by A. P. McCoy
Afterwards he lay on her, their sweat mingling and turning cold. At last he withdrew and lay on his back with the deep pile of the carpet tickling his sweaty back. He looked up at the ceiling, panting. She too lay breathing hard, gazing upwards.
They said nothing to each other for half an hour. They were paralysed and made speechless.
Finally it was Christie who was first to recover the faculty of speech. ‘You can go now,’ she said, still breathing hard. ‘But come again the day after tomorrow.’
Kerry was back on the scene, fully recovered and racing again, though he’d lost some rides because of his injury. It was one of the harsh truths about racing. Kerry was freelance, the same as Duncan had been before Petie Quinn signed him up, and he would have to work hard to win back his position with some of the trainers. Petie, though, was willing to give him a chance in a couple of lower-grade races going off on the same day as Duncan was riding for him elsewhere. Now they were both wearing the sky-blue silk.
They were round at Duncan’s flat one evening, watching Blake’s 7, when Kerry said, ‘How’s that feckin’ agent fellow working out for you? What’s his name? Bloody Ruddy. Is he getting you the rides?’
‘Do you know how many rides Bloody Ruddy has got me so far? One duck’s egg.’
‘One duck’s egg? You should ask that Duke Cadogan. Get him on the case. You’ve got your feet under the table by all accounts.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Tupping the daughter. That’s not the same as working on it. What you need to do is . . .’ Kerry scrambled to his feet and pointed at the television. ‘Shoot the bastard! You’ve got a feckin’ ray-gun, for feck’s sake, why don’t you use it?’ He slumped back in his chair, looking disgusted. ‘He’s got a feckin’ ray-gun in his hand. Why not feckin’ well zap the bastard? That’s what I’d do.’ Kerry had a habit of responding to TV drama as if it was real life.
‘They’re on the same side, Kerry.’
‘I’ve never liked the feckin’ bloke. He’s always up to something. I’ve never feckin’ liked him since the first series. What were we talking about?’
‘Mike. My agent. I was saying how useless he is.’
The phone went. Duncan got out of his chair and picked it up. ‘Mike! What a coincidence! I was just telling Kerry here how fucking useless you are as my agent. What? Why?’ He held the phone out for Kerry to take. ‘Mike says he wants to speak to you.’
Kerry took the telephone. Duncan sat down again and pretended to pay attention to Blake’s 7, though really he was eavesdropping.
‘What’s that?’ Kerry said. ‘Yes, he was just saying how useless you were. What? Fourteen rides? Fourteen? Right. Oh yes. Oh yes. Hang on.’ He muffled the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘He says he has fourteen rides lined up for you but you can fuck off and he wants me to take them all.’
Duncan snapped off the TV set. ‘Give me that fuckin’ phone.’
Mike – useless Mike – had somehow come through. He did indeed have fourteen rides. When Duncan managed to get him to shut up his high-octane babble, he wrote down the dates. Mike had said that if there were any conflicts then he felt sure that Kerry would be acceptable with the trainers. Kerry’s strike rate as a young jockey was very similar to Duncan’s.
Mike wanted another word with Kerry before he would end the call. Somehow in that conversation he got Kerry to agree to him being his agent too.
‘How did I agree to that?’ Kerry moaned after putting the phone down. ‘The fella ties you in knots.’
‘He’ll come good,’ Duncan said. ‘He’s already coming good.’
‘Do you know why he quit?’
‘He just had enough of the game. That’s what he told me.’
‘There’s more to it. According to what I heard.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘He was being asked to pull races all the time. Couldn’t go along with it any more.’
‘Where d’you hear that?’
‘Ack, it’s just Weighing Room tittle. Who knows. Listen, while we’re on the subject of gossip, about Petie Quinn. I don’t know whether to tell you this or not.’
‘You’d better.’
‘Well, it seems he was in deep with the IRA. But you should also know that it was a long time ago. I mean, back in the 1950s. When he was a young man. I’m told he’s out of it now. If you’re ever out of it; sometimes there is no out of it. I mean, there’s so many splinter groups these days, you don’t know if it’s the officials, or the provvies, or just a group of hoods drunk on the street corner.’
