Ladbrokes on O’Connell Street was just around the corner from Barney’s video arcade. It was Bobby’s favourite bookies because they had free coffee and tea. It was illegal to gamble if you were under eighteen, but Bobby had never been stopped. He had been questioned a few times but he just said the bet was for his dad. Bobby grabbed some dockets and a bookie’s pencil. He looked up at the board that listed all the races. The 2.15 at Catterick was ten minutes away from starting. There were ten runners. It was a seven-furlong sprint. Number 13 was called Jack the Lad.
‘That has to be a sign. Thirteen is my lucky number and it’s a seven-furlong sprint.’
‘You’re as mad as your da. What does it matter if it’s a seventy-furlong sprint?’
‘A seventy-furlong sprint isn’t a sprint because seventy furlongs is over eight miles.’
‘Just put the bet on.’
Bobby checked the Sporting Life. Beside the horse’s name it said, ‘Course and distance winner’.
This rang a bell for Bobby. His dad had about ten thousand superstitions when it came to gambling.
Never back a favourite in a three-horse race.
He had heard that so many times and thought it was the most ridiculous one. Another one was course and distance winner. Some days it was a reason to back a horse, other days it was the reason a horse would lose. Half of his superstitions contradicted the other half.
Jack the Lad was 4–1. Pat Eddery was in the saddle. Bobby knew if he put three pounds on it would give him fifteen back.
‘I’m going to put three quid on Jack the Lad.’
Bobby climbed up on one of the stools to write the bet out.
£3 win Jack the Lad, 2.15 Catterick.
The lady behind the counter was looking at him suspiciously.
‘Is it OK if I do a bet for my dad? He is in the pub next door.’
‘Of course it is, son, do you know which horse he wants to back?’
At that moment, Bobby remembered another one of his dad’s superstitions.
‘Never write out a bet with a bookie’s pencil.’
He didn’t listen to that voice in his head the last time and he lost.
‘No I’ll go and ask him, thanks.’
‘Come on, Jay, quick, we need to find a shop.’
‘For what?’
‘We need to buy a pen and we need to pretend we’re asking my dad which horse he wants to back.’
‘You just wrote out the bet.’
‘I know, it was with a bookie’s pencil, though.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference, you lunatic.’
There was a shop a few doors down from the bookies.
‘Can I have a pen please?’
‘What type of pen, we have Bic biros, felt tips…’
‘What is the cheapest?’
‘The Bic, it’s five pence. We have them in blue, black, red…’
‘Any colour will do, red actually.’
Liverpool wore red. Bobby had three pound twenty left. He knew a three-pound bet would cost three pound thirty with the ten per cent tax added on.
‘Can I borrow ten pence off you, Jay?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Not for a bet. I’m not giving you money for a bet.’
‘Pretend it’s for a Mint Crisp then.’
Jay begrudgingly handed over the ten pence. Bobby took out a fresh docket. He started writing out the bet. He always heard voices in his head when he was writing out a bet.
Do the bet. Back another horse. Put the money back in your pocket.
‘Last few loading at Catterick,’ came across the tannoy.
He wrote the bet out again.
£3 win Jack the Lad 2.15 Catterick.
‘That’s three thirty please.’
He made the Sign of the Cross in the palm of his hand with his index finger. He could feel his heart racing.
‘Jack the Lad has drifted in the market betting. They’re off at Catterick at 2.16.’
Bobby walked back to Jay.
‘If the horse wins, don’t get excited or they might think we put the bet on for ourselves.’
‘OK, why has it drifted?’
‘It’s not fancied on the track, so the odds drift. It doesn’t make a difference really, just means I win more money.’
They both stared intently at the small television in the corner of the bookies. Two old men were dragging on their smokes, directly under the TV. They had to stand close to see the screen. One of them shouted, ‘Go on number two.’
Some old men backed numbers without even looking at the form. Bobby looked up at the board. Number two. Red Mist. 33–1. The commentary for the race was crackly.
Red Mist leads by about four lengths. Two furlongs to go. The pack are chasing him down. Red Mist still holding on by four lengths.
Bobby felt a knot grow in his stomach, as his heart started to beat a bit faster. He should have backed Red Mist. It was a red jersey he was looking for, a red pen he wrote the bet with, and Red Mist was 33–1. He had three pounds. That would have been ninety-nine pounds winnings. He started to feel sick.
A furlong to go. Red Mist still leads. Clockwork Orange is closing, so is Jack the Lad. Pat Eddery is closing with every stride on Jack the Lad.
Eddery was his dad’s favourite jockey, when he won him a bet. He was a bastard, bollix and any other insulting term he could think of when he lost a race.
One hundred yards to go. They’re neck and neck. Fifty yards to go. It’s too close to call. A photo finish between Jack the Lad, Red Mist and Clockwork Orange.
‘Do you think you won?’
‘I think Jack the Lad got up on the line. It’s hard to tell. Eddery is a genius, as my da would say.’
