by A. P. McCoy
Charlie looked around him again.
‘You live at Grey Gables now. With Mrs Solanki and all those other people.’
‘Who is Mrs Solanki?’
‘She’s the Indian lady who cleans and looks after you at Grey Gables.’
‘Oh yes. I like her.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is this thing?’
‘It’s a camera. Instant camera. I just gave it to you as a Christmas present.’
‘Really? I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything this year, son.’
‘Yes you did! You gave me these great racing goggles. Look!’
‘Really? I gave them to you?’
Duncan had had a long talk with Charlie’s doctor who had warned him that these episodes would become more frequent. Charlie was deteriorating. He could be fine for a long period, then he would unaccountably get unstuck in time or become confused about where he was and who he was with.
Duncan felt he was running out of time. Bad enough that he had to face the idea of losing Charlie bit by bit. But there were other things that had to happen before time ran out. He wanted to achieve so much for his dad. He had to become Champion Jockey while Charlie could still appreciate the achievement. Hand in hand with that he had to get his revenge on certain men in the racing business so that Charlie could savour it. He wanted to sit across the dinner table with his dad discussing old times as they tore up those men’s bones.
The waitress arrived with Charlie’s brandy. ‘Everything all right with you good-looking gentlemen?’ she said.
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Duncan. ‘Thank you.’
After she’d gone, Charlie said, ‘I’m sorry, Duncan. These days I just get so confused.’
‘It’s okay, Dad. Enjoy your brandy and then we’ll go back and see Mrs Solanki. Everything is fine.’
‘Come over here, Duncan.’
Duncan, then aged seventeen, had cycled back to his dad’s stables from Penderton. Dusk was settling, but he found Charlie out in the yard next to the drive leading to the cottage, tending to a chestnut gelding called Hiawatha that had suspected laminitis – far more common in small ponies than racehorses. Charlie dismounted and laid his bike on the gravel track.
It was about four weeks after Charlie had received his visit from William Osborne. Of course he had ignored Osborne’s veiled threats. The new horses had arrived and Charlie was expanding his business on all fronts. The lame Hiawatha had to be scratched from a big race.
Any stables could be blighted with unusual cases of lameness, and the causes are various: an immature horse raced too often, for example, or the trauma of racing on hard ground. Another cause was overtraining, generally on firm ground. When Hiawatha’s case was followed by a second horse and then a third with the same symptoms, bad luck began to be seen instead as careless or incompetent horse management. Word quickly got around the racing community.
Hiawatha had been in tip-top form before being scratched. When the third horse was found to be lame, Charlie knew it was nothing to do with his horse management. But he’d drawn a blank.
When Duncan laid down his bicycle, his father was gently running his hand up and down Hiawatha’s leg and over the fetlock joint. ‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘See if you can feel anything.’
Duncan took over. He too gently ran his hand up and down the animal’s lower leg and around the hoof to feel for any heat or abnormal pulse. There wasn’t either. He said so.
‘Feel your way again,’ Charlie said.
Duncan went slower this time. He shook his head.
‘What if I tell you there is something.’
Duncan tried again. Then his finger snagged on something very fine. ‘Oh!’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a wire!’
‘It’s not wire. It’s fine fishing line.’
One of Charlie’s part-time workers was an old fellow they called Gypsy George. He was indeed a gypsy, with black eyes and monstrous bushy eyebrows, but one who had settled. Somewhere in the mists of time he’d either abandoned or been banished from the Irish gypsy community for reasons never discussed. Now he was neither true gorger nor true gypsy. He’d been with Charlie a long time and what he didn’t know about horses wasn’t worth knowing. Charlie called him over.
George got down on his knees and examined the horse himself. Eventually he found what Charlie had found. It was superfine nylon fishing line. It had been pulled tight and knotted, and then the hair around it had been smoothed over.
‘Anyone could miss that. But I’ve seen it before. They’d sneak in and put it on a horse before a sale to make it look like the horse was suffering from the founder,’ George said, using the old word for laminitis. ‘Then you could buy it for a song, you know?’
