by Joe McNally
‘Okay,’ I said, getting up, ‘I’ll go and see if I can find Alan and congratulate him.’
‘He’s another one. If Harle gives you any clue whatever as to how he suddenly lands a job with some crackpot owner nobody’s ever met, give me a call on that, too, will you?’
‘Sure. I’d heard about this Perlman guy. He wouldn’t be the first screwball to own a string of racehorses.’
‘No, but he’d be the first to hand them over to no-marks like Roscoe and Harle.’
I took a step forward and put a hand on his shoulder and smiled, ‘You are not having a good day, my friend. Think of the poor sods out there who’d kill for a job where all you did was watch racing and drink free beer.’
‘They’d never stand the pressure of a deadline. That’s why they’re driving buses and emptying bins.’
‘And reading your papers. Be careful never to write what you really think of your customers.’
He frowned and drank cold coffee.
There wouldn’t be a chance of getting near Harle during the celebrations, so I walked on through to the ring, the bookmakers’ stronghold. I knew a few of the bookies and some nodded recognition. None looked surprised to see me; if I ever found a horse that could move on a racecourse as fast as gossip did, I’d be a millionaire in a minute.
I moved to the rails where the big money guys bet. Most of their customers were known to them by name and bank account number.
At the end of this line, I spotted an old familiar face, which opened in a wide smile when it saw me.
‘Eddie, my son, come ‘ere!’ The battered voice hadn’t changed. I approached, smiling and greeted Wilbur Slacke. He clasped my hands in his, which were cold and white and blue-veined.
‘Still skinning the punters then, Will?’ I said.
‘Just enough to keep the wolf from the door as usual, Eddie, though the bugger’s getting a bit too close to the front gate recently!’
‘Does that mean you’ll have to sell one of the Mercs? My heart bleeds.’
He smiled even wider, showing his own teeth still. His eyes watered in the cold wind as he stepped rheumatically off the stool to lean on the railings. ‘How’s business?’ I asked.
‘Not so bad, Eddie. Can’t complain really.’
‘The big winner must have been a result?’
‘Brilliant result. Best I can remember in the Champion for years. We all won a few quid except that bugger at the other end,’ he nodded down the line of bookies toward a sour looking character handing someone a wad of notes.
‘The big guy with the black hair?’
Will nodded, frowning now, ‘You know, I saw him punching his clerk, right in the head, up at Sedgefield after a bad result, one time. Couldn’t believe it.’
‘I hope the guy punched him back.’
Will coughed raggedly and turned away to spit. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘Should’ve walked that day. I told him that. Still, the fucker’s took a few doings with results recently so maybe he’ll get skint soon.’
I’d never heard Will call anyone down. I looked at the guy again. He was taking money this time but didn’t seem any happier.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked.
‘Stoke. Howard Stoke,’ he began coughing again and I slapped his back. When he stopped, his face was crimson and his eyes watery.
‘A nice glass of malt would quieten that down,’ I said.
‘Likely,’ he nodded.
‘Half a dozen would kill it stone dead.’
His smile returned, ‘And me with it.’
Out on the course, the grass grew lush on ground that gave an inch under my heels, the feel of it unlocking whatever was shackling my memories of the glory days, and I knew I couldn’t be among the throng at the last fence.
I set out to get as far from the crowds as possible. I stopped in the middle of the infield watching away in the distance as the starter let the big field go for the novice ‘chase.
Then I had to move again, to get away from the PA system. Every word the commentator uttered seemed weighted with taunts about what I was missing.
I stood by the open ditch, on the far side of the track where only a whisper of the commentary remained. I gazed at the black birch between the white plastic wings, and the years tumbled away, exposing me to the raw hurt…I should have retreated, covered my ears, closed my eyes, ran…but I was transfixed as the runners approached. Sixteen thoroughbreds. Eight tons of horse-flesh galloping toward me at thirty miles an hour.