This one is gone to the judges. Very close. Its looks to me as if the outsider, Red Mist, has pulled off a surprise, with Willie Carson on board.
The old smoker under the television got a big hug from his friend.
‘Willie Carson is a genius. We’ll have a few pints on him tonight.’
They both lit up another cigarette and looked like the most contented couple in the world.
Result in from Catterick. First, number two, Red Mist. Second, number seven, Jack the Lad. Third, number four, Clockwork Orange. The SPs. 33–1, 9–2 and 7–4 favourite.
The SP stood for Starting Price. Bobby thought it should have been FP, for finishing price. He felt sicker than he had ever felt doing a bet. He normally put fifty pence on. That was his limit. If he lost, he left the bookies. If he won, he put another fifty pence on. He always limited his losses. Bobby scrunched up the docket and threw it on the floor. Jay pretended he was the commentator on the race.
‘First, number two, Red Mist, second number seven…’
‘Piss off.’
They walked out of the bookies in silence.
‘I’m going down to my mam to get a red apple.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Or a lovely orange.’
‘I’m going home.’
His heart was racing, and he still had the sick feeling in his stomach. He could hear voices in his head telling him he should have done this or he should have done that. Why didn’t he back Red Mist? He would have over a hundred pounds in his pocket if he had. When he got home, he sat on his bed staring at Croke Park, swearing he would never gamble again, but deep down he knew he would. The sick feeling always left him eventually, leaving him free to have another bet.
Bobby could wallow in the mire for hours. He only knew what that meant because his brother had a Doors LP. Eventually, Jay knocked.
‘What have you been doing?’
‘Wallowing.’
‘What?’
‘Being pissed off.’
‘I got you a present.’
Jay had never got him a present before.
‘It’s a free bet with Ladbrokes.’
‘It doesn’t look like a free bet.’
The present was small and long and was wra
pped in masking tape.
‘If you can’t guess what it is, then you can’t have it.’
‘It looks like a load of masking tape wrapped around a cucumber.’
‘You got it in one. Here.’
Bobby started to unwrap the masking tape. It was tied so tight that it took ages. Underneath it was plastic. When he had enough of the tape off, he ripped the plastic open to reveal something red.
‘It’s a Red Mist.’
‘It’s the Liverpool shirt,’ screamed Bobby.
‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks, Jay.’
Bobby pulled off the England shirt and put the Liverpool one on.
‘Did you look at the back?’
Bobby had to take it off again to look at the back. It had the number seven on it.
‘How did you get a number on it?’
‘Tony Ward can put them on. Number seven, Red Mist.’
‘Red Mist was number two and I’m never betting again.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Never three quid anyway.’‘
Bobby couldn’t believe Jay had spent fifteen pounds on a jersey for him. He wanted to wear it in bed but didn’t want to wet it. So he hung it from the laths of the top bunk, and stared at it for ages. First the front, then the number seven. It would remain his most treasured possession.
CHAPTER 8
Anto handed them another video cassette and sent them on their way. At the top of Sackville Avenue, Jay turned to Bobby.
‘How can Anto make money renting videos?’
‘It doesn’t cost him anything to make them.’
‘But how much does he pay us to deliver them? It’s a tenner for this one, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And is Micka paying a tenner for this video?’
‘Maybe he’s just doing it because he’s their friend.’
‘Does Anto look like he would be friends with them?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘How much is it to rent a video?’
‘It’s one pound for the new releases in Xtra-vision.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘Let’s go up to my flat.’
‘For what?’
‘I want to check something.’
‘What are you checking?’
‘Just wait and see.’
When they got there, Jay took the video out of the box. He examined it, pressing the button on the side to lift up the part that protected the tape.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I think there’s something in here.’
‘What are you on about?’
Jay shook the video and it made a rattling noise.
‘See?’
‘Don’t be stupid, all videos make a rattling noise when you shake them.”
Jay got a small screwdriver. On the back of the video cassette, there were three screws. He unscrewed them and lifted the back off. Inside were three packages wrapped in clingfilm. Jay unwrapped one of the small packages. Inside, was a white powdery substance. He poked at it with the screwdriver.
‘I don’t think we should be doing this, Jay.’
‘Do you know what it is?’
‘I think so.’
He poked at it again.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to snort it.’
‘What?’
Jay put his nose up to the package.
‘I’m only messing. How much is it worth? What do you reckon?’
‘I haven’t got a clue.’
‘If one of them is worth a hundred quid, then how much is all that worth?’
‘Three hundred quid, you dope.’
‘It’s worth a lot more than that.’
‘Put them back in and let’s go.’
Bobby had a really big knot in his stomach walking into Summerhill Parade. He knew they shouldn’t be bringing the video to Micka.
‘Why is Anto sending us up with this?’
‘He trusts us.’
‘Jay, it’s heroin. It’s not right. We could get in trouble. My mam will kill me if she finds out.’
‘How will she find out?’
‘I don’t know. I’m nervous.’
‘It’s just a video.’