‘You think he’s clear of it, though?’
‘I do.’
‘Right.’
Kerry leaned across and switched on the TV again. Blake’s 7 was still venturing out into the galaxy. ‘No, no!’ Kerry cried in anguish. ‘I wouldn’t let that fecker on my spaceship for all the tea in China!’
There were races at Leicester, Doncaster, Cheltenham and Ludlow all that week. Duncan was rising early to make the drive to Warwickshire, working the horses on Petie’s gallops. Kerry went with him too, and Petie took a shine to him. Between the two of them, they were now taking care of all Petie’s rides.
Every morning the routine was the same. Take the horses out in the morning mist, work them, go back to Petie’s hovel of a cottage for a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich. Kerry at least, with a different metabolism, could join Petie in the bacon guzzling, while Duncan settled for a slice of toast dipped in bacon fat. Something was cooking too between Kerry and Roisin, leading Petie to speculate on how many times a fellow had to be measured up for his silk.
Roisin herself was a decent jockey. She’d started out in point-to-points and had competed in some serious races. But there came a time when she – and Petie – had to recognise that although she was pretty damned good, she wasn’t outstanding. And in the jockey game, it wasn’t enough to be good.
It came out that the jockey Duncan had replaced that day – the one who had supposedly fallen off the weighing machine – was Roisin. She hadn’t fallen off the scales at all – that was just a cock-and-bull story so outrageous that no one would argue with it. Roisin and Petie had cooked it up. They’d been on the lookout for a young and hungry star-quality jockey. They’d watched Duncan win that earlier race and had simply nodded to each other. ‘Go get him, Daddy,’ Roisin had said.
And he had.
‘I fell for it!’ Duncan said. ‘I believed every word.’
‘So did the steward,’ Petie said.
If Duncan had had any doubts about her ability, they were cleared when he saw Roisin working horses in the gallops. She knew her stock. She knew what was needed to bring them to fitness. She had an understanding that every horse was different. She understood that form wasn’t a mystery presided over by strange forces, but that it could be manipulated to bring out the best. Petie’s training accomplishments were 50–50 with Roisin. One morning Petie and Kerry were leaning against the rail as Duncan and Roisin went thundering past. Duncan was up on Petie’s prize four-year-old chestnut, Puckish Lad, while Roisin was ahead on a pacemaker.
They watched them take the turn, and then Petie said, ‘Kerry, it’s come to my notice that you’ve been asking certain questions about me.’
‘Well?’
‘It always gets back, you see.’
‘Listen, Petie, I’m just looking after my man there. He’s been a good pal to me, so he has. I’m just looking out for him.’
‘Loyalty,’ Petie said. ‘A great thing in a changing world. I don’t have any problem with loyalty. I admire it. But what do you think I’d find if I looked into your family?’
‘You’d find plenty.’
‘There you go. Kerry, you’re a good man. And I look after those who are loyal to me.’
The two men gazed at each other with unblinking eyes. Then Roisin and Duncan came walking back over to them. Roisin’s eyes sparkled. ‘He’s going great, Daddy!’
‘What did you think, Duncan?’ Petie asked
him.
‘This is the one,’ Duncan said, patting the horse.
‘All in the fullness of time,’ Petie said.
Meanwhile, both Duncan and Kerry were bringing in prize money. They were getting noticed and the stable was getting noticed. Petie was asked to take on half a dozen horses from an owner who was dissatisfied with his current trainer. It all reminded Duncan of what had happened with Charlie, though Petie was in a different situation. He wasn’t desperate for the income, so he could pick and choose.
After the incident at Newbury, where Charlie had stormed into the winners’ enclosure to punch William Osborne in the mouth, Charlie found himself banned from that particular racetrack. That was bad enough, though Newbury was only one track amongst many. But the incident was reported further up the line and an investigation by the Jockey Club was triggered.
