Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `How often does she go to the hospital?’ `Every night, I think.’

  Rebecca felt a mixture of emotions as she replaced the phone after a most unexpected conversation. Her dominant feeling, she had to admit, was one of excitement - but it was mixed with a big dollop of guilt which, now she thought about it, was ridiculous. A boy had simply asked her to go to the movies with him and she had agreed. What was so terrible about that? Anyway, it wasn’t just the latest blockbuster you could catch any old time. She’d missed Jules et Jim when the student film society had shown it last term and she’d really wanted to see it. Now she had the chance to do so. And, since she was working darned hard to help Louise out and trying to keep up with her college work, she really needed a night off.

  But - the boy was Kit.

  Rebecca knew how much Louise liked him. How thrilled she had been when Kit had phoned her that morning and how disappointed she’d been to turn down his invitation.

  Louise had told her all about Kit’s call before she’d gone off to Fontwell for the afternoon’s racing. In turn, Rebecca had dashed back home and tried to pick up the threads of the essay that was due in on Friday. There wasn’t a hope in hell she’d ever manage that, even before the phone rang with another distraction - Kit’s offer to take her to Bristol on Wednesday night.

  So, was she going to ring back and say she couldn’t go after all because (a) she couldn’t afford the time, (b) she was sort of seeing Kit’s friend, Leo, and (c) it would be disloyal to her best friend, Louise?

  The answer was (d), none of the above. Because, mixed in with the

  excitement and guilt, was just a teensy bit of triumph. Kit was just so damn gorgeous. Gorgeous enough not to have to put himself out, make conversation, try to make the girls laugh, rush to the bar and get in drinks. A boy like Kit could sit and smoke and look broody all night, then walk off with his pick. And, irritating though it was that she was second on his list, on Wednesday Rebecca was his pick. She wasn’t going to turn that down out of any misguided sense of loyalty.

  Anyhow, Louise would never find out.

  That settled, she turned back to the textbooks scattered across the table in front of her and forced herself to concentrate.

  Hugh wouldn’t normally have bothered with a Monday meeting at Fontwell but he was gambling on Louise attending. Greenhills had a few runners and a strong contender in the National Spirit Hurdle. She was bound to be there, he reasoned.

  He spotted Louise in the crowd from out of the press-box window. The copper curls stood out; so too did that yellow anorak. It was ironic that she should be wearing it today.

  He rushed for the door, his swiftly moving bulk causing some confusion among his colleagues.

  `Watch it, tub,’ complained Arnie Johnson as Hugh hurtled past, dangerously close to the open laptop on the table. Hugh ignored him, though the insult, of the kind normally forgotten in an instant, was still pricking as he rushed across the paddock lawn to the small parade ring.

  He tried to catch her eye from the rail but she was busy. Hugh recognised the owner she was talking to, Mrs Davenport, a pernickety type. Louise would have trouble shaking her off once the horses went down to the start, particularly as the Davenport horse, Mucky Molly, had a good chance of winning.

  And so it proved. Mrs Davenport remained glued to Louise’s side and the pair watched the race from the stands. Hugh took up his station behind them. He knew Louise was aware of his presence but, after one eye-rolling glance, she had ignored him. It was obvious he would have to wait his turn.

  The race turned out to be a thriller. Mucky Molly made heavy weather of the sticky conditions and didn’t look at all interested for the first half of the race. With a mile to run she was last out of eight, and Hugh was writing her off as a contender for the Champion Hurdle at Cheltenham in a few weeks. He could read the frustration in the two women in front of him.

  Then, suddenly, Molly woke up and began to stretch out, overtaking the horse ahead. Hugh noticed that the jockey was taking his mount round the outside in search of some firmer ground. The question was - had he left it too late?

  Even taking the long way round, she was too good for her rivals, bar one - Lord of Light, a big-boned old stager with a liking for heavy ground, ridden by Phil Nicholas.

  Molly was breathing down the front-runner’s neck as they rounded the last bend into the home straight. By sticking to the inside rail, Lord of Light increased his advantage and popped neatly over the penultimate hurdle a length and a half ahead.

