Me and my Dad, we were throwing sticks up at the big, old conker tree in the corner of the bowling green furthest away from the gate when he saw the horse. It was over behind the pavilion where the grass got longer, hidden slightly by the early morning shadows and a bit of left over mist.

I had lost count of the times he had told me we were not allowed to go and play in the old bowling green. We still did though because it was all surrounded by trees and rhodedendrons, and it was the best place in the village by far for hide and seek. When autumn came, it was even better because half the trees were conker trees, hundreds of their spiky green fruits ready for me and my intrepid friends to knock them down with gnarly sticks. We always got carrier bags full, which we brought home all bulging, and hid them in our bedrooms until they got rotten and we had to throw them away. 

We could never play with the conkers because we had plenty anyway. My Dad always took us the twenty miles down to Cheadle every year, in his car, me and my brother, where the hugest conker trees we had ever seen stood in a perfect line down the side of a busy road. 

"These, lads, are the greatest conker trees in the land," he always said. "They were planted by King Henry the Eighth when he was only a boy. When he became king, he bequeathed them to the local boys for evermore. Some say he even had a magic spell cast on them to make sure they always gave the best conkers.
 
"Maybe that's not true," he went on, grinning at us."But, think on lads, why do you reckon they are still here, still supplying us with the best conkers?"  
 
When our Dad pulled the car into the lay-by, the exotic parade always almost knocked us breathless as we tried to see where the trees stopped and the sky began, but there never seemed to be any difference as the giant trunks soared up away from us.
 
The trees on the bowling green were not so grand, but they were more exciting. They were forbidden to us. The green keeper lived just around the corner, so we sometimes had to run helter-skelter through the bushes and jump the wall before he caught sight of our faces.
 
This year it was different though. My dad had woken us up early, standing between our beds, his breath steaming a bit because there was no heating that far up in the attic of the house.  
 
"Come on you pair of lazy bones," he said, shaking us roughly awake. "There's conkering to be done."
 
I looked across at Jake and he simply pulled the cover back over his head. Not me though, I was ready and willing.  I sprang out of bed, took off my pyjamas and pulled on my jeans and a jumper - I already had socks on. Downstairs we pulled carried bags out from under the sink, the green and red logos faded and reversed where they had been turned inside out.
 
The bowling green was a few hundred yards up from our house, across the bridge over the millstream, and then up the street that lead to the bigger houses. When we walked past my Dad's car and on up towards the centre of the village, I stood as if he was messing.
 
"Come on," he said, gesturing me to hurry. "We've got to be quick, before the keeper wakes up. You know what he's like."
 
Unbelievable. Fantastic. I laughed put loud and ran up to my Dad and put my hand in his. We ran, crouching slightly as we crossed the bridge, then vaulted the gate to the green, before leaving a snail trail in the silvery dew across the grass. We finished breathless against the biggest tree in the corner, my Dad's laughter joining my own.
 
"Shhhh!" he said. "You'll wake Vernon up."
 
"Nah, he's deaf as a post," I said. "He never hears us." My Dad looked at me sternly, then burst out even more, and we almost had to sit down.
 
We got sticks from under the box hedge and began the task of dislodging the conkers. I threw my stick underarm, spinning my arm round twice to gain momentum, then letting go so it arced up to the lower branches. It took a few goes before any conkers fell, and then just a couple which I dodged easily.
 
"Pathetic," said my Dad. "Watch this."
 
He leaned back and raised his arm over his head, the stick nearly touching the ground behind him. Then he sprang upright, rifling his arm straight, and letting go of the stick. It make a soft whump as it flew into the tree, and a rustling crack as it hit a branch. Conkers fell down on us and we danced away. One caught me on the shoulder, but it was only small.
 
"Wow, Dad," I said. "That was so cool. Do it again."
 
He did, and soon the ground was dotted with the green-brown husks of the ripe conkers. I scuttled around picking them up and putting them in the carrier. Every few seconds, more fell, a couple bouncing off my back. One hit my head, but it did not hurt much.
 
"Hang on," said my Dad. "Come here. What's that d'you reckon?"
 
