Devils And Unicorns

Chapter 1

There is no place in the universe quite like the winner's circle.

It is a hallowed place, lodging the ghosts of champions, the ground within it trodden only by conquerors. It is a place that only knows success. Failure, inside the winner's circle, does not exist.

It was into the winner's circle at Ramnock - which was in fact shaped like an irregular rectangle, narrower at one end than the other and bordered by a shabby wooden fence coated in peeling white paint - that the latest esteemed victor of the prestigious Ramnock Stakes stepped this afternoon. His light bay coat, though darkened with sweat, glistened under the scorching sun; it was broken by only one fleck of white, in the tiny star on his forehead that was partially obscured below his black mane. His nostrils were locked wide open, and his flanks rose and fell as he drew warm air into his lungs and snorted it out several degrees hotter. His lower limbs were ashen with sand, which clung to his damp hair like a second skin. He was led into the enclosure, his head bobbing amenably and his eyes soft and patient, his ears barely flicking at the rowdy cheers echoing all around him. He was used to the sound of raucous adulation.

For this was Ruse, the best horse Florence Acreman had ever trained. At six years old, he was in fabulous form and at the peak of his career so far. Winner of twelve of his nineteen races, Ruse was so much more than a good racehorse: he was his trainer's saviour.

Without him, she would still be on the bottom rung of a very tall ladder.

Four hours later, when the horse's sweat had been cleansed from her hands and her make-up replenished after the assault of her own jubilant tears, Florence herself was outside the Ramnock Rock bar less than two hundred yards from the same winner's circle. She was waiting for Martha, her best friend and valued assistant, who was always late for social events. Growing tired of the tirade of congratulations, Florence had now moved a short distance away from the bar entrance and was taking a moment to relish the coolness of the evening air on a bench that afforded a good view of the winner's circle. As she looked at the little patch of sand between the peeling white fence rails, the hoof prints of Ruse still scarring its surface, she allowed herself a gentle smile of pride and happiness.

As she turned her gaze skyward, where the first stars were breaking through the darkening heavens, her thoughts ran to her father. Wherever he was, she hoped he had watched Ruse storm to his twelfth victory that afternoon. He would have enjoyed a far better view from up there than she had, clasping her hands over her face and peering fearfully through the narrow gap between her fingers.

"Florence?" A voice broke through the silence of her thoughts. It was not Martha but Mrs. Fields, the meek and refreshingly unpretentious wife of Ruse's owner.

"Sorry," Florence exclaimed breathlessly, taken by surprise.

"Has Harry told you?"

"Told me what?"

"Oh, he hasn't, curse him. I'm afraid he... he's sold Ruse."

Florence felt like a concrete block had been dropped onto her back. For a moment it was all she could do to rescue her faith from where it lay shattered on the ground, struggling to break the moronic stare she was throwing at Mrs. Fields.

"He's what?" she croaked quietly.

"I'm sorry, love." Mrs. Fields reached out a perfectly manicured hand and placed it sympathetically on Florence's shoulder. "I did try to talk him out of it, but you know what he's like."

"When did this happen?"

"About half an hour ago. He's been drinking, of course. I'm sure he will regret it in the morning, but he won't go back on it. You know what he always says: 'a deal's a deal, and you don't renege on a deal'."