Decider

by Dick Francis

  ‘You shit!’ He shook with humiliations past and present. The fists unclenched and fell away. He unravelled fast into a pathetic failure, all sound and posture, no substance.

  I abruptly felt ashamed of myself. Oh great, I thought, unleashing the artillery on the least of the Strattons. Where were my brave words yesterday when I’d been faced with Keith?

  ‘I make a better ally than enemy,’ I said, cooling down. ‘Why don’t you try me?’

  He looked confused besides defeated: softened enough maybe to answer a few questions.

  I said, ‘Was it Keith who told you I’d come here to screw money out of your family?’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded weakly. ‘Why else would you come?’

  I did not say, ‘Because your grandfather’s money paid for my schooling.’ I did not say, ‘Perhaps to avenge my mother.’ I said, ‘Did he say it before or after the stands blew up?’

  ‘What?’

  I didn’t repeat the question. He stared sullenly for a bit and finally answered, ‘After, I suppose.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Friday. The day before yesterday. In the afternoon. A lot of us came here when we heard about the explosion. They’d taken you off to hospital. Keith said you’d be exaggerating a few grazes far more than their worth. Bound to, he said.’

  ‘Which you naturally believed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘All of you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Conrad said we’d have to be prepared to buy you off and Keith said they couldn’t afford it, not after…’ His voice stopped suddenly, his confusion worsening.

  ‘Not after what?’ I asked.

  He shook his head miserably.

  ‘Not after,’ I guessed, ‘what it had cost them to get you out of trouble?’

  ‘I’m not listening,’ he said, and like a child put his hands over his ears. ‘Shut up.’

  He was twenty-something, I thought. Unintelligent, unemployed and apparently unloved. Also, primarily, a Stratton. Buying people off had become standard Stratton behaviour, but from the way the others had behaved to Forsyth at the Wednesday Board meeting, he had cost them too much. If they had had any affection for him earlier, by that meeting it had turned to resentment.

  Within the family there were levers and coercions: I could see they existed, couldn’t know what they were. Forsyth’s actual sin was probably not as important to them as the expense of it on one hand, and the power gained over him on the other. If the threat of disclosure could still be applied to him, he would now do, I reckoned, whatever the family told him.

  Roger had said that Marjorie held Conrad in some sort of hammer-lock; that he would always give in to her when she demanded it.

  I myself had agreed, without realising the possible significance of it, to try to find out for her how much Keith owed and to whom, and also to discover what pressure was being put on Conrad by the would-be architect of the new stands, who had proved to be Wilson Yarrow, of whom I knew something but had forgotten more.

  Was I, I wondered, being used by Marjorie to seek out facts for her chiefly to give her more leverage for ruling her family? Had she shrewdly guessed I would help her if she engaged my interest in the prosperity of the racecourse? Was she that clever, and was I that dumb? Probably, yes.

  I still did believe, though, that she genuinely did want the racecourse to prosper, even if she’d intended to use me as a tool in the achievement of her no-change policy.

  Marjorie herself would not, and could not, have blown the grandstand apart. If, through me or in any other way, she found out who had, or who had arranged it, and if it should turn out to be one of themselves, she would not necessarily, I now thought, seek any public or law-driven retribution. There would be no trial or conviction or official penal sentence for the culprit. The Stratton family, and Marjorie above all, would assimilate one more secret into the family pool, and use it for internal family blackmail.

  I said to Forsyth, ‘When you were at school, did you join a cadet corps?’

  He stared. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why “of course”?’

  He said impatiently, ‘Only a fool wants to march around in uniform being shouted at.’

  ‘Field Marshals begin that way.’

  He sneered, ‘Power-hungry cretins.’

  I tired of him. It was unlikely he’d ever handled det cord or explosives himself: boys in the cadet forces might have done. Forsyth didn’t seem even to understand the drift of my question.

  Christopher, Toby and Edward all came into the office, close together as if for strength, looking anxious.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, Dad.’ Christopher relaxed slightly, his gaze on Forsyth. ‘The Colonel asked us to bring you over to position the taps for the water.’