‘So there’s nothing wrong?’ said Charlie.
George got up. ‘As soon as we take that off there’ll be nothing wrong. So long as it hasn’t been too tight for too long. But there. That tells us another thing right enough.’
‘What’s that?’ Duncan said.
George’s bushy black eyebrows waggled. ‘It means we have ourselves an enemy. Someone is out to fuck us up.’
7
Boxing Day at Kempton and the weather was grand. The air was cold like chilled wine but a bright yellow winter sun flared across the track, lighting up the green grass. The going was soft and that suited Duncan’s ride – Delacroix, a big strong gelding bay Petie had bought from his French bloodstock agent. With Christmas still in full swing there was a festive, tipsy air about the track. The cameras and Mandy Gleeson were there again, and the owners’ bar was packed with many beautiful women dressed up for the occasion.
Mike Ruddy showed up in a new suit and with a shirt collar a size too large. He was buoyant, showing off, out to get new clients. Aaron ‘the Monk’ Palmer was there, riding in the big race against Sanderson. Somehow his association with Ruddy seemed to have given him a renewed enthusiasm for the game. He’d won the race he’d substituted for Duncan and the two others Ruddy had found him beside. A hundred per cent record so far for his partnership with Ruddy.
In the Weighing Room, as Duncan approached the scales, Sanderson appeared from nowhere, squeezed past him and said, ‘Boom!’ in his ear. A harsh whisper, nothing else. He was gone before Duncan could answer.
Petie’s daughter was there in the paddock with her father. She smoothed the silk at Duncan’s shoulders. ‘You look handsome in my colours,’ she said.
‘Wish me luck.’
‘I do. Every time.’
Her dark eyes looked at him. There was something melting about them that was attractive and irritating at the same time.
‘Hey,’ said Petie, helping Duncan into the saddle. ‘Don’t be getting any ideas, you two.’
Duncan thought that was about right. Don’t be getting ideas. Things were already complicated enough, what with him bedding the daughter of the racehorse owner he hated most in the world. He could do without getting involved with the daughter of the man who was giving him a fair crack of the whip. He shut down the idea. And with Duncan, when he wanted to shut down an idea, it stayed shut.
Duncan trotted Delacroix down to the start. The horse was strong, built powerfully at the front end, and Petie had warned that he would take some holding. One of the greatest delights to a jockey was that no two horses were alike. They could differ in temperament and ability in just the same way that human beings could, and each horse needed to be ridden differently. Petie had also warned that if Duncan held Delacroix back too much the horse could easily lose heart, lose the desire. It was a tricky call: risk him going too early, or risk him throwing in the towel through being held back too long.
Duncan was only over the second fence when he felt that desire begin to pull. It was immense. This was a horse that had to get to the front, but he was fighting to keep him back in fourth place. He followed his instinct and just let Delacroix go on. In most other cases he wouldn’t have let the horse dictate in that way, but this was
different. Delacroix jumped clean and keen, and by the time he’d cleared the fifth fence he had his nose in front. He progressed to a good length in front of the next horse and led them all home. A late rally from one of his competitors simply urged him to find a bit more at the run-in.
It was a great victory at a serious racetrack.
It was also an extraordinary feeling for Duncan, both exhilarating and frustrating. He’d run the first race and his day was done. There were six more races still to come, including the Prince Dagobert Chase. He was pumped up after his victory and wanted to ride the full card. He was crackling with energy, but there was nowhere for it to go.
‘I’ve seen something great there,’ a jubilant Petie said to him before Duncan went off to the weigh-in. ‘My time is coming up and you’re meant to be there with me. When you come to see me on Monday, we’ll talk. I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
An offer he couldn’t refuse. It was a phrase from The Godfather film series. Duncan was in a dream. He had to pull himself together to answer Mandy Gleeson, who was there again in his face with her camera crew. He hadn’t had time to get used to media attention, and here he was, not even sure he liked it. But he was a pro. He knew how to give them what they wanted.
