Dead Cert

by Dick Francis

  When the time came I mounted and rode out on to the course. The familiar excitement was in my blood again. Not Bill’s death nor Scilla’s mourning, nor the thought of Kate making progress with someone else, could affect the gripping happiness I always felt when cantering down to the starting gate. The speed of racing, the quick decisions, the risks, these were what I badly needed to counteract the safeties of civilisation. One can be too secure. Adventure is good for the soul, especially for someone like me, whose father stopped counting after the fourth million.

  And my father, with an understanding based on his own much wilder youth, had given me unconditionally a fast car and three good horses and turned me loose in a country five thousand miles from home. He said however, as he despatched me with his blessing, that he thought steeplechasing was rather mild for one who had been taken crocodile hunting on the Zambezi every year since he was ten. My father’s annual month away from his trading empire usually meant for us a dash across the veldt and a plunge into the primeval forest, sometimes equipped with the absolute minimum of kit and no one but ourselves to carry it. And I, for whom the deep jungle was a familiar playground, found the challenge I needed in a tamed land, on friendly animals, in a sport hemmed all about with rules and regulations. It was very odd, when one came to consider it.

  The starter called the roll to make sure everyone had arrived, while we circled round and checked the tightness of the girths. I found Joe Nantwich guiding his horse along beside me. He was wearing his usual unpleasant expression, half petulance, half swank.

  ‘Are you going back to the Davidson’s after the races, Alan?’ he asked. He always spoke to me with a familiarity I slightly resented, though I tried not to.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Then I thought of Kate. ‘I may not go at once, though.’

  ‘Will you give me a lift as far as Epsom?’

  ‘I don’t go that way,’ I said, very politely.

  ‘But you go through Dorking. I could get a bus on from there if you don’t want to go to Epsom. I came with someone who is going on to Kent, so I’ve got to find some transport home.’ He was persistent, and although I thought he could easily find someone going directly to Epsom if he tried hard enough, I agreed in the end to take him.

  We lined up for the start. Joe was on one side of me and Sandy on the other, and from the looks they gave each other across me, there was no love lost between them. Sandy’s smile was a nasty one: Joe’s round baby face puckered up like a child trying not to cry. I imagined that Sandy had been puncturing Joe’s inflated ego with one of those famous practical jokes, such as filling the feet of his racing boots with jam.

  Then we were off, and I gave all my attention to getting Forlorn Hope round as neatly, quickly and safely as I could. He was still very green and inclined to waver as he met the clattering hurdles, but the basic spring was there. He was going so well that for over half of the race I lay in third place, staying slightly towards the outside, to give him a clear view of the obstacles. The last quarter mile coming up the hill was too much for him, though, and we finished sixth. I was satisfied; and Scilla would be reassured.

  Sandy Mason finished ahead of me. Then Joe Nantwich’s horse galloped past loose, reins dangling, and looking back to the far end of the course I saw the tiny figure of Joe himself trudging back to the stands. No doubt I would be hearing a stride by stride account of the calamity all the way to Dorking.

  I unsaddled, went back to the weighing-room, changed into Kate’s brand new colours, got Clem to pack me a weight cloth with ten pounds of flat lead pieces, the weight I needed for the Amateur ’Chase, and went out to see what had become of Miss Ellery-Penn.

  She was leaning on the parade ring rails, looking alternately at the horses and (with too much approval, I thought) at Dane Hillman, one of the brave and charming young men I had introduced to her.

  ‘Mr Hillman has been telling me,’ said Kate, ‘that that poor looking bag of bones over there—the one with his head down by his knees and those floppy ears—is the fastest horse in the race. Am I to believe it, or is the mickey being gently taken?’

  ‘No mickey,’ I said. ‘That’s the best horse. Not on looks, I grant you, but he’s a certainty today, in this company.’

  Dane said, ‘Horses who go along with their heads down like that are nearly always good jumpers. They look where they’re going.’

  ‘But I like this gorgeous creature coming round now,’ said Kate, looking at a bay with an arched neck and high head carriage. Most of his body was covered by a rug to keep out the February cold, but at the back his glossy rump swelled roundly.

