a mare, it was on his own terms, in the open air.
“Estrov Gregorovich,” Crawley announced. “The stud’s highest earning stallion.”
“Has he got a big dick, mister?” one of the girls yelled, giggling like a laughing hyena.
“He has a perfectly formed, average-sized penis,” Crawley said with what he hoped was a commendably straight face. “He stands 15.8 hands high, which is considered of average height for a racehorse in the UK. Larger horses mature more slowly and are more prone to injuries to their joints …”
“Are they going to shag?” The girl with the sketchpad was looking bored, even though her pencil was still flying over the page.
“Possibly.” Crawley caught sight of Alan Blunt and Zeljan Kurst making their way over to the paddock. Behind a façade of polite interest, he knew Blunt was ready to commit murder. He disliked dealing with clients in general and he particularly disliked dealing with Kurst.
“Doesn’t he fancy her?”
Almost certainly not, Crawley thought.
The barrage of questions continued as the stablehand led Mrs Rothman into the middle of the paddock while Cossack studiously ignored her. The kids were busily either snapping photos on their mobiles or using them to text their friends – the same friends that were probably standing no more than a couple of metres away. Crawley’s own bloody kids even texted each other across the same room. Or WhatsApped or SnapChatted or WhatEvered.
Cossack, looking as bored and disgruntled as Crawley felt, turned away and trotted smoothly away with all the fluid grace of a dancer.
“Good start,” Mrs Jones muttered, appearing soundlessly at his side, the smell of eau de peppermint clinging to her like a minty version of the Chanel No. 5 his wife always insisted he bought for her.
“You mean he hasn’t kicked her to death?”
“Quite.”
“Give it time.”
“There’s a lot of money riding on this.”
“I told Blunt not to sign.”
“We all did. But as we stand to get a sizeable bonus if Cossack mounts her, I suggest we think of something to improve the situation.”
“Viagra? A very large measure of Blunt’s best single malt?”
“He’ll only break that out if Cossack knocks that bloody mare up, and I don’t mean with a well-placed kick.”
“Don’t tempt fate, John.” Jones’ eyes suddenly narrowed, and she muttered, “Something’s got his interest.”
Cossack was running along by the fence separating the paddock from one of the larger fields. On the other side, a palomino pony was busily avoiding a groom’s attempt to grab his halter, From a standing start, the pony cleared the fence in an impressive jump, landing next to Cossack and circling him, head up, prancing even more than Mrs Rothman.
Cossack tossed his head and butted the pony in the flank.
“Who the fuck let Alex out?” Crawley muttered. The pony belonged to Blunt’s niece, and he should have been in one of the other fields, nowhere near a prospective – very lucrative – mating.
“You said a bad word!” one of the kid crowed.
“You lot have been effing and blinding since you arrived.”
“We’re teenagers, it’s expected of us,” a studious looking girl with her hair tied back in a tight plait told him.
Crawley rolled his eyes. “Have you all taken lessons in being irritating?”
“Natural talent,” the girl said demurely but the look in her eyes reminded him of the mischief he saw all too often in the palomino pony currently strutting his stuff around Cossack.
Alex was still at the gawky stage where one minute he’d be all fluid grace and the next minute he’d trip over his own hooves and plough through a jump rather than going over it. Blunt’s niece had recently discovered boys, so ponies had taken a backseat in her life and in consequence, Alex wasn’t getting the exercise or the attention he needed.
Large, liquid brown eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes stared devotedly at Cossack like a kid with a crush on a teacher.
Cossack tossed his head and stalked off. Alex followed at his heels, head-butting the larger animal in the shoulder.
“This won’t end well,” Mrs Jones predicted.
“The Assassin’s got a soft spot for him,” Crawley said. “But whichever idiot let Alex get out is going to get his bloody P45 tomorrow.”
“He’s taking more interest in the pony than he is in Mrs Rothman,” Jones said, as Alex continued rubbing himself against the taller horse, laying his head against Cossack’s neck and whickering softly.
To Crawley’s amazement, the grey whickered back, nuzzling Alex’s ears.
“Ewwww! That’s so gay!” a boy yelled, in tones if deep disapproval.
“Don’t be such a homophobic fuckwit, Craig!” the girl with the plait yelled back.