  ‘You see?’ Forsyth said bitterly.

  Still using the walking frame, I went past Forsyth and out of the door with my boys and, though I could hear Forsyth coming behind me, I neither expected nor received any more trouble from that quarter. Trouble enough manifested itself irritatingly in a bunch of the Strattons issuing from the big top’s main entrance like a posse intent on intercepting me mid-way on the tarmac. My three sons stopped walking, too young, too inexperienced for this sort of thing.

  I took one step past them and stopped also. The Strattons formed a semi-circle in front of me; Conrad on my left, then a woman I didn’t know, then Dart, Ivan, Jack with a bruised swollen face, then Hannah and Keith. Keith, on my right, stood just out of my peripheral vision, to me an unsatisfying state of affairs. I took a half-pace backwards so that I could see if he made any unwelcome movement; a step that the Strattons seemed to interpret as a general retreat. They all, in fact, took an equal step forward, crowding a shade closer, with Keith again behind my vision unless I turned my head his way.

  Christopher, Toby and Edward hesitated, wavered and separated from each other behind me. I could sense their fright and dismay. They sidled off and round into my view, backing away behind the Strattons, then frankly turning and running off, disappearing into the big top. I didn’t blame them: felt like running myself.

  ‘No Marjorie?’ I asked flippantly of Dart. And where, I might have added, was my bodyguard when I might need her?

  ‘We went to church,’ Dart said unexpectedly. ‘Marjorie, Father, Mother and I. Easter Sunday, and all that.’ He grinned insouciantly. ‘Marjorie gave us lunch afterwards. She didn’t want to come here with us. She didn’t say why.’

  No one bothered with introductions, but I gathered that the woman between Conrad and Dart was Dart’s mother, Lady Stratton, Victoria. She was thin, cool, well-groomed and looked as if she would rather be anywhere else. She regarded me with full-blown Stratton disdain, and I wondered fleetingly if Ivan’s wife Dolly and Keith’s fourth victim, Imogen, fitted as seamlessly into the family ethos.

  Forsyth came to a halt on my left, beside Conrad, who paid him not the slightest attention.

  Across the tarmac Roger appeared briefly in the big top entrance, took note of the Stratton formation, and went back inside.

  I surveyed the half-circle of disapproving faces and hard eyes and decided on attack. Better one shot than none, I supposed.

  ‘Which of you,’ I said flatly, ‘blew up the stands?’

  Conrad said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Talking to Conrad meant turning too much of my back towards Keith, but though the skin on my neck might creep with alarm, it was Conrad, I reckoned, who might deter Keith from action.

  I said to him, ‘One of you did it, or otherwise arranged it. Blowing up the stands was Stratton work. Not outside terrorism. Homegrown.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘The real reason you want to be rid of me is fear that I’ll find out who did it. You’re afraid because I saw how the explosive charges looked before they were set off.’

  ‘No!’ The strength of Conrad’s denial was in itself an admission.

  ‘And fear t
hat if I find out who did it, I’ll offer silence for money.’

  None of them uttered.

  ‘Which you can’t easily afford,’ I went on, ‘after Forsyth’s adventure.’

  They looked furiously at Forsyth.

  ‘I didn’t tell him,’ he begged desperately, ‘I didn’t say anything. He guessed.’ He summoned a flash of healthier rage. ‘He guessed because you’ve all been so beastly to me, so serve you all right.’

  ‘Shut up, Forsyth,’ Hannah said viciously.

  I said to Conrad, ‘How do you like your tent grandstand?’

  For half a second Conrad looked instinctively, genuinely pleased, but Keith said violently behind my right ear, ‘It won’t stop us selling the land.’

  Conrad gave him a glance of disgusted dislike and told him that, without the tents now, disgruntled racegoers would stay away in droves in the future, the course would go bust and be left with huge debts that would cut deep into anything the land could be sold for.

  Keith fumed. Dart smiled secretly. Ivan said judiciously, ‘The tents are essential. We’re lucky to have them.’

  All except Keith nodded agreement. Keith growled in his throat, much too close to my shoulder. I could feel his intent.