  ‘He’s much too fat,’ said Dane. ‘He probably ate his head off during the snow and hasn’t had enough exercise since. He’ll blow up when he’s asked to do anything.’

  Kate sighed. ‘Horses appear to be as full of paradoxes as G. K. Chesterton. The duds look good, and the good look duds.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Dane and I together.

  ‘I shall be glad,’ said Dane, ‘to give you a prolonged course in racehorse recognition, Miss Ellery-Penn.’

  ‘I am a slow learner, Mr Hillman.’

  ‘All the better,’ said Dane, cheerfully.

  ‘Aren’t you riding today, Dane?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘In the last two, my lad. Don’t worry, I shall be able to look after Miss Ellery-Penn for you while you ride her horse.’ He grinned.

  ‘Are you a jockey too, Mr Hillman?’ asked Kate in a surprised voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dane, and left it at that. He was the rising star of the profession, clearly heading straight to the top. Pete Gregory had first claim on him, which, apart from natural affinity, brought us together a good deal. Strangers often mistook us for each other. We were the same age, both dark, both of middle height and medium build. On horseback the difference was greater; he was a better jockey than I would ever be.

  ‘I thought all jockeys were instantly recognisable as having come straight from Lilliput,’ said Kate, ‘but you two are quite a decent size.’ She had to look up to both of us, although she was tall enough herself.

  We laughed. I said ‘Steeplechasing jockeys are nearly all a decent size. It’s easier to stick on over big fences if you have long legs to grip with.’

  ‘Several of the Flat chaps are as tall as us, too,’ said Dane. ‘But they are very skinny, of course.’

  ‘All my illusions are being shattered,’ said Kate.

  Dane said ‘I like your new horse, Alan. He’ll make a good ‘chaser next year.’

  ‘Are you riding your own horses today, too?’ Kate asked Dane.

  ‘No, I’m not. I haven’t any,’ said Dane. ‘I’m a professional, so I’m not allowed to own racehorses.’

  ‘A professional?’ Kate’s eyebrows went up. She had clearly taken in the superlative tailoring of the suit under the short camel overcoat, the pleasant voice, the gentle manners. Another illusion was being shattered, I was amused to see.

  ‘Yes. I ride for my life,’ said Dane, smiling. ‘Unlike Alan, I haven’t a stinking rich father. But I get paid for doing what I like best in the world. It’s a very satisfactory state of affairs.’

  Kate looked carefully from one to the other of us. ‘Perhaps in time I shall understand what makes you want to risk your elegant necks,’ she said.

  ‘When you find out, please tell us,’ said Dane. ‘It’s still a mystery to me.’

  We wandered back to the stands and watched the third race. The poor looking horse won in a canter by twenty lengths. Kate’s fancy was tailed-off after a mile and refused at the third last fence.

  ‘Don’t imagine that we always know what’s going to win,’ said Dane. ‘Jockeys are bad tipsters. But that one was a cert, a dead cert.’

  A dead cert. The casual, everyday racing expression jabbed in my mind like a needle. Bill Davidson’s attacker had relied on Admiral’s being a certainty.

  A dead cert. Dead…

  Kate’s horse, for a pig in a poke, was not as bad as I fea
red. At the second fence he put in a short one and screwed in mid-air. I came clear out of the saddle and landed back in it more by luck than judgement. This was obviously the trick which had rid Heavens Above of his former jockey, who now had all my sympathy. He did it again at the third open ditch, but the rest of our journey was uneventful. The horse even found an unsuspected turn of foot up the hill and, passing several tired animals, ran on into fourth place.

  Kate was delighted.

  ‘Bless Uncle George for a brainwave,’ she said. ‘I’ve never had such a happy day in my life.’

  ‘I thought you were coming off at the second, Alan,’ said Pete Gregory, as I undid the girth buckles.

  ‘So did I,’ I said, feelingly. ‘It was sheer luck I didn’t.’