Me.
Here.
Rooted to the ground.
The leader, a big chestnut, ears pricked, primed himself for take-off, and I found myself counting the stride in with his jockey… one, two, three, kick – up, and over he goes.
The rest reach it now, closely grouped, colours mixing, meshing with speed as thunderous hoofbeats shake the ground and the birch crackles like a long firework sparked by ribs brushing through. Cameras click and whirr, jockeys shout, whips smack on muscle.
They land, front feet gouging the turf. Hooves slide and a big brown head goes low. The rider cries out…his mount recovers, but they are last by a length as the runners race toward the turn, carrying away my past, drawing with them my heart and soul, but leaving me behind.
Silence now.
Emptiness.
Hopelessness.
I shamble back to the car.
12
At the cottage, in the cold gloom, I poured a drink stiff enough to splint a fracture, and downed it.
I lit a fire. After five minutes’ spitting and crackling, the logs caught and began warming the room.
I stood staring at the burning wood then at myself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The flames weaved and jumped, casting light and shadows on my face and shoulders. I looked tired… ghostly.
After another drink, I began to feel warm inside as well as out. Pulling the chair nearer the fire, I settled with a sigh. It had been a bloody melancholy day. Tipping the glass toward me, I gazed through the liquid at the soft yellow glow of the flames. All that looked back was my self-pitying face. Finishing the drink in one gulp, I shut out all the old pathetic thoughts and faced reality.
I was no longer a jockey. Maybe I’d never be a jockey again. There was a job to do and it would have to be done on the racecourse as much as anywhere else.
I had hated that place today because I wasn’t the big shot any more. I would always despise going to racecourses now. I couldn’t handle being just one of the crowd…Well, I would damn well have to get used to it.
I stood and put the drink down on the mantelpiece and stared stern-faced at myself in the mirror, ‘Grow up, Eddie. Finally. Grow up for God’s sake!’
The phone rang loud in the hard hallway and I watched what I looked like when I was startled, as my eyebrows rose and my mouth opened, and I laughed stupidly, nervously, as I hurried to pick it up, ‘Hello, Mac,’ I said.
There was a pause before he said, ‘How on earth did you know it was me?’
‘Well, you’re the only one who knows I’m here.’
’True. How did today go?’
‘Okay, I suppose.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I managed to go to the Cheltenham festival as a bystander for the first time in my life and not slit my wrists. An achievement, trust me.’
‘You’ll get used to it. Did you find anything out?’
‘I found out that God smiles not only on the righteous. How come Harle lands a job with this Perlman character after grubbing around the floor of the food chain so long?’
‘Perlman is proving an utter embarrassment to the sport. There’s a meeting going on about him, as we speak.’
‘As in?’
‘As in how the Queen Mother could be effectively snubbed by the owner of the Champion Hurdle winner.’
I was about to mention Joe Lagota's comments about Perlman, but thought it best not to let Mac know I’d been talking to the press. I said, ‘What about this
tailor’s dummy, Roscoe? How did he get the training job? He’s only been in the game five minutes, hasn’t he?’
‘Well, he’s shrewd enough to say little and imply much.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Roscoe’s been building himself this mystical aura with the press. Lots of wise nodding and knowing smiles without actually answering any questions.’
‘I find him getting such a big owner even more baffling than Harle. You don’t just come from nowhere as a trainer into a job like that, do you? At least Harle has a few miles on the clock.’
’So, you’re sticking with this Harle connection?’
‘It’s the only one I’ve got, Mac. If Harle’s been talking to this pair who’ve done all the damage, he won’t have been passing the time of day.’
‘You said you know him pretty well, why don’t you just call him and ask him out for a drink?’
‘Because if he is into something with Kruger or with the two hit men, he’s not only going to smell a rat, the stink will knock him out. We were never bosom buddies. Why would I call him after all these years?’
‘Er, maybe because he’s just won the Champion Hurdle?’