These things took time, and back at Charlie’s stables it was business as usual. Then came a big meeting at the Cheltenham Festival in the middle of March, an event that was to jump racing what the FA Cup Final was to football or Wimbledon to tennis. Charlie had a number of horses entered across the three days of the Festival, but the great hope for the stable was a seven-year-old grey called Whistle And I’ll Come, in the Queen Mother Silver Tassie. Two miles, twelve fences. Whistle And I’ll Come was equal favourite in the early betting and a lot of money seemed to go on the horse very close to the off.
A huge amount of money.
Enough to arouse the suspicion of anyone who understood betting. Charlie and his lads had all had a good bet on their horse. They all fancied it. But they had no idea where all this ‘clever’ money had come from.
Whistle And I’ll Come was on its toes in the paddock before the race. He was sweated up and spinning. It was the atmosphere of the Cheltenham Festival, Charlie said. It had that effect. The crowd were in an excited mood and it got to the handlers and the horses. Whistle And I’ll Come was being ridden by an experienced jockey called Paddy Reid. Paddy had seen a lot of Cheltenham Festivals in his day. ‘Let me canter him down to the start,’ he said to Charlie. ‘Burn off a bit of this froth.’
Charlie helped Paddy into the saddle, but Whistle And I’ll Come was still circling, all the time with Charlie making soothing noises. At last Paddy was able to put his feet in the irons and they were off down to the start. He was followed by a couple of other jockeys on excitable mounts. One of them riding against him that day was a slightly younger Sandy Sanderson, equally fancied until the big money came in on Whistle And I’ll Come.
Down at the starting tape it was touch and go as to whether Paddy was ever going to get Whistle And I’ll Come to the line, and he seemed to have upset another horse, too. But at the last moment, after a warning from the starter, he trotted the heavily perspiring chestnut up to the line.
They were off.
Whistle And I’ll Come leapt from the start like a thing possessed. Against all plans he jumped to the front, clearing every fence like they were just logs fallen across a path in the woods. He streaked home seven lengths clear. Nothing could touch him.
The horse was a favourite, and the crowd went wild. They cheered Whistle And I’ll Come home and they cheered him in the winners’ enclosure. Charlie went over to congratulate Paddy. He was thrilled at how easily the horse had won, but when he saw Paddy’s face, his delight was short-lived. Paddy got down quickly and started to unbuckle the girth immediately. ‘There’s something wrong with him,’ he said under his breath. ‘Look at him.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Charlie said.
‘A fuckin’ army couldn’t stop that horse today, Charlie.’
‘Go get weighed in. I’ll get this boy hosed down.’
Before the weigh-in was verified and announced so that the bookies could pay out, the words came across the tannoy. Stewards’ inquiry. Stewards’ inquiry
Both Paddy and Charlie were called to the stewards’ room. They had to sit around for a while as the stewards told them they were collecting information. There were three stewards – two amateurs appointed like local magistrates and one stipendiary. One of the amateurs was a likeable drunk and the other was a puffed-up and self-important member of the local aristocracy, known to like spanking rent-boys. The stipendiary steward was a bluff and serious ex-military figure. He asked Charlie if he had any objection to a dope test.
Charlie had no objection; he knew they had the power to do a test anyway if they wanted to. But when he asked why it was thought necessary, the stipendiary steward said that one of the other jockeys had made a serious complaint about the condition of the horse. The drunk let slip that the complainant was Sandy Sanderson and that Whistle And I’ll Come had tried to take a bite out of both ‘poor old Sandy’ and his horse at the starting line. Paddy admitted that the horse was overexcited but denied that it had caused problems for any jockey other than himself. It was a blatant lie, he said, and he couldn’t think why Sanderson would say it.
Eventually the racetrack vet was called in and Paddy and Charlie were asked to go outside while he gave his evidence. After they were through with the vet, Sandy Sanderson was called in.