  Pete watched the way Heavens Above was breathing: the ribs were moving in and out a good deal, but not labouring. He said ‘He’s remarkably fit, considering everything. I think we’ll win a race or two with him before the end of the season.’

  ‘Can’t we all go and celebrate with the odd magnum?’ asked Kate. Her eyes were shining with excitement.

  Pete laughed. ‘Wait till you have a winner, for the magnum,’ he said. ‘I’d like to have drunk a more modest toast to the future with you, though, but I’ve a runner in the next. Alan will take you, no doubt.’ He looked at me sideways, very amused still at my complete surrender to the charm of Miss Ellery-Penn.

  ‘Will you wait for me, Kate?’ I asked. ‘I have to go and weigh in now, because we were fourth. I’ll change and be out as quickly as I can.’

  ‘I’ll come down outside the weighing-room,’ promised Kate, nodding.

  I weighed in, gave my saddle to Clem, washed, and changed back into ordinary clothes. Kate was waiting outside the weighing-room, looking at a group of girls standing near her chatting.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Kate. ‘They have been here all the time I have, just doing nothing.’

  ‘Jockeys’ wives, mostly,’ I said, grinning. ‘Waiting outside the weighing-room is their chief occupation.’

  ‘And jockeys’ girl friends too, I suppose,’ said Kate, wryly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I’ve just found out how nice it is to know there is someone waiting for you outside.’

  We went round to the bar, and settled for cups of coffee.

  ‘Uncle George will be shattered to hear we drank to Heavens Above so non-alcoholically,’ said Kate. ‘Don’t grain and grapes figure in your life?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. But I’ve never got used to them at three o’clock in the afternoon. How about you?’

  ‘Champers for breakfast is my passion,’ said Kate, with smiling eyes.

  I asked her then if she would spend the evening with me, but she said she could not. Aunt Deb, it appeared, was having a dinner party, and Uncle George would be agog to hear how the birthday present had got on.

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  Kate hesitated and looked down at her glass. ‘I’m… er… I’m going out with Dane, tomorrow.’

  ‘Blast him,’ I said, exploding.

  Kate positively giggled.

  ‘Friday?’ I suggested.

  ‘That will be lovely,’ said Kate.

  We went up on to the stands and watched Dane win the fifth race by a short head. Kate cheered him home uninhibitedly.

  FIVE

  A battle was raging in the car park. I walked out of the gate to go home after the last race, and came to a dead stop. In the open space between the gate and the first rank of parked cars, at least twenty men were fighting, and fighting to hurt. Even at first glance there was a vicious quality about the strictly non-Queensberry type blows.

  It was astounding. Scuffles between two or three men are common on racecourses, but a clash of this size and seriousness had to be caused by more than a disagreement over a bet.

  I looked closer. There was no doubt about it. Some of the men were wearing brass knuckles. A length of bicycle chain swung briefly in the air. The two men nearest to me were lying on the ground, almost motionless, but rigid with exertion, as if locked in some strange native ritual. The fingers of one were clamped round the wrist of the other, whose hand held a knife with a sharp three-inch blade. Not long enough to be readily lethal, it was designed to rip and disfigure.

  There seemed to be two fairly equally matched sides fighting each other, but one could not distinguish which was which. The man with the knife, who was slowly getting the worst of it, I saw to be little more than a boy; but most of the men were in their full strength. The only older-looking fighter was on his knees in the centre with his arms folded over his head, while the fight raged on around him.

  They fought in uncanny silence. Only their heavy breathing and a few grunts were to be heard. The semi-circle of open-mouthed homeward-bound racegoers watching them was growing larger, but no one felt inclined to walk into the mêlée and try to stop it.

  I found one of the newspaper sellers at my elbow.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ I asked. Nothing much to do with racing escapes the newsboys.

  ‘It’s the taxi-drivers,’ he said. ‘There’s two rival gangs of ’em, one lot from London and one lot from Brighton. There’s usually trouble when they meet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, Mr York. But this isn’t the first time they’ve been at it.’