‘It’s not just a video.’
‘You have to think it is. Just like the jeans. If I walk out of the shop thinking I’m going to be caught, I will be caught. I’ll look guilty if I start panicking.’
‘I’m starting to panic.’
‘Turn around and go home then.’
They stopped on top of the bridge. Bobby leaned on the wall looking into the canal below.
‘I’ll knock for you in the morning. We can go and spend my tenner.’
‘You can keep the tenner, I’m coming with you,’ said Bobby.
‘No panic allowed.’
‘None.’
Bobby knew he couldn’t turn back. He had been fighting for acceptance from Jay for years. Bobby knew he was a chicken sometimes. Jay was never a chicken. Whether it was robbing jeans or orchards or orange juice, Jay never showed any fear. He believed he could do anything. Bobby wanted to be like Jay and have no fear. He didn’t want to be seen as different, and he certainly didn’t want to be considered a chicken. If Jay had decided to turn back, Bobby would have turned back with him.
‘Will we jog down? That will take your mind off it.’
Jogging didn’t keep either of their minds off it. They dropped the video off and looked at the fellas hanging around the flats in a different way.
‘I’m not delivering any more videos,’ Bobby announced just before they were about to get in the ring.
‘OK.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah. One more and then we’ll stop.’
‘Why one more?’
‘Have we got a deal?’
‘Come on lads, you’re delaying everyone,’ Anto shouted at them.
‘Have we got a deal, Bobby?’
‘Right, one more. If you promise to stop.’
‘Are you chatting or boxing?’
‘Chatting and boxing, Anto. Muhammad Ali could do it.’
‘You’re far from Muhammad Ali, Jay. Quit the chatting. Three one-minute rounds.’
They boxed as hard as they could for the three minutes. You didn’t have time to think about anything when somebody was throwing punches. The feeling of a punch flush on the nose hurt, but made Bobby smile at the same time. He had learned how to keep his composure when hit. Anto always told them to pretend like it didn’t hurt. ‘Smile back at your opponent,’ he would say. ‘You have to have a poker face.’ Jay couldn’t do that. When Bobby caught him with a flush punch, he would go mad throwing as many punches as he could with no coordination whatsoever. Bobby could easily duck out of the way. They both loved bloody noses. They were the sign of a successful night in the ring.
‘I’ll see youse tomorrow. Call over at lunch time,’ Anto told them quietly as they left the club.
Jay was giddy and had the usual bounce in his step. Bobby walked much slower, Jay telling him to ‘hurry up’ every time he fell a few steps behind.
‘Are we going to tell him we are just stopping?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Jay, frustrating Bobby by withholding information.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘I have a plan.’
‘What is it?’
‘Do you promise to go along with what I say?’
‘How can I promise if I don’t know what you’re going to say?’
‘What if we get robbed on our way to do a delivery?’
‘What?’ Bobby interrupted.
‘Listen, will you? If the video gets robbed before we deliver it, then Anto will stop us delivering them. We won’t have to say anything.’
‘That’s your master plan?’
‘Yeah. It’s perfect.’
‘It’s stupid.’
‘What do you suggest
, Bobby the brainbox?’
‘We just tell him we’re stopping.’
‘OK. Anto, we’re not delivering the videos any more because we know what’s in them. Is that what you’re going to say?’
Bobby knew Jay had a point, but he didn’t think his plan would work.
‘Bobby, I want to stop too. But we can’t say it to him or he’ll know we opened it.’
‘Right,’ said Bobby stubbornly.
‘I’ll come up with a story about being robbed.
If we both stick to it we’ll be fine.’
Bobby lay in bed for hours worrying about everything. When he couldn’t sleep, he would say an Our Father, followed by a Hail Mary, repeatedly until he began to get tired. When he started forgetting the words of the prayers, he knew he was nearly there.
Jay answered the door like he hadn’t a worry in the world.
‘Good morning, good morning.’
‘What has you so happy?’
‘I have the story.’
‘Go on then.’
‘We’ll say that when we got to the bottom of Micka’s stairwell, there were three lads standing there. All of them had hoods pulled up on their heads. Two of them grabbed us by the arms and the third one grabbed the video. Simple.’
‘Simple. What if we have to go to Johnny’s?’
‘We’ll just say Johnny’s stairwell then.’
Anto gave them the video, unaware of what was about to happen. Jay rightly predicted it was Micka who would be receiving it. They left the video in Jay’s bedroom and jogged down to Micka’s. They took off at a slow pace, without talking. By the time they passed the Red Brick Slaughterhouse on Rutland Street, Bobby could see his chest expanding, he was breathing so heavily. He wasn’t jogging very fast, yet he was out of breath. They stopped jogging at the swimming pool and walked across the courtyard of the church. There was nobody at the bottom of the stairwell.
‘You stay quiet and let me do the talking.’
Jay kicked on Micka’s door as loud as he could. Four boots, followed by five.
‘Your video was robbed.’
The Runners Page 6