‘Harle would know more than anyone that I’d be more likely to kill him for that than call him.’
Mac sighed, ’So, what next?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.’
‘I’ll leave you to get figuring then. Keep in touch, will you?’
‘As soon as I’ve got something to tell you, I’ll call.’
‘Good luck.’
I lowered the handset slowly, and the click as it dropped into place seemed not so much to be turning off the noise of conversation, but switching on the silence once more. I returned to my seat by the fire.
Against the corner of the inglenook, a brass toasting fork stood. I reached for it, testing the prongs with my fingers, wondering how long it had sat unused.
I pushed it slowly into the flames to touch the end of the heaviest log, rocking it very gently, as my brain sifted and sorted and sought a way through the problems.
What would Harle be doing now? What would I be doing if I’d won the Champion Hurdle today?
I’d be partying. I remembered that partying was one thing Harle had been very good at…too good. His drinking had cost him some promising rides in his early days.
Harle might be staying at the Duke’s Hotel in Cheltenham. The racing snobs never stayed anywhere else. Not that Harle was one, but Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe would be bedding down there and where Roscoe was, Harle wouldn’t be far behind.
The Roscoes, with their designer gear, looked classic party types. They’d have arranged something. And if they were involved with Kruger, there’d be a few old villains there, even if the man himself wasn’t.
I got the number of the Duke’s and called and asked for Basil Roscoe.
‘I’m afraid Mister Roscoe is not in his room, sir.’
‘It was just to say I’m going to be a bit late for the celebration. I’m having some car trouble, but the last thing I want to do is miss the party.’
‘I’m sure that will be fine, sir, people are still arriving for it. I don’t think they intend to stand on ceremony.’
‘Well, they never do with these, eh?’
She laughed politely. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ I said.
’Should I mention to Mister Roscoe that you called?’
’No, no. It’s pointless going to any trouble. It will be a nice surprise for him when he sees me.’
13
The Rover’s twin beams lit up the narrow, twisting, hilly roads leading down into Cheltenham town. The place was buzzing. The population must treble during festival week.
The white-fronted Duke’s Hotel was illuminated by a row of floodlights in the gardens. This was my first time through its doors in six years. Inside, nothing had changed: twenty guineas a roll wallpaper and thirty quid a yard carpet. Teak, leather, brass and silk in dignified doses.
At reception, a dark-eyed, pretty girl told me Mister Roscoe had taken the Directors Suite on the third floor for the evening, and if I was Mister Glenn, I ought to go right up.
The suite looked big enough to hold fifty or sixty people but it was so crammed it pulsed like a living thing. Ten strides from the outer ring of the pack I could feel the body heat.
They had dressed for a party, some of the women with much care, but that had been hours ago, and the wear and tear of alcohol and smoke, of sweaty overcrowding, had peeled away the veneer: mascara smears from carelessly rubbed eyes, straggling tendrils escaping from a blonde bun, a vee-shaped frock front which had taken an uneven dive showing a tanned, wrinkled cleavage. If all the jewellery were real, there was a million pounds’ worth.
I recognized a few jockeys, many conspicuous anyway by their short stature. The other men were all shapes and sizes and in varying stages of undress, some missing ties or jackets or both.
I sidled through the throng to where I’d guessed the bar was. Three staff in black uniforms poured champagne at a hot pace. I picked up a glass.
Someone spoke in my right ear. ‘Take two.’ A note in the voice zoomed straight into my memory bank and told me who it was before I turned around; a girl I had known when I was fifteen years old, a beauty I’d had such a crush on at school I’d barely been able to speak to her.
I turned. Charmain, her auburn hair pinned high showing small ears and the fine jaw line, those green eyes, the wide lips, just thick enough to give the impression of a permanent pout. She was lightly made-up, a natural flush colouring her cheeks.
