Dead Horsemeat

Friday 15 September 1989

Concealed in the forest, Le Dem and Romero watch the farrier who has just pulled up in his white van. Le Dem follows him with binoculars, while Romero jots down notes on a little pad.

2 p.m. The van pulls up in front of the forge, in the right hand corner of the courtyard. The farrier gets out, accompanied by his assistant. Aged about thirty-five or so, dressed in a T-shirt and linen trousers, strong build, about six foot, very powerful shoulders and arms, and a gut. Beefy. Tanned complexion, black hair, moustache. His assistant is young, fourteen or fifteen years old, a kid. The stables manager comes out to greet the farrier. They chat, no contact, the manager goes off. The farrier opens the rear of the van, takes out his equipment – anvil, hammer, bag of tools. Puts on his leather apron. The van door remains open, the stock of horse shoes visible. Nothing to report. The assistant goes off with some halters. Comes back with two horses, and ties them up inside the forge.

2.15 p.m. The two men are at work.

Le Dem, his eyes glued to the binoculars, describes the process step by step, Romero absently jots down a few notes. They carry on for a couple of hours uninterrupted. Le Dem remarks:

‘Real pros, fast, efficient, good relationship with the horses. In my view, they can’t be the suppliers.’

Romero chuckles.

4.15 p.m. Senanche walks towards the two men.

‘Now concentrate.’

‘He’s carrying some cans of beer. Puts them on the anvil. And wanders off. No contact. The farrier and his assistant have a break, drink the beers. A groom comes over. Chats with the farrier. Goes away. Comes back with a horse. The farrier watches it walk, then trot, inspects its hooves. They talk. The groom leads the horse away. Le Dem turns to Romero: ‘That’s routine, the groom’s asking the farrier’s advice, that shows he’s respected.’

4.30 p.m. The farrier picks up the beer cans, walks over to the van and opens the front door on the passenger side. Puts down the cans. Picks up a rag, a napkin? Mops his forehead and neck, and puts it back.

4.35 p.m. He goes back to work. His assistant also goes back to work.

4.45 p.m. Senanche comes back. He walks round the van. The front door is still open. He leans inside. I can’t see what he’s doing inside the vehicle. He straightens up and leaves. He’s holding the empty beer cans, that’s all. The farrier’s still working.

‘Right. The stuff’s been delivered.’ Le Dem is sceptical. ‘Let’s carry on, that’s what we’re here for. But I’m telling you, we’ve just witnessed the delivery being made. And it’s not the first. The farrier’s a real pro at this too.’

Le Dem continues to watch the horses coming and going, and Romero goes on making occasional notes, without much conviction.

5.20 p.m. An unidentified youth aged about twenty arrives at the forge.

Romero looks up from his notepad.

‘Weird-looking kid. Pass me the binoculars. And take notes. The farrier carries on forging a shoe. They talk. Look, the farrier’s on his feet. He’s grabbing the kid by the shirt, he’s lifting him off the ground with one hand. I don’t believe it… he’s grabbed his tongs… Shit!’

A howl in the stable yard.

‘The farrier’s just branded the kid’s thigh with a red hot horse shoe. The kid’s on the ground. The farrier gives him a kick to get him on his feet.’

‘Come on Romero.’

‘Don’t panic. The kid crawls away, gets up, leaves. Are you still writing this down?’ He glances at his watch. ‘It’s 5.24.’ Picks up the binoculars again. ‘Nobody’s moving. This guy’s scary.’

‘Let’s go and…’

‘Wait a bit. The kid’s limping off towards the road that goes to Chantilly. Now we can go. But not to the stables. Go and get the car, don’t let anybody see you, and pick me up on the road.’

And Romero races into the trees to catch up with the kid. He walks on the opposite side of the road, waiting for Le Dem to arrive. When the car comes into view, he crosses over, goes up to the kid who’s hobbling along sobbing and grabs his arm, opens the rear door of the car, shoves him inside and climbs in next to him.

‘Drive, Le Dem, wherever you like, but drive. And wind your window up.’

‘What do you want? Let me go, you’ve no right… Stop, I want to get out.’ Interspersed with sobs.

Romero looks at him, and sniffs him. The kid, in shock, gives off the sour odour of needing a fix. Now’s the time.

‘Police. Tell me what you were talking to the farrier about.’

‘That’s my business. Let me go.’

Romero puts his hand on the boy’s thigh which is streaked with a yellow and brown burn that’s beginning to blister, shreds of burnt fabric clinging to his flesh. But seemingly not very deep. The farrier knew how to control his violence.

‘I repeat. What were you talking to the farrier about?’

And he squeezes the thigh. The kid yells. Le Dem swerves. Romero glares at him in the mirror and goes back to the kid.

‘I know you’re a user, and I don’t give a shit. It’s the farrier I’m interested in.’ He puts his hand back on the boy’s thigh. ‘Shall I do that again?’

‘No!’ he yelps.

‘Come on,’ hand still on the thigh, ‘spit it out.’

‘I wanted him to give me some stuff to deal.’

‘And why did he refuse?’

‘I owe him money.’ The kid hiccups. ‘I wanted to make some cash…’

‘He burnt you when you told him you didn’t have the dough.’

Almost inaudible. ‘Yes’.

‘You spent the money on smack, and now you’re suffering cold turkey. You tell me who you wanted to sell to, and I’ll give you your hit, right now, in the car.’

Slight pressure on the boy’s thigh. Groan. The kid’s in a sweat.

‘There’s a party here in Chantilly, tomorrow night, at Massillon the jockey’s place, and you can always sell stuff at these parties.’

Romero takes out a square of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket.

‘Slow down a bit,’ he says to Le Dem, who’s staring at the road.

The boy slips down between the seats and takes out his kit. He’s trembling all over. Romero opens out the paper, holds the spoon. The kid prepares the stuff, heats it up, filters it, shoots it into his arm, inhales deeply, slowly, and lolls backwards, his eyes closed, onto the seat.

Romero taps Le Dem on the shoulder.

‘Now head for the hospital, but not too fast. Give him time to digest. We have to get that burn taken care of.’

‘I don’t want to go to hospital.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m known as Blascos.’

Well you’re going to hospital, Blascos. We’ve got to get that burn seen to, otherwise it can get infected. You won’t have any trouble, I’ll take care of it.’

When they reach A amp;E, Romero helps the boy out of the car. Holds him by the arm for a moment and whispers:

‘I’ll be at the party tomorrow night at ten. You’ll be there too and you’ll introduce me to your friends. And I’ll make sure you’ve got something to sell. OK?’

He nods.

‘I want to hear you say it.’

‘All right.’

‘If you let me down, you know what’ll happen to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now get in there.’