  Mrs Davenport was clinging to Louise’s arm now, and the pair were jumping up and down with excitement as Molly began to close the gap. Phil urged Lord of Light through the wet with a couple of taps of his stick, and the old horse hung on to his slight lead as they approached the last flight of hurdles.

  Molly’s jockey was hard at work, balanced high on the horse’s shoulders. He hit her hard on the right flank and the horse veered slightly to the left, back towards the rail, where the ground had been most heavily used.

  Hugh knew that the issue was settled there. Lord of Light took the last hurdle in front and held on to win by a head. He saw Phil raise his face to the skies and his whole body seemed to slump, before he bent to smack his mount’s neck and whisper a few words of praise. It occurred to Hugh that, before his accident, Phil used to punch the air in victory, a grin splitting his face in half. Now he simply looked relieved.

  Hugh caught up with Louise and Mrs Davenport in the unsaddling enclosure and asked for a quote for the paper. The owner, to her credit, displayed only slight disappointment.

  `To be honest, after the way she started, I think we’re very fortunate to have come so close.’

  Hugh encouraged her to prattle on, with one eye on Louise. His chance came as Arnie Johnson drifted over, notebook in hand. When Mrs Davenport began to repeat her remarks, Hugh was able to place a hand on Louise’s arm.

  `I’ve got to talk to you,’ he muttered.

  She nodded, obviously struck by his urgent tone.

  `Let me just finish here,’ she said, and turned back to the mudspattered jockey waiting by her side.

  Phil was feeling better with himself as he took his mount down to the start for the next race. He’d not expected to win on Lord of Light, and holding off a good horse like Mucky Molly, one of the Champion Hurdle favourites, would have been more satisfying only if Russell had been on hand to see it. Unfortunately, the trainer had opted out of the trip to Sussex in favour of an afternoon in the office. Cheltenham was just around the corner and there was plenty of planning to be done. Lord of Light was entered for the Champion Hurdle, but no one thought he had much of a chance. Phil imagined that today’s result would see the horse’s price shortening. He’d love to see him repeat the performance at the Festival. He had a soft spot for the canny old bugger - maybe because he was turning into a canny old bugger himself.

  This whole business with Simone had forced him to take stock. She’d said curing his failure of nerve would be a long haul, and at first that had terrified him. He wanted his trouble sorted out instantly, before anyone found out, before his career went up in smoke. But now he knew that wasn’t possible. He had to be patient.

  She’d also forced him to see that all was not doom and gloom. He hadn’t lost his skill in the saddle. He could still win races - like this victory on Lord of Light. Riding out and schooling were fine, so too was racing over hurdles. Some chases were OK - when he was on a horse he could rely on, and when he could keep out of a bunched-up pack hurtling en masse towards a fence. The funny thing was, that was just the kind of situation he used to relish.

  The starter called them to attention as the last runner was forced into line. The tapes went up and the fifteen horses set off to race more than three miles up, down and around the distinctive Fontwell figure-ofeight course, over twenty-two fences. Phil’s horse was called Soft Centre, which about summed him up - a gelding with a history of joint problems who tended to peck on landing.

 
All things considered, this was just the kind of race Phil didn’t want to find himself in. Already, as they turned into the downhill stretch and began to gallop to the first of its three big fences, Phil could feel a

  bubble of panic forming in the pit of his stomach.

  He’d hang in, though, even if it killed him. He prayed that it wouldn’t. Hugh and Louise had walked to the middle of the course, away from the crowds. He could feel the wind of the pack of racehorses as they thundered past. That was the advantage of a course like Fontwell - you could get right up to the action. It was a thrill to see the runners this close and suck up a bit of the speed and danger. He wondered why he and the other members of the press box didn’t do it more often - probably because it was a bit of schlep from the bar.

  `Come on, Phil,’ he roared after the runners as they sailed over the last fence together, like a single multicoloured creature. `He didn’t look too cheerful,’ he said to Louise, who stood by his side, her face flushed with the wind and excitement.