After she’d cut the live feed, Mandy thanked him. He said, ‘You haven’t forgotten that tape, have you?’
‘No. I haven’t forgotten.’
‘You’re a good ’un, Mandy.’
‘Oh I’m better than that. See you in the bar later?’
‘You will.’
Duncan got a lot of slaps on the back from his fellow jockeys, and the evil eye from Sanderson, who had a fancied runner in the next race. He showered and got changed and made his way to the owners’ bar. He’d arranged for Petie and Mike Ruddy to meet. Ruddy was a bit of a Champagne Charlie. He was already ordering fizz to celebrate the win on Delacroix. Duncan spoke in Petie’s ear, telling him to go steady, and that Ruddy could ill afford it.
‘I’ll stand the drink,’ Petie said.
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
Ruddy certainly had the ability to talk to anyone. He would often turn from a conversation he was having with one person to a complete stranger, and within minutes they would be like old friends. He would make introductions between people he’d only known for a couple of minutes. He could break into cosy little cliques. The odd thing was that no one found him annoying.
‘I had a horse like that fella once,’ Petie told Duncan. ‘You couldn’t keep him in a stable; he’d kick down the door. Then he’d be nice as pie. Here he comes again! Jeez, will you look at that!’
Ruddy came over again, sporting a fresh bottle of champagne like a trophy and with a tall, elegant blonde woman at his side. She had short, sculpted hair and was groomed like a model. Duncan put her in her mid to late thirties. She was stunning.
‘I’ve decided I’m going into the model agency business instead,’ Ruddy said. ‘Christie here is going to be my first client.’
‘It won’t do you the slightest bit of good,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m an ex-model. I’ve retired.’ She shook hands, rather formally, with Petie and Duncan in turn. At five feet nine inches Duncan certainly wasn’t one of the smaller jockeys in the business, but in her high heels Christie stood maybe five or six inches taller than him.
‘Don’t get ideas,’ Ruddy said. ‘She’s a married woman. I already checked.’
They were distracted by the announcement of the start of the next race approaching. The jockeys were making their way to the start. As Christie and Ruddy looked away, Petie said to Duncan, ‘I could get arrested just for the ideas she gives me.’
When she turned back, she said to Duncan, ‘I had a bet on you for the first race. I bet one pound.’
‘Did you get a good price?’
‘I’ve no idea. I bet on the colours of the jockey’s silks. My husband thinks I’m an idiot.’
‘Does he own horses, your husband?’ Petie wanted to know.
‘Oh no. He just rides them. He’s in this race. Sandy Sanderson.’
A detonating sound inside Duncan’s brain went boom.
With the shouts of the crowd building to a climax outside, Petie and Ruddy stepped out on to the balcony. The bar was located more or less over the finishing post. Duncan was left alone with Christie.
‘Don’t you want to watch your husband in the race?’
‘Nope.’
‘You don’t like horses?’
‘I like horses well enough. Anyway, I know he’s won it.’
‘You can’t ever be certain.’
‘Not the big races maybe, but you can with a race like this one. When it’s a smaller prize he won’t ride unless he thinks he’s going to win. That’s what happens when you’re Champion Jockey.’ She lifted her champagne to her mouth and looked at Duncan across the top of her glass. ‘You get to pick and choose.’
‘What about you? Do you get to pick and choose?’
‘Get me another glass of champagne.’
As Duncan was fetching Christie another glass, the people on the balcony decanted back into the bar. Ruddy and Petie came in. ‘Sanderson by six lengths,’ Ruddy said. ‘Nothing more than poor-selling platers. They hardly turned up.’
Christie looked pointedly at Duncan.
‘What?’ said Ruddy. ‘What?’
