The Horse With My Name by Bateman

wave of lager up and over the edge. She was looking into my eyes. ‘I really didn’t know . . .’
    ‘That’s okay.’
    ‘No, it’s not okay, it’s inex . . . scusable.’
    ‘Don’t worry about it. Good, ahm, race today.’
    ‘You saw it? Awe. That’s sweet. Excep’ – that horse is a fucking donkey. I could have run faster than . . . Can I ask you something?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Have you had much to drink tonight?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well I have. And so . . .’ she pointed wildly behind her,‘have those fuckers. Could you do me a really, really, really big favour?’
    I shrugged.
    ‘Could you drive me home?’
    ‘I don’t have the car . . .’
    ‘M . . . my car. Please. Daddy’ll kill me if I don’t get the F . . . Ferrari home.’
    I looked at her. I had come south to ruin her father, to gain evidence of his murder of Mark Corkery. To reveal the sordid secrets he was trying to hide from the Horse Whisperer. I was single, sad, drunk and depressed. My only friends south of the border were an oil paintings salesman, a chicken man and a dry-cleaner, and they weren’t really my friends at all. Friendless, hopeless and ultimately, reckless. Because it doesn’t matter what state you’re in, you don’t turn down a beautiful drunk woman with a Ferrari.

10
    You don’t, but you should .
    I knew from the second I took off that the Ferrari was too wild a beast for me. I was more a Fiesta and Metro man, with a nice rug in the back and a packet of Jaffa Cakes melted into each other in the glove compartment. The Ferrari is power . It went faster in first than I’d previously managed in fourth. We’d gone about three hundred yards when I lost control on a corner and ploughed through a hedge and up into the air before banging down into a ploughed field with me flailing at the controls, finally coming to a rest on the edge of a steep bank overlooking a stream. The noise was deafening, and that was just me screaming. But if anyone, apart from the fish below and the sheep behind, noticed or gave a hoot, it was not immediately apparent. Not even Mandy was aware. She was snoring as gently in the front as she had been before take-off. I had taken the precaution of fastening her seatbelt, although I hadn’t envisaged that it really would be for take-off.
    I got out of the car as gently as I could and walked round to the other side. The breeze was nice and fresh and the gurgling of the water lent a peacefulness to the night air as ifnothing untoward had happened. If I’d been driving drunk, I was now standing sober. I inspected the damage by the light of a pale moon, and I was relieved to find that it didn’t appear to be too severe. The headlights were broken. There was an indentation in the hood, and some severe scratching to the paintwork. Nothing that a few thousand pounds wouldn’t sort out. I stood and surveyed my surroundings for several moments, breathing easily, happy to be alive, then opened her door, undid her belt and began to push her over into the driver’s seat. She kind of flopped across it, murmuring wordlessly. I returned to the driver’s door and pulled her over further so that her legs were in behind the wheel. Then I pushed her upright in the seat and secured the safety belt.
    I removed one of her shoes and hurried down to the stream. I hunkered down and filled the shoe with icy water.
    Back at the car I threw the water in her face, then started to shake her. ‘Mandy!’ I called. ‘ Mandy! ’
    ‘Whad . . . whad . . . what?’ she said blearily, raising her hands defensively.
    ‘C’mon! Get out of the car!’ I urged her. ‘We’ve had a crash – c’mon now.’
    I undid her belt and helped her out of the vehicle. She staggered. I held her up. ‘But . . . but . . . you . . . Christ . . . Christ! Daddy’ll . . . Fuck! ’
    ‘It’s okay . . . it’s only a scratch . . . come with me. C’mon.’
    I led her across the field, then hauled her back up the bank and through the hole in the hedge