“I think it’s sweet,” the girl with the sketchbook commented, as her pencil flew over the pages of her book.
“His dick’s out!”
Crawley was torn between embarrassment and hope. The kid was right. Cossack was definitely taking an interest. The only problem was that he was talking an interest in the wrong animal.
Mrs Rothman, looking distinctly miffed, presented her hindquarters to Cossack, twitching her bandaged tail to one side.
Cossack pointedly ignored her and started nuzzling Alex’s neck, blowing softly through his dark-rimmed nostrils. Alex, looking impossibly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like something out of a Disney cartoon, pranced around him and nipped lightly at Cossack’s neck and gave the long, thin scar a delicate lick.
The horse’s penis was now fully unsheathed and was attracting the sort of comments that would make even the most hardened stablehand blush. The girls were laughing loudly and making unfavourable comparisons with their male classmates’ anatomy, with the teachers fighting a losing battle over maintaining control.
Crawley had given up trying to commentate on proceedings and instead was watching Blunt and Kurst.
Blunt was wearing a look that said the person who’d let Alex out would be getting the aforementioned P45 delivered on the end of a rusty pitchfork and Kurst looked about ready to have apoplexy.
Crawley sighed. Another memorable day at the Bank. At times like this he cursed the racing industry’s steadfast refusal to embrace artificial insemination, even though it would drive the price of the product down.
Blunt gestured to one of the stablehands, clearly telling them to get Alex out of there. The lad who’d just been summarily dispatched to catch the errant pony looked like he’d rather hand in his notice than go within kicking distance of the Assassin, but mindful of his future employment prospects, started to circumspectly approach the horse and pony who were now canoodling – as Crawley’s gran used to describe it – in the middle of the paddock.
The palomino pony fluttered his long dark eyelashes and lowered his head, letting Cossack nip at the back of his neck with evident pleasure.
“Well, this is all very educational,” one of the teachers said brightly. “We were discussing homosexuality in the animal kingdom in biology last week, weren’t we, class?”
“Gay penguins, miss!” one of the girls called.
“I saw a squirrel shagging some roadkill last week,” a boy commented. “My dad laughed so much he nearly put the car in the ditch.”
“Necrophilia in the animal kingdom is next week,” the teacher told him.
“Really, miss?”
“No. You’ll be writing an essay on horse breeding and genetics, so you’d better have been taking notice of what Mr Crawley has been telling you.”
In his quest to grab Alex’s halter, the stablehand made the mistake of getting too close to Cossack’s rear end and was promptly sent arse over tit by a pair of flying hooves.
Crawley winced. Another bloody work-based insurance claim. At this rate they were going to need another Accident Book.
The lad scrambled away.
Cossack must have been in a good mood. The last person he’d kicked had ended up in A&E with three broken ribs.
Alex pranced around, all warm pale gold against Cossack’s cold, dangerous moonlight sheen. Cossack pressed up against him and for a moment, Crawley though the stallion was about to mount the pony then at the last moment, he turned away and cantered over to Mrs Rothman, rearing up and thrusting himself inside the receptive mare in one smooth movement.
The audience promptly erupted in whistles and catcalls as Cossack thrust to a quick completion, before dismounting and trotting back to nuzzle the wide-eyed Alex as if nothing at all had happened.
Zeljan Kurst guffawed loudly and in a voice that carried halfway to Cambridge and back declared, “Think you’ve got yourself a new teaser, Blunt!”
“I think he might be right,” Mrs Jones said, watching with smug satisfaction as Cossack nibbled Alex’s neck and allowed the pony to press up against him.
Crawley looked over the shoulder of the girl with the sketchbook. She’d captured Alex’s look of doe-eyed innocence perfectly, alongside Cossack’s look of world-weary disdain. “Sell me that for a tenner, kid?”
The girl ripped the page out the book and held it out. “Yours for fifteen, mister.”
“Done.”
“She certainly has been,” Jones announced smugly, looking over at the somewhat shellshocked but decidedly smug Mrs Rothman.
“Blunt owes us both a large drink.”
“And an even larger bonus.”
“Did you say boner, mister?”
Crawley flipped the kid off and smiled sweetly at the teachers.
“What an educational afternoon,” one of them said brightly.