I had never forgotten her. She’d been my first love and it hadn’t mattered so much that it was one-sided. I had often lain awake, especially in prison, thinking about her, dreaming of meeting again and fantasizing about the outcome.
The scene had been well rehearsed in my mind; we’d look at each other for a long moment as we were doing now then she’d say, in a voice mixed with curiosity and desire, ‘Aren’t you Eddie Malloy?’ All my old feelings for her surged back as I waited for her to speak. Her look turned to one of puzzled recognition, ‘Don’t I know you?’
I nodded, trying to look cool, ‘I’m Eddie Malloy. We were at school together.’
Her eyes widened, ‘Oh, I remember…of course.’
But I could see she didn’t remember so I pretended I couldn’t recall her name properly.
‘And you’re, eh, is it Carol…?’
‘Charmain,’ she said, ‘Caroll used to be my surname but I’m married now,’ she held out her left hand. The fat solitaire over a wide wedding band put the seal on my past like a trap-door closing.
I stared at the rings, ‘When did that happen?’ I asked, as though it were some kind of tragedy.
‘Six months ago,’ she said, smiling.
I caught myself about to ask if she really loved him. I was getting sillier by the minute. She made me feel even worse with her next question, ‘What are you now?’ I frowned. She said, ‘I mean, are you a trainer or a jockey or something?’
Obviously just a something, I thought, in her eyes, anyway. ‘I used to be a jockey,’ I said.
‘Were you good?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What more do you want?’
‘You don’t just say yes to a question like that.’
‘I do.’
She looked perplexed, ‘You’re funny,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Why did you stop if you were good?’
‘The authorities took my licence away.’
‘Why?’
‘They said I was involved with a doping ring.’
‘Were you?’
‘What do you think?’
She shrugged, looking hurt at my attitude, ‘I don’t think you’d have done it.’
I suddenly felt a great tenderness for her, but it was quickly snuffed out by a hefty bump from behind, which made me spill my drink. The offender pushed past
without apologizing.
I recovered and looked round. A large man had his hand on Charmain’s bare arm. Four thick fingers gripped her, the flesh between them showing white.
She looked surprised and embarrassed. He looked very angry.
About six feet two, fiftyish, his pale skin emphasizing how much dye was in his bluish-black hair, which looked greasy and hung over his collar. His sideburns were the same colour and stretched to two inches below his ear lobe. His eyes were grey.
He wore a fawn jacket over a stomach held in only by a large ego. His feet, in crocodile shoes, splayed badly.
He looked as mean as he had when I’d seen him earlier at the races paying out wads of money.
‘Howard!’ Charmain said, half pleading, reaching to try to ease his grip on her arm.
‘Where have you been?’ His voice was level but threatening. I guessed he’d had plenty of practice controlling a nasty temper in public. I was having some trouble controlling mine.
‘I just came to get another drink, darling!’ she looked up at him and turned on a full wattage smile, though he was still hurting her. I watched his fingers…they began to relax.
‘Good,’ he said and released her. Charmain’s hand went up to cover the purple finger marks.
His ugly mouth smiled, showing teeth yellow near the gums and white at the biting end, but his eyes stayed mean.
Charmain introduced us, ‘Oh, Howard, this is Eddie, he used to be a jockey.’
He looked down and his smile faded. He didn’t offer his hand and he didn’t say pleased to meet you. Charmain tried it from my side, ‘Eddie, this is my husband Howard Stoke.’
I smiled my most pleasant smile.
‘Who invited you?’ The growl again.
‘I’m a friend of Alan Harle’s.’
‘I should have guessed,’ he said, ‘you jockeys all have the same dumb look.’ He smiled at his little taunt, watching me from his four-inch height advantage.
I drank, ‘Are you always so nice to new acquaintances?’
He leaned forward and down, ‘You won’t ever be an acquaintance of mine, son.’
I feigned deep disappointment, shaking my head. ‘And after we’d started on such friendly terms.’