The Horse Dancer by Jojo Moyes Page B

found some of it,’ she said. ‘I think it fell out of my pocket.’ On her palm Natasha could just make fifty pence and some coppers. Later she remembered that it was curiously calloused for a girl of her age.
    But she didn’t want to get any more involved than she already was so she carried on walking. ‘Keep your money,’ she said. She opened her car door. ‘It’s fine.’
    ‘I wasn’t stealing,’ the girl insisted.
    Natasha turned. ‘You always buy your supper at eleven o’clock at night?’
    The girl shrugged. ‘I had to visit someone in hospital. I only just got home and there was no food.’
    ‘Where do you live?’ The girl was younger than Natasha had originally thought. Perhaps no more than thirteen or fourteen.
    ‘Sandown.’
    Natasha glanced at the monolithic, sprawling estate, its tower blocks visible even from this street. It had a reputation throughout the borough. She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps she just hated the look of that place in the dark. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to go home to Mac or, worse, to his absence. Around her the city seethed: cars honked in the distance; on the corner two men were having a heated disagreement, their voices lifting in mutual outrage.
    I don’t think you’re as tough as you come across , Conor Deans had said, his voice dropping. I think there’s a whole different Natasha Macauley in there.
    Oh, I’m full of surprises , she had replied. It had sounded, even to her, like a challenge.
    The two men were fighting now, rapid, swinging kicks and punches. The energy in the atmosphere transformed, sucked out into a vortex of violence. There were a few yelled expletives, then footsteps as other shadowy men ran towards them. She saw the glint of an iron bar.
    ‘You shouldn’t be out by yourself this late at night,’ Natasha said, and walked briskly to her car. ‘Come on. I’ll drop you home.’ The girl studied her for a moment, her work suit, her smart shoes, then glanced at the car. Perhaps she reasoned that anyone driving a vehicle as staid and sensible as an old Volvo wasn’t likely to abduct her.
    ‘The passenger door lock’s broken,’ Natasha said, ‘if that makes you feel any better . . .’
    The girl sighed, as if nothing she could do or say might be of concern to her, and climbed in.
    Natasha had started to regret this rash course of action almost before she pulled into the estate car park. Groups of youths hung around in amorphous gatherings, some breaking away to do wheelies on bikes, others throwing down cigarette butts and catcalling insults to each other. They stopped briefly, apparently registering the unfamiliar car as she backed into a parking space.
    ‘You never told me your name,’ Natasha said.
    She hesitated. ‘Jane.’
    ‘Have you lived here long?’
    She nodded. ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly, and made to open the door.
    Natasha wanted to go home then, to her secure, friendly living room. To the peace of her comforting house, nice music, a glass of red wine. Her own world. Experience told her she should turn the car around and drive away. Such estates were these youths’ domain; some would ever rarely have ventured more than a mile or two outside their confines, and they had a searing, almost feral interest in what went on in their ‘manor’. Natasha knew that her car and her suit marked her out as middle class in a world much harder, much tougher than the one several streets away. But then she looked at the pale, thin girl beside her. What kind of person would turf her out without seeing her to the safety of her door?
    She tucked her wedding ring surreptitiously into her back pocket, her credit cards with it. If her purse was snatched all they would get was some cash.
    ‘It’s okay,’ Jane said, watching her. ‘I know them.’
    ‘I’ll see you in,’ Natasha said, in the detached, professional voice she employed with all young clients. Then, when the girl didn’t look overjoyed: ‘It’s fine. I