by A. P. McCoy
I can take the evil eye, he thought, and I can spin it right back at you.
The starter’s assistants came over to make a girth check and let the jockeys know they had half a minute to go. A lot of mud had been kicked up in the previous races. Duncan pulled on his goggles. He heard the loudspeaker echoing without having to hear the words spoken by the starter. It was just detail, all smoothed out. There was only the race ahead of him as he stepped his horse up to the tape. Sanderson came in right next to him. The horses inched forward in a tight, controlled bunch.
The white tape flew up like a startled bird and they were away. Duncan got a nice start and he let the front runners go ahead, tucking in behind comfortably. Over his shoulder Sanderson was doing the same, with the favourite Owner’s Consent in a similar position. The race was three miles and two furlongs. There were a lot of jumps and a lot of heavy mud to get through.
But The Buckler was full of running and he took some holding. It was like riding an electric current, and Duncan knew he had a good horse. If he could get his timing right, he fancied himself. They jumped cleanly and made good ground and the mud was flying. Duncan took a clod of wet earth in the face kicked up by one of the front-runners. At about the halfway marker he felt a shift of gear around him and he knew the leaders were tiring early and the covered runners still had plenty left. He could spot Sanderson’s colours keeping good pace on his left hand and Owner’s Consent on his right. Visibility was poor, but there was the rumble of hooves over heavy ground to keep him in the zone.
Three hurdles from home, one of the front-runners fell but he took nothing down with him. Owner’s Consent shifted up in front, but still with plenty in hand. Duncan kept pace and Sanderson hung in there with him, and already Duncan knew it was going to be between one of those three. They headed up to the second-last hurdle and still the mud was flying. Owner’s Consent was making ground, and although it was sooner than Duncan would have liked, he knew he had to stay with him or lose it altogether.
As they approached the jump, Sanderson deliberately brought his mount tight in to Duncan: so tight you couldn’t have slipped a cigarette paper between them. Duncan snarled but stayed focused: he figured that Sanderson was just trying to put him off his jump. A few lengths on from the jump Sanderson got himself forward a little and hooked the heel of his boot in front of Duncan’s stirrup. The Buckler lost a little momentum as they hit the jump. Sanderson got over clean, but The Buckler landed badly and lost two lengths in the run to the final fence.
Owner’s Consent was pulling away and Sanderson was on to him. Now we go, Duncan told The Buckler, giving him a little squeeze. He took the final hurdle just behind Sanderson. Owner’s Consent had opened up a lead on both of them, but Duncan thought he might just catch him. The Buckler wanted it as much as he did, and he was a horse with a big heart. Duncan heard the roar of the crowd as he caught Sanderson and passed him in the last half-furlong. It just wasn’t enough to catch Owner’s Consent, though, who galloped in with a length to spare; Duncan second; Sanderson beaten into third place.
The crowd was buzzing. The favourite had come home, the bookies would pay and they’d been treated to a fine race. Duncan knew the winning jockey a little and he wanted to congratulate him. The camera crew, led by a windswept Mandy Gleeson, were already moving in to interview him, so he decided to hang back and not steal the fellow’s limelight. But as he did so, he spotted Sanderson moving in with no such modesty, so he thought, fuck it. He got between them and leaned over to shake the winning jockey’s hand. The winner was so elated he would have kissed anyone’s grandmother, and he received Duncan warmly.
They exchanged a few flattering words, all of which the TV crew were delighted to pick up. Duncan spun it out, knowing that Sanderson was held back in the line. It pleased him to nark the old bastard. Not until he was good and done did he peel away. With the winner now dismounting, Sanderson had lost his photo opportunity and turned away.
‘Don’t disappear,’ Mandy said to Duncan. ‘We’d like some words with you after.’
‘I’ll be talking to my trainer,’ Duncan said, and walked The Buckler over to the ring.
