Read The Steep Approach to Garbadale for Free Online Page B

she still had a soft spot for Nick. ‘Really no idea,’ he gasped. ‘Might need a doctor at some point. Just to check, you know?’
    ‘Shit, yah.’ She squeezed his shoulder again. ‘I’ll go up to the house.’
    ‘And will you get that animal out of my carrot lines?’
    ‘Yah, no problem. Back in a bit.’
    She led the horse back through the tall gate in the west wall, walking quickly.
    The pain came and went, like waves on a shore, every particle of sand a tiny raw testicle being rubbed up against every other one. Dear fucking God this was sore. Why did it have to be this sore? He’d taken a tennis ball in the balls once, maybe three or four years ago, and that had been bad, but this was infinitely worse. Were sex and orgasms and reproduction really worth this demented fucking agony? He’d never even got to do it properly yet, just wanking, and now it felt like he never would. Could balls actually burst? Fucking hell. He’d just been thinking lately it might be good to be a dad one day, eventually, but now maybe that was off the menu entirely, all thanks to some Yah-girl and her mad, man-hating, ball-bursting horse from hell. What he really wanted to do was stand up, take down his jeans and boxers and take a look at the damage, but he couldn’t, not when the girl might reappear at any moment, with Uncle James or Aunt Clara or his own parents.
    Gradually - far too bloody gradually - the pain started to fade. He stopped feeling quite so sick. He pushed himself upright with one hand and sat carefully on the brick path running between the lettuce beds. He dried his eyes. He hadn’t really been crying as such, but the pain and the grimace it had forced on to his face had sort of squeezed his tear ducts, he guessed. He took a hanky from his pocket and blew his nose. Even that hurt. He coughed. That hurt as well. He started thinking about standing up, wondering if that would be painful, too. He looked at the black riding hat the girl had left lying on the path. A single long, curled red hair lay coiled around the velvety surface, shining in the sunlight like a vermilion meridian.
    She was away five or ten minutes, then returned alone, swinging an ice bucket. ‘They’ve all bloody gone!’ she said. ‘Nobody there. Cars aren’t there either.’ He wiped away the last of his tears and looked at her. She was small, a good head shorter than he was. He guessed she was about his age. Quite curvy; well developed, was the phrase, he thought. She looked good in her long black boots, stretchy fawn trousers and long black jacket. Her gathered-up red hair glowed like copper in the sun against the shining blue of the summer sky. She sat down beside him on the raised edge of the path. Green eyes. Gently tanned skin, flushed a delicate red on her cheeks. Nice little nose. ‘Here. I got the ice.’ She plonked the ice bucket down on the path between his booted feet, then dug into her black riding jacket and pulled out a packet of pills. ‘Paracetamol. Thought these might help.’
    He made a patting motion. ‘Thanks. I’ll be okay. It’s starting to go now. I’ll live.’ He put his hands on his knees, stared ahead and blew out a deep breath.
    His hands looked long and strong and were incredibly dirty; brown with the soil and quite black under the nails. She felt herself shiver.
    ‘Well, yah. Phew, right?’ She smiled.
    She had, he noticed, braces on her top teeth. She saw him glance at her mouth and closed her lips. It was almost a pout, he thought. She was very pretty. Well, apart from the braces, obviously. Then she stuck her hand out. ‘Sophie. You’re Alban, my cousin, is that right?’
    He took her small hand and shook it carefully. So they were cousins. That was a pity. ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
    ‘Actually we have met, apparently, back when we were very young, but, ah, how-do-you-do anyway.’
    He nodded. ‘Thanks for the ice,’ he said, leaning forward and scowling with pain