  I said with fierceness to Conrad, ‘Keep your brother off me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If he,’ I said, ‘or any of you lays another finger on me, the big top comes down.’

  Conrad stared.

  I leaned on the walking frame. I said, ‘Your brother knows he can still knock me over. I’m telling you that if he or Hannah or Jack has any idea of continuing what they were stopped from doing yesterday, tomorrow morning you’ll find an empty field over there.’ I nodded towards the canvas.

  Hannah sneered, ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Conrad said to me, ‘You can’t do that. It isn’t in your power.’

  ‘Want to bet?’

  Henry came out of the big top, all my boys with him. They stood near the entrance, watching, awaiting events. Conrad followed the direction of my gaze and looked back at me thoughtfully.

  ‘Henry,’ I told him, ‘that giant of a man, he brought the big top here to help you out because I asked him to. He’s a friend of mine.’

  Conrad protested, ‘The Colonel found the tent.’

  ‘I told him where to look. If I get one more threat, one more bruise from you lot, Henry takes everything home.’

  Conrad knew the truth when it battered his eardrums. He was, moreover, a realist when it came to being persuaded by a threat he knew could be carried out. He turned away, breaking the alarming half-circle, taking his wife and Dart with him. Darg, looking back, gave me a gleam from his teeth. The crown of his head showed pink under the thinning fuzz, which he would not like to know.

  I turned towards Keith, who still stood with hunched shoulders, head sticking forward, jaw prominent, eyes angry; a picture overall of unstable aggression.

  I had nothing to say. I simply stood there, not daring him, just trying to convey that I expected nothing at all: not any onslaught, not a backing down, no loss of face on his part or on mine.

  Forsyth, from behind me, said meanly, ‘Go on, Keith, give it to him. What are you waiting for? Kick him again, while you can.’

  The spiteful urging had the opposite effect. Keith said as if automatically, ‘Keep your stupid mouth shut, Forsyth,’ and shook with frustration as much as rage, the dangerous moment defusing into a more general state of continuing hatred.

  I found my son Alan appearing at my side, holding onto the walking frame and watching Keith apprehensively, and a moment later Neil joined us, on my other side, giving Keith a wide perplexed stare. Keith, for all his bullying years, looked slightly unnerved at being opposed by children.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ Alan said, tugging at the frame, ‘Henry wants you.’

  I said, ‘Right,’ with decisiveness and began moving forward, with Hannah and Jack straight ahead in my way. Uncertainly, they parted to let me go by: no lack of ill will in their faces, but not the unstoppable boiling fury of the previous morning.

  The other three boys trickled across and crowded round also, so that I reached Henry finally as if guarded by a young human hedge.

  ‘You saw them off, then,’ he said.

  ‘Your size was the ultimate deterrent.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Also I told them that you would pack up the big top and go home if there were any more messing about, and they can’t afford that.’

  ‘Right little raver, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not keen on their sort of football.’

  He nodded. ‘The Colonel told me about that. Why the heck do you bother to help them?’

  ‘Cussedness.’

  Christopher said unhappily, ‘We left you, Dad.’

  ‘We went to get help,’ Edward assured me, believing it.

  Toby, whispering as much to himself as to me, said, ‘We were frightened. We just… ran away.’

  ‘You came into the office to fetch me,’ I pointed out, ‘and that was brave.’

  ‘But afterwards…’ Toby said.

  ‘In the real world,’ I said mildly, ‘no one’s a total hero day in and day out. No one expects it. You can’t do it.’

  ‘But Dad…’

  ‘I was glad you went to find the Colonel, so forget it.’

  Christopher and Edward sensibly believed me, but Toby looked doubtful. There were too many things, that Easter school holidays, that he would never forget.