But Sanderson lost the big race of the day. The Prince Dagobert Chase was the second most prestigious chase in the country’s National Hunt calendar. Three miles and eighteen fences, a thrilling race for four-year-olds and upwards. Duncan watched it from the balcony and he burned to be part of it. He didn’t want to be up here taking tiny sips of champagne. He wanted to be out on the turf with the sound of hooves thundering in his ears and the mud flying. It was a matter of indifference to him whether Sanderson won or lost the race: he had already won by being out on the turf when Duncan was stuck in the owners’ bar.
As it was, Sanderson dropped in second. And the remarkable thing was that the old boy Aaron Palmer, now agented by Mike Ruddy and riding a less fancied 7–1 shot, was the man who squeezed him out.
In the roar of the crowd Ruddy was screaming himself hoarse and Petie was laughing at Ruddy. ‘Come on, the Monk!’ Ruddy shouted.
Somewhere within the uproar, whether to Duncan or to herself, Christie said, ‘Now he’ll be unbearable.’
Ruddy celebrated by stripping off his suit jacket and his shirt and flinging them across the bar, then throwing his hands into the air like a footballer at Wembley. His dark hairy chest was on show for everyone as he shouted, whooped, strutted around the bar like Mick Jagger on steroids, hands on hips, pumping his pelvis at anyone who made eye contact. One of the bar attendants remonstrated with him and warned him that he would be ejected if he didn’t put his shirt back on. Petie found his shirt and jacket and Ruddy, still crowing, allowed himself to be dressed by Petie and Duncan.
‘This is your agent?’ Petie said.
‘Somehow.’
‘Lively company you keep.’
‘It’s ’cos I can’t stop winning,’ Ruddy shouted. ‘And I haven’t even started. Who knows it? Who knows it!’ His hair was plastered to his head with sweat from his exertions. He cha-cha-cha-ed his way to the bar and called for more champagne.
Duncan made his way to the gents’. He didn’t need to pee, so little had he drunk. But while he was there he wrote his telephone number on a scrap of paper and folded it into a small pellet. Back in the bar he said his goodbyes to Petie and Ruddy. He had to threaten to slap Ruddy to make him release him from a bear hug. Ruddy gave in and decided to introduce himself to some more people as the agent of the winning jockey. Duncan found Christie talking with a small group at the far end of the bar. He offered her a handshake with the pellet of paper in the palm of his hand. ‘In case it gets too unbearable,’ he said. He didn’t even look at her to see if she’d taken the pellet or to gauge her reaction. He turned on his heel and made hi
s way down to the Weighing Room.
There he found and congratulated a naked, red-faced and very happy Aaron Palmer. Sanderson wasn’t around. Duncan walked to the car park, got into his Capri and drove back to his flat in Newbury.
When he got home, he took a very long, very hot bath. He sipped grapefruit juice and dozed as the bathwater cooled around him. The phone rang, waking him from his slumber. Instead of answering it, he ran some more hot water into the bath. After about fifteen minutes the phone rang again. He let it ring out.
Despite his win at a major event in the calendar, it had been an oddly unsatisfying day. He’d watched that Prince Dagobert Chase knowing that he was ready and that he was good enough to be in the running for the position of Champion Jockey if only he could get the rides. Ruddy had told him they would come, but he didn’t have the patience.
In any case, Ruddy was a lunatic. Seeing him stalking the owners’ bar bare-chested, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or get away from the bloke as fast as possible. Here he was with an agent who was a madman and a trainer who was possibly funded by the IRA. The trouble was, he couldn’t help liking both of them; but would they ultimately damage his career?
He got out of the bath and turned on the TV while drying himself. He watched Robin’s Nest, even though he thought it was shit. When the phone went again, it was Charlie.
‘Saw you on TV again,’ he said.
‘You should have come along, Dad. It was a great day out.’
‘No, I’ll not come.’
They talked in great detail about not just Duncan’s race but the rest of the card, too. Charlie knew Aaron and was pleased for him.
After an hour, Duncan hung up and the telephone rang again almost immediately.
‘She fancies you,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Oh. Who does?’
‘That Mandy Gleeson. The ghastly bitch wants to get in your pants.’
‘Now then, Lorna, what makes you say such a thing?’