Finally Paddy and Charlie were recalled. The other witnesses had been released and the three stern-faced stewards sat behind a table. The vet had reported that the animal was in a hypertensive state, they said. He had taken a blood test but it would be forty-eight hours before the results were through. The minor aristocrat asked Charlie if he might have been minded to scratch him from the race after seeing him so overwrought. Charlie stated that the horse was behaving oddly but he’d seen it before at big races. Paddy said that he too had seen it before. The stewards repeated Sandy Sanderson’s claims that the horse had tried to bite him and his own horse and Paddy reiterated that he was astonished to hear such claims.
The stipendiary steward said that both on- and off-course bookmakers had reported unusual amounts of money bet on Whistle And I’ll Come just before the off, and asked if either of them knew anything about it. They suspected the horse had been got at, and added the phrase ‘by persons unknown’. The question was whether to disqualify Whistle And I’ll Come.
The implications of disqualification were enormous. Coming right in the middle of the greatest jumping event in the racing calendar, it was unthinkable. Everyone in that room knew that the cowardly stewards would have to see with their own eyes the ‘persons unknown’ pushing a syringe into the chest of a racehorse or otherwise doping it before they would disqualify on such grounds. Charlie and Paddy, utterly crestfallen, waited with open mouths as the stipendiary steward announced that the result would stand but that they would recommend a full inquiry by the Jockey Club into the events surrounding the race.
A message was sent out and there was a huge cheer from the crowd as Whistle And I’ll Come was confirmed as the winner. Charlie and Paddy were asked to say nothing whatsoever to the press. The matter would be handled privately by the Jockey Club without the need for negative media attention. Both of them undertook to keep their mouths shut.
11
Duncan lay face down in the deep-pile white carpet at Sandy Sanderson’s home. Sweat caked his face and his back and made the carpet fibres stick to his skin in an uncomfortable way, but he couldn’t move. He was paralysed all over again. Christie lay a few inches away, recovering her breath, staring at the ceiling. She was wearing nothing but a pair of black thigh-length high-heeled leather boots. She lay with her legs wide apart. She too was paralysed. All over again.
Whenever they fucked, it always left Duncan and Christie completely speechless. It took every fibre of them and sucked out every ounce of energy; so much so that after they’d both come, they had almost nothing left over. They lay stunned in each other’s arms; then after several minutes they would find the superhuman strength required to just manage to roll away from each other, and that effort would cause them to lie in silence for another ten or fifteen minutes.
Duncan had never before been with anyone with whom he was so sexually compatibl
e. She said the same. He reckoned that anyone who said that winning a horse race was better than sex had never had sex quite like this.
An hour earlier Christie had arrived at the door wearing a black leather minidress and those astonishing pirate black boots. She said she’d been given them after a modelling assignment but never got a chance to wear them; so she’d worn them for him. Duncan decided he was going to play things a lot cooler this time around. He said he wanted to look round the house, and he did. There was a snooker room off the hallway, and a great curving staircase leading to the bedrooms. He wondered if he could make it an ambition to fuck Christie in each and every room, most of which had photographs and paintings of Sandy Sanderson gazing back with this or that trophy or champion horse.
He never got to the bedrooms. In fact he managed about three and a half minutes of staying cool. They got as far as the kitchen before he was dragging down her underwear with his teeth. The leather dress was pulled off completely, but not the black thigh-boots. The smell of soft new leather mixed with the bewitching smell of her in a way that he would always come to associate with Christie.
‘Why can’t I speak?’ Christie said, still lying on her back.
‘Me too. I mean, me neither. I mean . . .’
She sat up and looked around her, as if her own lounge was some place she’d been mysteriously dumped by an unknown force. ‘Every time I fuck you, I feel like my brain has been scooped out.’
‘Me too. I mean yes.’
She hauled herself to her feet. ‘God. I’ll make some coffee.’
Duncan waited a moment, then crawled across the room on his hands and knees, finding various items of his clothes. He pulled his trousers on, then got up and staggered into the kitchen to find his shirt. She was still nude except for the thigh-length pirate boots. She stood with her hands on her hips waiting for the kettle to boil, her tanned bottom resting against the rolled edge of the expensive marble worktop.