  Roger and Oliver Wells came out of the big top chatting amicably. The fireball of Oliver’s temper had been extinguished that morning by a conducted tour of the emerging arrangements inside the tents. Who cared about Harold Quest, he finally said. Henry’s work was miraculous: all would be well. He and Roger had planned in detail how best to distribute racecards to all, and entry badges to the Club customers. At Oliver’s insistence, a separate viewing stand for the Stewards was being bolted together directly behind the winning post on the inside of the course. It was imperative, he said, that since that high-up box was no more, the Stewards should have an unimpeded all-round view of every race. Roger had found a sign-painter who’d agreed to forfeit his afternoon’s television viewing in favour of ‘Stewards Only’, ‘Club Enclosure’, ‘Private Dining Room’, ‘Women Jockeys’ Changing Room’ and ‘Members’ Bar’.

  Roger and Oliver crossed to Roger’s jeep, started the engine and set off on an unspecified errand. They’d gone barely twenty yards in the direction of the private road, however, when they smartly reversed, did a U-turn and pulled up beside me and the boys.

  Roger stuck his head out and also a hand, which grasped my mobile phone.

  ‘This rang,’ he said. ‘I answered it. Someone called Carteret wants to speak to you. Are you at home?’

  ‘Carteret! Fantastic!’

  Roger handed me the instrument, and went on his way.

  ‘Carteret?’ I enquired of the phone, ‘Is it you? Are you in Russia?’

  ‘No, dammit,’ a long-familiar voice spoke in my ear. ‘I’m here in London. My wife says you told her it was urgent. After years of nothing, not even Christmas cards, everything’s urgent! So what gives?’

  ‘Er… what gives is that I need a bit of help from your long-term memory.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ He sounded pressed and not over pleased.

  ‘Remember Bedford Square?’

  ‘Who could forget?’

  ‘I’ve come across an odd situation, and I wondered… do you by any chance remember a student called Wilson Yarrow?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wilson Yarrow.’

  After a pause Carteret’s voice said indecisively, ‘Was he the one three years or so ahead of us?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Something not right about him.’

  ‘Yes. Do you remember what, exactly?’

  ‘Hell, it was too long ago.’

  I sighed. I’d hoped
Carteret, with his oft-proven retentive memory, would come out snapping with answers.

  ‘Is that all?’ Carteret asked. ‘Look, sorry, mate, but I’m up to my eyes in things here.’

  Without much hope, I said, ‘Do you still have all those diaries you wrote at college?’

  ‘I suppose so, well, yes, somewhere.’

  ‘Could you just look at them and see if you wrote anything about Wilson Yarrow?’

  ‘Lee, have you any idea what you’re asking?’

  ‘I’ve seen him again,’ I said. ‘Yesterday. I know there’s something I ought to remember about him. Honestly, it might be important. I want to know if I should… perhaps… warn some people I know.’

  A few moments of silence ended with, ‘I got back from St Petersburg this morning. I’ve tried the number you gave my wife several times without success. Nearly gave up. Tomorrow I’m taking my family to Euro Disney for six days. After that, I’ll look in the diaries. Failing that, come to think of it, if you’re in more of a hurry, you could come over here, tonight, and take a quick look yourself. Would that do? You are in London, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Near Swindon, actually.’

  ‘Sorry, then.’

  I thought briefly and said, ‘What if I came up to Paddington by train? Will you be at home?’

  ‘Sure. All evening. Unpacking and packing. Will you come? It’ll be good to see you, after all this time.’ He sounded warmer, as if he suddenly meant it.

  ‘Yes. Great. I’d like to see you, too.’

  ‘All right then.’ He gave me directions for coming by bus from Paddington Station and clicked himself off. Henry and the children gave me blank stares of disbelief.

  ‘Did I hear right?’ Henry said. ‘You hang onto a walking frame with one hand and plan to catch a train to London with the other?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said reasonably, ‘Roger could lend me a stick.’

  ‘What about us, Dad?’ Toby said.

  I glanced at Henry who nodded resignedly. ‘I’ll see they come to no harm.’

  ‘I’ll be back by their bedtime, with a bit of luck.’

  I phoned Swindon railway station and asked about timetables. If I ran, it seemed, I could catch a train in five minutes. Otherwise, yes, possibly I could get to London even on the reduced Sunday service and be back in Swindon by bedtime. Just. With luck.