Petie Quinn was waiting for him. He couldn’t have been more delighted. His face was wreathed in smiles. Though one of his stable lads was buzzing around, he took The Buckler’s reins himself as Duncan dismounted. ‘I’ll fuckin’ well take that!’ he shouted. ‘Can you believe that?’ He was practically dancing a jig. ‘I’ll take the second prize and there’s a lot more to come from this horse, I’ll tell you. He’s just starting out!’ He saw Duncan scowling. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Did you see what happened at the second last?’
‘I saw you stumble on landing. So what?’
Duncan told him about the stunt that Sanderson had pulled before the jump. ‘We could have had it. If it wasn’t for that.’
‘No way, son. No way. I saw the winner come in there and he still had plenty in hand. I’m happy with what we have here.’
‘We could have had it.’
‘And I’m telling you you’re wrong. We were well beat. And listen to me: I didn’t want to win this race with this horse. He’s only going on seventy per cent of what I can get out of him. You wait and see. He’ll be up for bigger things and we don’t want everyone knowing it. His best is yet to come.’ And with his big rubbery lips the Irishman kissed the horse’s neck. ‘This is a great day and we’re on the pig’s back!’ He looked up, his eyes shining with delight. Then his face clouded over as he saw Mandy Gleeson and the camera crew heading towards them. ‘Oh Jeez! Here they damn well come! Chuff chuff chuff!’ He stuffed The Buckler’s reins into the stable lad’s hands and was gone.
Gleeson was already talking into the camera as she approached and Duncan was aware that they were live on TV. The camera loomed behind her along with the sound man and her director. ‘If we can have a few words with Duncan Claymore, who rode a brilliant second place . . . Duncan, you had enough there to beat Sandy Sanderson into third but you were pegged back at the last.’
Duncan was generous in praise of the winner. ‘Marvin’s a great jockey, and I didn’t have quite enough to pinch it. But this was a great race and as I was saying to you earlier, Petie Quinn is a fine trainer and there’s more to come from him.’
Mandy tried to steer him back on to the race. ‘There was a lot of mud flying out there and you had Sandy nipping at your heels.’
‘That’s right. I had the Champion Jockey breathing over my shoulder. It was a great race.’
‘Coming up to the second last it was all getting a bit compressed there.’
Duncan paused. She jiggled her eyebrows at him. She – or her crew – had seen the incident. She was encouraging him to have a go, live on air. ‘Yeah, well, that’s the game, you know. Sometimes it does get a bit tight, but you have to find your way through it.’
‘You faltered there at that hurdle.’
‘We did. And we recovered. The Buckler is all heart, you know? You can go anywhere with a horse like that.’
‘Okay, we’ll let you go and shower the mud from your face. Well done to you.’ She turned away and spoke her next words directly to the camera, before they cut and she handed the microphone back to the sound man.
Duncan was already lugging his saddle back to the Weighing Room when Mandy caught up with him. ‘Thought you might be signalling an inquiry with that one,’ she said airily.
‘Not my style.’
‘What is your style?’
‘Winning the next one and the one after that.’
‘I’d say you’re the kind of man who likes to get his own back.’
Duncan stopped. ‘Did your cameras track the whole race?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you be able to get me a copy of that?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll buy you lunch in return.’
‘No thanks, I’ve seen a jockey’s lunch. I can get my own stick of celery.’ She peeled away
and returned to her camera crew.
Duncan returned to the Weighing Room. Marvin, the winning jockey, was already there, and so was Sanderson, looking sour. The Clerk of the Scales was a self-important fusspot who made them weigh in in strict place order, which left Duncan standing alongside Sanderson for longer than he would have liked. There was a one-pound discrepancy allowance and Duncan wondered if he was carrying that much in mud. But the clerk was satisfied.
‘I see you’ve got a taste for the camera,’ Sanderson said.
‘It’s only what I see you doing,’ Duncan replied.
‘That’s true enough. Though there are things you wouldn’t see me doing.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as riding money laundered for the IRA.’ Sanderson turned away and was already stripping off his silk, heading for the shower.
Duncan stopped dead in his tracks as he heard the clerk’s public announcement echoing through the tannoys around the track: Weighed in, weighed in.