He pointed over to the pavillion, so I told him, that's the pavillion, you know, where they have tea. Usually he would have grabbed my shoulder and pretended he was going to smack me, but this time he did not.

"No, seriously, what do you think that shape is?"
 
Then I saw what he was pointing at. Behind the building, slightly to the left of it, and almost up against the perimeter wall, was a black mound. It was partly hidden by the long gold of the wild grass that grew in that part of the grounds, but I could see a sheen on it, like the dew on the grass, and there seemed to be steam coming off it.
 
"I don't know, what do you think?" I replied.
 
My Dad shook his head, told me to stay where I was, and started across the green. I went to follow him, but he turned sharply.
 
"No. I said stay there, and I mean it. I'll just go and have a see what it is, won't be a second."
 
I watched him as he climbed the smooth old stone of the steps to the pavillion, and waded through the grass. He stayed motionless for a few seconds, before he poked at the mound with his foot. Then he bent down to put his hand on the mound, but almost instantly stood upright again with the other hand over his mouth. He turned away from the shape, his eyes were closed. I could swear his face had turned white.
 
I dropped the carrier and started running across the green.
 
"Dad, Dad, what's up?" I shouted, when I reached half way. He looked at me slowly, eyes wide, then realised what I was doing.
 
"No. Stay there. I told you to stay there."
 
It was too late though, and I bounded up the steps two at a time. He tried to catch me as I got to him, shielding me from the sight of the horse, foam drying around its mouth, slightly pink foam that was also around its nostrils, and from its deep, black, lifeless eyes.
 
I struggled in his arms, trying to see, wanting to see, but wanting to be shielded from this by my Dad. As I did, I saw its legs were splayed unnaturally. I had seen many horses asleep in fields, and this was not at all like any of those. One of its forelegs was bent underneath it, crushed by its own weight.
 
"What...?" I could not say any more, and my Dad crushed me into his shoulder, his bent knees on either side of me.
 
"No. Don't look at it. Just don't look." He had one hand on the back of my head and he started to stroke my hair.
 
"But, Dad, what, that horse?" By now I had started to cry and could barely get the words out. He picked me up and carried me to the gate, where he held me for a minute or so, soothing me, calming me down.
  
When I had stopped, he leant back slightly, still with his hand on the back of my head. his face was inched from mine. I did not like the look in his wet eyes.
 
"Listen," he said softly, then coughed to one side. "I don't want you to look at it, okay? Just promise me that, alright?" - I nodded - "Right, okay. Er, I think I need to tell someone about it, so we are going to have to go to - " 
 
A clanking from the gate interrupted him. He looked quizzically at me, and we both turned round to see what it was. A man was undoing the padlock on the gate. He swang it back, pulled up the slender metal catch and placed it in the hole to stop the gate shutting again.
 
"Morning Jack," he said cheerily to my Dad. He was wearing jeans that looked ironed, a big woollen fisherman's jumper and a tweed flat cap. It was Mr Warnock who lived in the biggest house in the village, just over the road from the back of the bowling green. "And Josh, hello son."
 
"Good morning Malcolm," said my Dad. There was a peculiar note to his voice that I didn't like. "Bit early for you, isn't it?"
 
"Oh, I heard a noise from the green, and thought I would come to look what it was," came the reply quickly.
 
My Dad stood up and faced him. He was quite a bit taller than Mr Warnock and looked down at him. He looked cross, but Mr Warnock did not seem to be too bothered.
 
"Don't suppose you know anything about someone making a noise do you, Jack?" said Mr Warnock.
 
"Well, to be honest Malcolm, it was probably us. We were just out for a walk."
 
"Yes, indeed. Like you said though, bit early isn't it?"
 
He smirked at my Dad, and I thought I would like to punch him. My Dad looked at him angrily for a few seconds, then shook his head as if trying to dislodge something from it.
 
"Forget about that. Doesn't matter," he said. "There's something you should see. Not very nice. Especially if you're a horse man, like yourself."
 
