I can remember the sound of the horse's teeth crunching through my finger. A muffled crunch, like the snapping of a fresh carrot. I can't remember the pain, or the tears, or the fussing and application of makeshift bandages and band aids. I can't really remember what the injury looked like. The vision in my mind now owes more to imagination than memory. I can remember people saying it had gone through to the bone. I can remember telling them that it wasn't the horse's fault, I'd curled up my fingers without thinking as I'd fed it a sugar lump from the pub garden table. And I can remember feeding it the remaining sugar lumps a short while later, from my other hand, this time kept perfectly flat.

I can remember all this now, even though I was no more than six or seven at the time, because it was my first encounter with a horse. I'm quite sure that it wasn't, but, for obvious reasons, it was the first encounter to be memorable.

Eleven years later the jockey, Terry, used to say we'd both be killed by a horse one day.

'For Christ's sake, have some sense!' he'd scream, catching sight of us in the stable yard, as we fed polo mints to the occupants, 'he'll have half your face off!'

He was wary of the creatures with whom he shared his career. One end bit and both ends kicked, was his final verdict. The only safe place was up on their backs - providing you could stay up there. He was too damned scared not to. And we neither shared his fears nor appreciated them.

We continued to feed the polo mints, not bothering to keep our fingers flat because our hands remained safely in our pockets. The polos were held out in our lips, an old racing stable trick that had never yet cost anyone a nose - or even half a face.

First, the heat of the horse's odourless breath, burning against the face. Then, the soft tickle of the hairs on its lips, as they were stretched forward for the prize. The contact was always gentle, the soft lips dry and prehensile, feeling for the mint and immediately peeling back to reveal large yellow teeth. The teeth never filled the minute void between mint and mouth; the open lips engulfing our faces and flattening our noses.

We trusted implicitly an animal we knew well enough never to trust. We knew that to turn our backs for an instant would result in a severe bite or a devastating cow-kick. And we trusted our instincts and our ability to dodge such assaults, even though history had already proved us fallible, with scars and bruises to testify.

My two jockey friends were of mixed opinions - Terry's views already screamed at us in sheer desperation; Sylvain my willing consort in these crimes. When the polo mints were gone, we entered the box of a quiet two-year-old filly and settled ourselves down beside her - yet another cause of alarm for the unfortunate Terry.

She was immature and should long ago have outgrown the habit of sleeping on the ground. The other older horses had more sense than to risk 'casting' themselves by laying down in the confines of a box. It still happened occasionally, leading to calls in the middle of the night for assistance and plenty of heavy rope. A horse had more than enough room to drop its cumbersome half tonne to the stable floor. And even enough room to kick out its metre-long legs, with their six foot reach, in the ungainly action of standing up. But if it happened to roll over and find those thin and fragile legs against a wall, it had become 'cast.'

A cast horse could kick through a concrete block wall without difficulty, but with appalling consequences to its health. Most simply lay prone, calmly awaiting assistance. Ropes would be tied round their legs, a volunteer would sit on their head to prevent unnecessary thrashing around, and three or four heavy men would winch the animal back over.

At this point, the tables would turn. The danger to the horse ceased - and all those within its vicinity were in immediate peril. The race was on to untie the legs and vacate the box, before those metre-long legs, completed by a solid hoof capped with steel and powered by half a tonne of sheer horse power, began to thrash blindly in an attempt to stand. A horse is badly designed for lying down; and not designed at all for getting back up.

Our little filly was harmless as a heated sofa. We would slot ourselves between her curled hind legs and her front legs, neatly tucked under, and lie back against the soft warm belly. We were secure in the knowledge that she had gone down for the night and would not rise again until first light. But that element of doubt kept our pulses racing, as we convinced ourselves that we were ready for her slightest movement.

If it was early in the evening, and our filly was still on her feet, we could choose any box we wished. The occupant would be dozing by the manger, or crunching hay from the rack, and few paid any attention to us as we sat ourselves down in a corner. It was an equally hazardous choice, perhaps even more so than the filly we so trusted. The horse we chose to lodge with might suddenly lash out, or snap at us, and all were as unpredictable as their neighbours.