6
Maybe Sanderson knew something that Duncan didn’t know. Duncan wasn’t a great one for politics, but you’d have to have been brain dead not to know that the 1970s had been a battleground between the Irish Republican Army and their fight to get the British authorities to withdraw from Northern Ireland. Every now and then they would trigger a spectacular and deadly car bomb, not just in Northern Ireland but on the British mainland too. Manchester, Birmingham, London. Just a couple of months or so before Duncan rode The Buckler at Lingfield, the IRA had blown up Louis Mountbatten – a member of the British aristocracy related to the royal family – on his yacht. Sandy Sanderson’s assertions were more than a little sensitive.
Duncan had read in a newspaper that the IRA were laundering the money they were getting from the US and Libya. He’d talked about it with Kerry. But he’d never for a single second made a connection with Petie Quinn.
He said nothing to Quinn about Sanderson’s comments. He had a glass of wine with Petie in the owners’ bar after the races were over and then made his way home. He had three days before his next ride, which was the big meeting at Kempton on Boxing Day. He took saunas and long hot baths, starving himself so that he could have a bite or two on Christmas Day with his dad. He might have consulted his pal Kerry, but Kerry had taken his busted ankle back to Ireland to be with his family over Christmas.
He’d managed to get his car – a Ford Capri – out of repossession and arrived at Grey Gables on Christmas Day to pick up Charlie. They’d arranged to have Christmas dinner at a local hotel. The door was opened by Mrs Solanki, who bid Duncan a cheery Happy Christmas and led him through a reception area where a string of cards on the wall and a plastic tree in the corner seemed to be the only concessions to the festive season.
‘How’s he been?’ Duncan said.
‘Yesterday he cry for something,’ she said. ‘But he wouldn’t tell me why. Today much better.’
Duncan wanted to be kept informed about all of these things but it shredded his heart to hear them. Charlie could be fine for weeks at a time and then might have one bad day. There was no predicting any of it.
Charlie was scrubbed, smartly dressed and ready for his excursion. He was bright-eyed, rubbing his hands together when Duncan came into his room. The radio in the corner was softly playing carols. ‘Here’s the TV star,’ he shouted. ‘Come on. Have a glass of sherry.’
Duncan didn’t like sherry any more than he liked a glass of engine oil, but Charlie had a bottle and two glasses waiting on a low table. Slightly shaky, he poured them a glass apiece and handed one over. ‘Happy Christmas, son.’
‘Happy Christmas, Dad.’
They clinked glasses.
Charlie popped his lips in appreciation. ‘Did you see Mrs S out there?’ He put a finger to his lips and then spoke in a hush. ‘They don’t do Christmas, you see. ’Indu. That’s why she’s working today. ’Indu. They do another thing. What is it? Dibli.’
‘Divali, Dad.’
‘Something like that. Anyway, look at this.’ He picked up a plastic Tupperware box and flipped open the lid. Inside were a number of dark pastry triangles. ‘These will blow your bloody socks off. Samosas. Something like that. She’s been smuggling ’em in for me. Have a go.’
‘I can’t eat that, Dad. I won’t make the weight.’
‘I’ll cut the corner off of one.’
‘Don’t bother.’
But Charlie insisted, just as he did with the sherry. Duncan tried a bit of the samosa. His face quickly turned red.
‘Christ, that’s hot!’
‘Bloody marvellous, eh? You could marry a woman who makes things like that. Want a bit more?’
‘Let’s go to the hotel. We have a table booked.’
‘I’ve got you a Christmas box. Let me get it.’
‘Get your coat on, Dad.’
‘I don’t need a coat. It’s like a spring day out there.’
‘Yes you bloody do. Get your coat.’
Finally Duncan got Charlie outside. ‘Christ, those things are hot,’ he said again.
‘You wait until it comes out the other end,’ Charlie said, getting into the car. ‘It’ll blow your bloody arse off.’
The hotel restaurant was full. They had a roaring fire going and the waitresses wore paper crowns. Dinner went well, at least for the most part. ‘All the trimmings,’ Charlie kept saying. They shared a bottle of wine. Duncan ate a bit of his turkey and some of the vegetables. For a jockey’s dinner he would call that hearty. They discussed his last few races. Charlie was thrilled to have watched the televised races at Lingfield. When Duncan told him about Sanderson’s antics, he almost leapt out of his chair. ‘I knew something had gone on! I knew it!’