  `Is he a friend of yours?’ she asked.

  `I do his column. Well, to be fair, he does it, but I’m there when he needs help.’

  `Tell him he’s a rotten sod for keeping Molly out. Clever riding, though,’ she added ruefully.

  The horses had turned and were now galloping back towards them, up the hill this time, to complete the first circuit. Phil and Soft Centre were in clear space, a couple of lengths behind the leading pack.

  `So what’s this all about?’ said Louise as they watched the runners head towards the bend at the top of the course.

  Hugh looked around. A handful of other hardy souls were dotted over the muddy inner field, watching the race, but none of them was within hearing distance.

  `Have the police spoken to you today?’ `No. Why?’

  ‘We got another letter this morning. He’s asking for a pay-off - a hundred grand to go away and not harm anyone else.’

  `Gosh. A hundred thousand pounds?’

  ‘It’s not a lot if you consider the risk he’s running. He could ask for a heck of a lot more, I reckon. A million maybe.’

  `Why didn’t he, then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hugh thought for a moment. `Maybe because someone will actually pay a hundred grand. The Beacon are going to front it. They’d never stump up a million.’

  Their conversation was cut off by the horses returning on the downward run. The field had spread out now, and Phil was still about halfway down. His face was tense and drawn as Soft Centre jumped the fence directly in front of them. The horse’s knees seemed to buckle as he hit the ground, and his head sank almost to the turf. Phil was leaning back in the saddle like a rodeo rider, hauling on the reins to keep Soft Centre upright, his jaw set in a firm straight line. It flashed through Hugh’s mind that this was a heck of a way to make a living.

  They watched the horses run away from them without comment. `Thanks for telling me,’ said Louise.

  `There’s something else you ought to know, Louise. He wants you to carry the money.’

  Her eyes grew large in her face. He pressed on.

  `The letter says you’ve got to drive to a shopping centre in Scratchwood Melmoth and wait for a call on a public phone for instructions.’

  The horses swept by them again, heading uphill once more. They stared at them almost without seeing, waiting to resume their conversation.

  `Why does he want me?’ she said, when she could be heard. `How does he even know about me?’

  Hugh laughed. `You’ve been all over the newspapers. And on TV when you’re at a televised meeting. You’ve probably got websites dedicated to you.’

  `Me? Don’t be stupid.’

  `The thing is,’ said Hugh, `you mustn’t do it. If the police ask you, say no. You’d be risking your life.’

  `But they might catch the man who attacked my dad.’ She turned to him, her jaw set. `If they ask me, Hugh, I’m saying yes.’

  His objections were drowned in the sound of thundering hooves. Phil was still hanging in. The race lasted seven minutes but it seemed like an eternity. It was the downhill run that was the problem, with its three stiff fences and the slope that caused Soft Centre to overbalance. Each jump terrified Phil, as there was no certainty the horse would land safely and he had to yank his nose off the deck with all his strength just to keep the pair of them upright.

  But now the last downhill run was over and they were still in one

  piece, still in the race. As they cut across the bottom of the course, Phil could feel his old confidence returning. There were three more fences left to jump, including his old bugbear, an open ditch, but they all lay on the uphill slope. Few horses fell on this stretch of Fontwell, where the gradient kept them steady and made the landings just that fraction higher.

  They were lying about tenth going into the open ditch and, just as in the old days, Phil threw his horse at the fence. They flew the obstacle and landed upsides of a labouring runner. Phil gave Soft Centre a whack on the shoulder and got after him going uphill. The horse responded, and the pair of them made a late charge through the field which won him no prizes - they finished fourth - but pleased the owner no end.

  `I never thought old Softy had it in him,’ he said, clapping Phil on the back.

  His wife kissed Phil on a muddy cheek and said with sincerity, `You were absolutely terrific.’

  Later Phil sat in the dressing-room, her words floating round his head. He hadn’t been terrific at all but today had been better. Was it coincidence that he’d now sorted things out with Julia? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to get home to his wife.