He beckoned Mr Warnock to follow him, before turning to me to tell me to stay put. They walked over to the horse and looked down on it. My Dad looked really sad, but, funnily, Mr Warnock did not even look surprised. He just had this sort of sickly smile on his face, and I thought it was a bit strange. My Dad said something, and Mr Warnock looked at him nodding. They spoke some more, mainly Mr Warnock. 
 
Then something occured to me. The horse was in the bowling green grounds, but it had a bad leg, so it could not have got over the wall. That meant, if it could not get over the wall, it must have either hurt itself while it was here, or been put there after it was hurt. It did not make sense.
 
I started slowly towads the two men, to tell them what I thought. As I got closer, I caught snatches of their conversation.

"What did I tell you?" Mr Warnock was saying. "I can sort it. A jay-pee in the lodge owes me a big favour. He can make sure your case gets, how shall we put it, er, lost. Happens all the time. We can call it a gentleman's agreement."
 
My Dad looked down at the horse for a few seconds, his eyebrows pushed together, thinking. I froze, waiting for him to do or say something. Then, suddenly, he seemed to decide something.
 
"Right, if you can sort it for me, then we've got a deal, but I'm warning you now, you can't just dump animals, it's, well, sick, that's what it is. And remember, I'm only doing this because my job depends on having a car, okay."
 
"Oh, Jack, of course I can. It might be sick, but it's a damn sight cheaper than getting someone round to the stables. It's just inconvenient that you showed up before I could phone the council to tell them about the poor thing. And, for the record, I know exactly why you are agreeing to this. It's in both our interests, isn't it?" 
 
This confused me. What were they talking about? Dumping animals and what was that about an agreement? And what was my Dad talking about his job for? I was about to speak when I saw the horse lying still in the grass. I faced away from it because I could not bear to look at it.
 
My Dad saw me and muttered something to himself. He put a hand on my shoulder to guide me back around to where I had come from.
 
"What did I tell you? You'll only get upset. Go on. Back over there."
 
"Dad, what's going on?" I shrugged his hand off as I said it, but did not turn around. "What were you talking about Dad?"
 
"What?" He did not seem to understand what I was saying, then he blinked the confusion away and became angry. "What do mean, what were we talking about? Not that it is any of your business, but we were just discussing how - "
 
"But Dad look at his leg, he can't have got here himself."
 
"Jack, the kid's right." Mr Warnock stepped up to my side. Looking round I felt really funny about the way he was looking at my Dad. It was like he was taunting him. "And you know he is Jack, so why keep it from him?"
 
"Because, Warnock, I don't want him to be part of this." I had not seen anything like the anger on my Dad's face as he spoke. "You've got kids. Shall I go and get them, and let them know what you've done, eh?"
 
Mr Warnock looked a little bit worried, and I was pleased about it, but he did not move and that small smirk was still there on his lips.
 
"Okay, Jack, how about we do that? And while we're at it, we can tell all the kids about our arrangement." He paused as if waiting for a reaction. "What do you think of that? We can tell tales on each other, just like children."
 
The cords in my Dad's neck began to show as he spoke, and he was opening and closing his fist. Mr Warnock was backing away a little bit, and I could tell my Dad was going to grab for him, so I stood in between them and put my hands on my Dad's chest.
 
"No Dad. Please, don't. Just tell me what's going on. What did he mean by arrangement?"
 
"Nothing, it's okay. Let's leave it, shall we?" He looked down at me as he said this, but I needed break his gaze before I got too upset at seeing him in such pain. "I'm sure Mr Warnock has things to do, and we should get home before your mum gets worried about us. Anyway, we've got to get those conkers home and threaded with string. Go on, go and get them."
 
Reluctantly, I ran across the green to get my bag of conkers, leaving more footprints in the dew. When I turned back, I saw Mr Warnock stood looking at the horse, wreathed in the cold, smoky grey mist of his warm breath. He prodded it with one foot. I hated him for that but I did not know why.
 
My Dad was walking through the gates, his shoulders hunched, hands in his coat pockets. When I got to him, I was about to ask him more questions, but he simply shook his head at me, so I put my hand in his and we walked back silently to our house.