‘Listen, Dad,’ Duncan said when all the plates had been cleared away. ‘Petie Quinn says he’ll get you a VIP spot at Kempton tomorrow.’
‘No,’ Charlie said flatly. ‘I’ll not go.’ He wiped his mouth with the cotton napkin and dropped it to the table.
Duncan knew he wouldn’t be persuaded. They’d been here too many times before. Charlie hadn’t set foot inside a racetrack since he’d been discredited. It just hurt too much.
‘I’ll watch it on TV, though,’ he said. ‘I shall enjoy that.’
‘There’s something I want to ask you, Dad. It’s about Petie.’ He told Charlie what Sanderson had said about IRA money.
Charlie blew out his cheeks. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well. He’s an odd bloke. There’s not many who can keep a big stable without investment, yet I don’t hear of any owners. He seems to own them all and train them too. Plus he’s got a decent set-up in Warwickshire. The money’s got to be coming from somewhere.’
‘Ask him outright,’ Charlie said.
‘What? If he’s laundering money for the IRA he’s not likely to admit it, is he?’
‘You’ve got to give the bloke a chance. Either way he’ll deny it. But you’ve got to listen to how he denies it, and make up your mind. You either decide it’s fine to ride for him or it’s not. There’s no middle position.’
They talked about it a bit more. Duncan had already spent a little bit of time at Petie’s set-up. He was due to go there again two days after Kempton, just before they were supposed to go to Punchestown together. He and Charlie decided that he would get the next day’s races under his belt before confronting Petie head on about what Sanderson had said.
Charlie had plenty of sound Irish friends in the racing game. He said he would ask one or two what they knew about Quinn. ‘What’s more,’ he added, ‘Sanderson is a turd who’d say anything.’
The subject of Sanderson was dangerous. Charlie was looking too hard into the bottom of his wine glass, so Duncan distracted him. ‘Look, Dad, I brought you a present. Here you go.’ He handed over something he’d had gift-wrapped. Charlie tore open the paper and fumbled with the box. He seemed puzzled.
‘It’s a Polaroid. A camera. Here, give it me. Watch this.’ He took a picture of Charlie across th
e table and the instant photo rolled out of the bottom of the camera like a tongue. ‘Just wait a minute as it develops.’ Duncan watched the snap as the colours came up. It was a good picture, except that Charlie looked baffled, even a little frightened. Duncan handed it over.
‘How do they . . .?’
‘Progress, Dad.’
‘Here, I’ve something for you.’
Duncan unwrapped his gift. It was a pair of racing goggles. He already had several superior pairs but said nothing. ‘That’s great, Dad. Could have done with those at Lingfield.’
Charlie was still gazing at his Polaroid. ‘I look old.’
‘No you don’t. Hey, you’ll be able to take a snap of Mrs Solanki.’
‘Huh?’
‘If she lets you. Okay, maybe it’s not the best present. I’ve got you a dressing gown too. It’s in the car. It was too big to bring in.’
‘A dressing gown?’
‘Yep. Nice warm fancy one. With a big C embroidered over the breast pocket.’
‘You got me a dressing gown last year.’
‘No I didn’t. That was . . .’ He was going to say, That was ten years ago, Dad. Instead he said, ‘No, your old one is frayed. Chuck it out. This is a really smart one.’
Charlie looked over his shoulder. ‘She’s taking her time, isn’t she?’
‘Who?’
‘Your mother. Where’s your mother? Wait.’ Charlie suddenly seemed to notice the other diners in the busy restaurant as though for the first time. He started to stand up. ‘Who are all these people?’
Duncan got up and went round the table. ‘Dad, sit down. Relax. Let me get you another drink, okay?’
Charlie sat down again. Duncan called the waiter. He asked for a brandy. ‘Dad, Mum left us a long time ago. We’re having Christmas dinner here at the Tavistock Hotel.’