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races and makes loads of money for my dad.’
    There is a roaring in my ears. Red fire. I back away towards a side door leading to the stables. I’ve heard enough.
    Ride.
    That’s the answer to those moments when life becomes too much. I can’t use my anger now but there is always that.
    Ride.
    In the wind, the air, looking ahead, a pony beneath you. It simplifies things. It clears away the rubbish. It reminds you of what matters.
    Ride, ride, ride.
    I walk quickly to the stables and make my way to Dusty’s stable. Whatever the weather, he will come out of his box, looking about him, ready for the excitements of the day.
    â€˜Others coming, are they?’
    Unusually, Ted appears as I’m putting on Dusty’s bridle. The sun is behind him as he stands at the door, a shadowy figure with bow legs, like a comedy cowboy.
    I glance towards him, too angry to speak.
    â€˜Are you all right, jockey? You look a little flushed.’
    â€˜Yeah. I’m fine, thanks.’ I tighten the girth roughly, and Dusty grunts.
    â€˜Easy, girl. Don’t take it out on the pony.’
    I nod, muttering ‘Sorry’ to both Ted and to Dusty.
    I walk Dusty to the door.
    â€˜I’ll be back later, Ted,’ I manage to say.
    â€˜Go easy then.’
    It is his favourite phrase. He uses it with humans and, more often, with the ponies. He gives me a leg-up.
    â€˜Easy, girl. Go easy.’
    We trot briskly through the woods, through a gate and into a sunlit field beyond. There’s a slight rise in the ground. I click my teeth and Dusty breaks into a canter, then a gallop. As the wind hits my face, I open my mouth and scream, letting it all out. There’s a jump in the fence at the end of the field – an oxer made out of dead elm trunks. Dusty soars over it.
    After a while we are no longer on Uncle Bill’s land. Feeling calmer now, I cross a field where the hay has been cut, until we reach a small country road. I think about my life. School, Freaky Barton, Uncle Bill, Aunt Elaine, Michaela and her private charity case. I can see clearly now.
    The further we go, the more Dusty is enjoying our ride. Whoa, a bridge – that’s interesting! Crossing a river now – scary at first, but that’s cool too! Hey, look at all these cars and lorries! Watch out, a pheasant’s getting up in front of us! Where are we going to next?
    Come on, Dusty. Let’s forget about them all.
    Ride.
    Ride.
    Ride.

T IME TO GO
    IT IS NOT running away. It is running to. As soon as the idea is in my mind during the long ride on Dusty, there is no escaping it. I begin to work on my plan.
    Over the past few months I have been saving the money that Uncle Bill has given me for riding in races – £10, sometimes £20, if I have ridden a winner. I have £230 in a purse in my drawer, enough to get me away.
    By the time summer is over, I will be sixteen. The moment has come for me to start a new life where I am not in the way, a nuisance, a freak, a bad influence, where I can be myself, where there are other people with the same dreams and hopes as me.
    I am going to the home of racing.
    It is still dark the next morning when my mobile phone vibrates softly beneath my pillow. I get up silently, get dressed. One more time, I check my rucksack. Spare clothes. Money. A diary with telephone numbers in the back. My battered copy of
Great Ladies: The Wonder Fillies of History.
    Make the bed, slip the mobile phone into my pocket. Out to the stables to say goodbye to Dusty.
    I’m going, boy, but I’ll never forget you.
    Dusty looks at me, surprised to have woken up to find a human with her arms around his neck, her face pressed against him.
    You taught me. When things are going wrong, you have a choice. You can keep going and hope things will work out. Or you can jump.
    The pony gives a long, patient sigh. This is not what he wants in the early hours of the morning.
    From now on, I’ll remember the