  I looked back at the struggling mob. One or two of them still had peaked caps on. Some pairs were rolling about on the ground, some were straining and heaving against the sides of the taxis. There were two rows of taxis parked there. All the drivers were fighting.

  The fists and what they held in the way of ironmongery were doing a lot of damage. Two of the men were bent over, clasping their bellies in agony. There was blood on nearly all their faces, and the clothes of some of them had been torn off to the skin.

  They fought on with appalling fury, taking no notice at all of the swelling crowd around them.

  ‘They’ll kill each other,’ said a girl standing next to me, watching the scene in a mixture of horror and fascination.

  I glanced up over her head at the man standing on the other side of her, a big man well over six feet tall, with a deeply tanned skin. He was watching the fight with grim disapproval, his strong profile bleak, his eyes narrowed. I could not remember his name, though I had a feeling I ought to know it.

  The crowd was growing uneasy, and began looking round for the police. The girl’s remark was not idle. Any of the men might die, if they were unlucky, from the murderous chopping, gouging and slogging, which showed no signs of abating.

  The fight had caused a traffic jam in the car park. A policeman came, took a look, and disappeared fast for reinforcements. He returned with four constables on foot and one on horseback, all armed with truncheons. They plunged into the battle, but it took them several minutes to stop it.

  More police arrived. The taxi-drivers were dragged and herded into two groups. Both lots appeared to be equally battered, and neither side seemed to have won. The battlefield was strewn with caps and torn pieces of coats and shirts. Two shoes, one brown, one black, lay on their sides ten feet apart. Patches of blood stained the ground. The police began making a small pile of collected weapons.

  The main excitement over, people began drifting away. The little knot of prospective customers for the taxis moved across to ask a policeman how long the drivers would be detained. The tall sunburned man who had been standing near me went over to join them.

  One of the racing journalists paused beside me, scribbling busily in his notebook.

  ‘Who is that very big man over there, John?’ I asked him. He looked up and focused his eyes. He said, ‘His name’s Tudor, I think. Owns a couple of horses. A newly arrived tycoon type. I don’t know much about him. He doesn’t look too pleased about the transport situation.’

  Tudor, in fact, looked heavily angry, his lower jaw jutting forward obstinately. I was still sure there was something about this man which I ought to remember, but
I did not know what. He was not having any success with the policeman, who was shaking his head. The taxis remained empty and driverless.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ I asked the journalist.

  ‘Gang warfare, my spies tell me,’ he said cheerfully.

  Five of the taxi-drivers were now lying flat out on the cold damp ground. One of them groaned steadily.

  The journalist said, ‘Hospital and police station in about equal proportions, I should say. What a story!’

  The man who was groaning rolled over and vomited.

  ‘I’m going back to phone this lot through to the office,’ said the journalist. ‘Are you off home now?’

  ‘I’m waiting for that wretched Joe Nantwich,’ I said. ‘I promised him a lift to Dorking, but I haven’t seen a sign of him since the fourth race. It would be just like him to get a lift right home with someone else and forget to let me know.’

  ‘The last I saw of him, he was having a few unfriendly words with Sandy in the gents, and getting the worst of it.’

  ‘Those two really hate each other,’ I said.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No idea. Have you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said the journalist. He smiled good-bye and went back into the racecourse towards the telephone.

  Two ambulances drove up to collect the injured drivers. A policeman climbed into the back of each ambulance with them, and another sat in front beside the driver. With full loads the ambulances trundled slowly up the road to the main gates.

  The remaining drivers began to shiver as the heat of battle died out of them and the raw February afternoon took over. They were stiff and bruised, but unrepentant. A man in one group stepped forward, gave the other group a sneer, and spat, insultingly, on the ground in their direction. His shirt was in ribbons and his face was swelling in lumps. The muscles of his forearm would have done credit to a blacksmith, and silky dark hair grew low on his forehead in a widow’s peak. A dangerous looking man. A policeman touched his arm to bring him back into the group and he jumped round and snarled at him. Two more policemen began to close in, and the dark haired man subsided angrily.