  Louise wasn’t altogether surprised to see Patsy Preece waiting for her at the hospital as she left her father’s room that night. Next to Patsy was an officer she’d met on the morning of her father’s accident. He seemed to be in charge but Louise couldn’t remember his name.

  `Charlie Lynch,’ he reminded her as he shook her hand. `I’m sorry to waylay you like this but you’re not easy to track down.’

  Louise nodded. It had been a long day. Shed driven straight from Sussex to report to her father on the day’s racing. She was tired and, she realised, in need of food. Though she was nervous about the forthcoming conversation, she knew she ought to eat something.

  When she said as much, Charlie’s face broke into a broad grin and within ten minutes they were sitting in the back booth of a pizza parlour. It turned out Charlie had sometimes brought his daughter here, and he prattled on about her while Louise demolished a thinbased Four Seasons. He’d be a nice father, she decided, and she appreciated his concern to set her at ease.

  Within a couple of minutes, it seemed, she’d cleared her plate. The waitress brought all three of them coffee and Charlie looked her full in the eye. Here it comes, she thought.

  ‘Louise’ - they’d progressed beyond `Miss Fowler’, thankfully - ‘there have been some developments in your father’s case that are not public knowledge. I’d like to take you into our confidence because, frankly, we need your help.’

  She was tempted to say she already knew about these mysterious developments, but kept her mouth shut. She would be interested to hear the police version of events.

  It didn’t differ much from what she’d already learned from Hugh. Charlie told her about the letters and his belief that the assaults on Adrian Moore and her father had been perpetrated by the writer. She’d been hoping he might show her copies of the letters themselves but he didn’t.

  She listened in silence. All the time she was wondering what he was going to say about the latest letter, the one Hugh had told her about. Would he ask her to act as a courier, as the letter demanded? And what would she say if he did? Would she have the courage to agree? She’d been bold enough when talking to Hugh, with the horses charging past and the wind in her hair. She didn’t feel so bold now.

  `We heard again from our friend this morning,’ Charlie said. `He’s asking for money or else he says he’ll continue to assault people who hav
e earned his displeasure. The letter is quite detailed in its instructions. He’s asking for you to deliver the cash.’

  `Me?’ She felt like a hypocrite as she injected surprise into her voice, but she had to say something.

  `He names you in the letter and even specifies what you must wear. That anorak, as a matter of fact.’ He glanced at the yellow garment lying on the seat beside her.

  `I’ll do it,’ she heard herself say.

  The police officers glanced at each other, seemingly shocked by her words. Charlie opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it. `I’ll be the courier. That’s what you want my help for, isn’t it?’ ‘No, Louise, that’s not what we had in mind.’ He grinned. `You’re a brave girl, I’ll say that.’

  `So what do you want me to do, then?’ A bit of her felt disappointed. As if she been promised the lead in the school play and then discovered she was only the understudy.

  `Allow us to borrow your car and some of your clothes,’ said Charlie. `Patsy here is going to pretend to be you.’

  Louise turned towards the other woman. She’d been wondering why she’d been sitting there, not saying much.

  `You don’t have any objection, do you?’ said Patsy, breaking her silence.

  The two police officers stared at her, and Louise’s bravado vanished in an instant. It was stupid of her to think she could go up against the man who’d reduced her tough, indestructible father to a pathetic bundle lying in a hospital bed.

  `No,’ she said. `No objection at all.’

  `Any news?’ Hugh asked Louise when he got her on the phone the following morning.

  `I’m not sure I’m talking to the press today,’ was the reply. `This isn’t an official press-type call.’

  `What is it, then?’

  `Just a friendly enquiry.’

  `I thought that was the same thing.’

  `Stop mucking me about, Louise. Are you doing it or not?’ `No. They’ve got a policewoman.’

  `Thank God for that.’

  She laughed. `You’re not much of a newsman, are you? If I’d done it, you could have got an exclusive interview about my ordeal.’