It was our favourite spot for a chat; but mostly we just sat in silence, listening to the stable sounds. We could think; and we could say things we wouldn't say anywhere else.

It was here that Sylvain told me about the beating he had once received, dragged from a crowded city bar and left bleeding on the pavement outside before he had even been missed.

'It was so quick,' he said in wonder, still not fully comprehending the events of the past year, 'a minute sooner and they would have all missed me, would have seen the extra glass on the tray. Serge had gone for the drinks, handed them out. I took mine, and someone had me by the arms. By the time I knew what was happening and could give a shout, we were out through the door. I could see them all, still there. No one turned round.'

We listened to the horse beside us as it sighed two or three times, shifted its weight from one foot to another, then finally drooped its nose to the floor and began to doze.

'I can remember taking the glass, and the surprise of being physically dragged away. Then the glass was in pieces beneath me, and I was too hurt to move or cry out. But I don't remember how or why. They said it was over in minutes. Serge missed me almost at once. But not soon enough.'

The stable was a place to open our hearts, but more often than not they were left to heal in silence. Sometimes I would arrive and find his flat empty; and then I would trail the yard, peering into boxes, to find his chosen corner. The horse would be brushing its lips over his cheek, betraying the tears it had licked away.

Terry still cared enough to bully us out of those corners. But for Sylvain, it wasn't enough. Where once he would have reluctantly left before giving Terry an unnecessary scare, now he simply ignored him. We stayed put, on the floor, even sharing with Barley, who was as cantankerous as he was heavy.

'For Christ's sake, get out of there,' Terry pleaded whenever he unearthed us, 'he's like a bear with a sore head if you wake him.'

'Don't wake him, then,' was Sylvain's advice.

'You haven't got a clue, either of you.' He'd shake his head and smile, masking his anxiety. 'You'll be killed by a horse one day!'

We grinned at him, Sylvain mouthing his words as he said them.

'Cheeky bugger! I hope old Barley does wake up!'

But Barley slept on.

'He loves the old boy, really,' Sylvain said, watching the powerful muscles twitch as the horse dozed. 'He was the first horse he showed me, when I first came here. Barley this and Barley that.'

I smiled, remembering my first meeting with Barley, too. 'I said he was fat,' I admitted.

'That's all muscle, that!' we said together, mimicking Terry's voice in perfect unison, and laughed.

Barley stirred, then returned to his slumbers.

'If anything ever happened to him...'

We both thought of the horse that had broken a leg during a race that afternoon. Sylvain had been riding alongside it and the experience had left him flat. The unfortunate horse's jockey had been so distraught that he had given up his rides for the next few days. His mount had been as well liked in its own stable as Barley was in ours.

'That crack...' Sylvain said quietly, shivering at the memory. 'I was right alongside, but we all heard it. I couldn't describe it; there's no other sound like it. But I knew what it was. Turned my stomach, even before John had snatched back on the reins.'

He stared at the flab that concealed Barley's muscle. And perhaps Barley sensed it; or something invading his dreams. In one swift action his head jerked up, his tail slashed out in violent irritation and his near hind leg struck out with full force, slamming Sylvain back against the wall. By the time I was on my feet, ready to dodge, Barley's head was back down, deep in sleep once more, his full weight now resting on the leg that had just sent Sylvain two feet across the box.

I was reluctant to sit back down.

Sylvain merely leaned back against the wall, catching his breath and doing his best not to move. His face had taken on a skeleton-like appearance and I realised the natural shadows of his bone structure were becoming steadily greyer. He was hurt, though he wouldn't admit it.

'He caught my collarbone,' he complained lightly, as though it was a bit of a nuisance, 'it was just beginning to knit again, too.'

It had been trying to knit all season; hidden from the Jockey Club doctor, who would have insisted on the necessary sick leave to enable it to heal, and therefore constantly aggravated and re-opened in further race course knocks and spills. He carried the break to his grave.

'Shall I fetch Terry?' I asked.

'You are joking?'

He was breathing more steadily again and I sat back down, the past shock forgotten and the age-old confidence of being able to dodge restored.

'Maybe a horse will kill me one day,' he said, moving carefully round to a more comfortable position, 'but at least I've never been hurt by one.'