The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  Not after today. Hopelessness weighed heavy in my gut, and I suddenly knew how drug addicts must feel when they realize there’s never going to be another fix.

  When someone touched my elbow and spoke my name I turned.

  Her face was thin, hair dark and luxuriantly thick, eyes brown and distinctly oval, good mouth with well-shaped lips, my height, she looked at me. ‘You okay?’

  I nodded, dredging up a half-smile. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  She said, ‘Carter told me what you did to Layton. I just wanted to say I wish I’d been there.’

  Lisa Ffrench was being pretty forthright. I didn’t know her much beyond saying hello. Her job barred her from ‘consorting’ with jockeys and she was probably leaving herself open to criticism even talking to me now. Lisa was a stenographer. She worked for The Jockey Club, noting everything that was said during Stewards’ Enquiries.

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t really do anything ... just put him in his place.’

  ‘Well and truly, the way I heard it.’ Her smile was wide.

  I said, ‘You’re not a member of his fan club then?’

  ‘Watched him lying through his teeth too many times, and sucking up to the stewards.’

  I nodded, anxious to be alone again so I could be as miserable as I wanted. I said, ‘Well, it won’t take him long to bounce back, nasty as ever.’

  ‘No doubt, but his ego will stay bruised for a while so you’d better watch yourself.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard. This is my last day.’

  ‘Last day at what?’

  ‘Race-riding. I’m quitting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can’t make a living at it anymore.’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘That’s tough. Bad luck. You’re a good jockey.’

  ‘You think so?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Pity you don’t own a string of twenty.’ I looked away across the parade ring expecting her to politely excuse herself before the conversation got embarrassing. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet, but I know what you’d better do before your bosses see you talking to lowlife like me.’

  ‘Is it safe to leave you?’

  Puzzled, I turned toward her again. She said, ‘I’m scared in case you overdose on self-pity.’

  That made me smile. She headed for the weighing room walking athletically in her flat shoes, skinny bottom swinging in a tight knee-length skirt.

  I watched her go through the door. Two minutes later she came marching straight for me again. Half surprised, half apprehensive, I waited.

  When she reached me she offered a piece of information that could save my career and ruin hers.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I don’t want you to quit.’

  ‘What does it matter to you, you don’t even know me?’ It sounded hostile and she raised her hands in surrender. ‘Okay, okay, sorry for interfering.’

  ‘Look, Lisa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate what you’re doing ...’ I tailed off lamely.

  She looked perplexed. The wind caught her heavy shoulder-length hair and lifted it to show a small gold earring. Her brown oval eyes told me her patience was waning. She said, ‘Fine, do what you like.’ She walked away with that confident head-up stride.

  Hubert Barber trained Cragrock, the favourite in the big race. His stable jockey hadn’t turned up and Lisa had overheard Barber tell the clerk of the scales that he planned to withdraw the horse.

  She’d just been trying to persuade me to approach Barber and ask him to run Cragrock and let me ride.

  I had ridden for him a few times during my Championship season and we’d got on okay, but he’d never offered me anything since my comeback. Watching Lisa disappear into the crowd I thought, what the hell, I might as well try. With no confidence and little hope I went looking for Barber.

  I found him outside the main gate, shuffling impatiently, peering at cars coming in, squinting into taxis as they pulled up.

  Barber was an easy man to recognize: in his mid-sixties, heavy, maybe eighteen stones, big red nose, prominent ears, moist blue eyes and a clump of pure white hair tucked under a tweed cap. Superstitious like many racing folk, he wore the same huge army-issue overcoat he’d had on when he trained his first winner.

  ‘Mister Barber,’ I said. He turned, suddenly hopeful, but his features sagged when he saw it wasn’t his stable jockey.

  ‘Hello, Eddie,’ he said gruffly, then went back to scanning incomers who were becoming scarcer as the first race drew near.

  I was hopeless at asking for rides at the best of times, and there had been so many refusals in recent months my confidence was shot. The fact that this was my last gasp didn’t make it easier.

  ‘Mister Barber, I heard Tommy Gilmour hasn’t turned up.’

  He gave me his full attention. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Well, we sort of noticed it in the weighing room.’ I lied.

  ‘Any of you lads see Tommy last night?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Nobody mentioned it.’

  He stared down the long tree-lined drive again and said, ‘Can’t understand it. He’s always been a hundred percent reliable.’

  ‘It’s not like him,’ I agreed. ‘Have you rung his hotel?’

  ‘Rang his hotel and his house. The owner’s husband even drove to his hotel to see if he’s broken down on the way.’

  ‘Mister Barber, if he doesn’t appear, have you thought about a replacement?’

  He looked down at me, blue eyes watering in the wind. ‘Eddie, I’ve thought about nothing else, but the horse’s owner won’t have it, she wants to withdraw.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the silly cow’s convinced that nobody but Tommy can handle the horse. He’s a difficult ride and takes a bit of knowing, but we’ve had a right few quid on ante-post, her husband and me, and we’re desperate to run him.’

  He really got going then, gesticulating, jerking at his cap. ‘She’s a nice lady, Loretta, but she’s wrong on this one. Thinks because Tommy is Champion Jockey he’s a stone better than the rest of you. Someone else rode him last year and Cragrock fell and didn’t get up for a long time. Loretta was hysterical, threatened to take the horse out of training altogether. Crazy woman.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Barber dabbed at his big nose with a tissue. ‘In her private box. Paul, her husband’s trying to talk her into accepting a substitute, but he’s fighting a losing battle. I had to get out of there before I strangled her.’

  ‘Do you think she’d accept another Champion Jockey as replacement?’

  He stared down at me. I shrugged, ‘Okay, so it was five years ago,’ I said, ‘but it’s worth a try.’

  Still morose, he shook his head then suddenly his face lit up. ‘You might be right, Eddie! You might just be right! Come on!’

  Checking his watch, he turned and hobbled into the course. An accident had left him badly lame in his right leg. Barber always claimed it happened when he came off a horse on the gallops but Muriel, his wife, said he broke it when he ‘fell down the stairs, pissed’.

  I walked alongside him conscious of the steep rise and fall of his left shoulder as he tried to hurry through the puddles. The commentary on the first race pulsed from the speakers. Barber, face beaming, kept saying quietly, ‘The very man! The very thing!’

  He told me to stay by the paddock as he disappeared into the main stand.

  I waited, trying not to hope too hard. Within five minutes Barber hove into view, his face telling me all I needed to know. Smiling wide he slapped my shoulder and said, ‘We’re back in business! I’ll send someone along with the colours and I’ll see you in the paddock.’

  Stunned, surprised, delighted, I grasped his hand. ‘Hubert…this means a hell of a lot to me.’

  He gripped my forearm with his free hand. ‘Me too,’ he said, ‘me too
. Listen, do me one favour, Eddie, try to make sure the TV cameras don’t catch your face before the race starts.’

  I stared at him. ‘Why?’

  He smiled. ‘Just do it. I’ll explain later.’

  It took me a minute to figure out what he’d done, then I sussed it. If I lost Barber would be in deep trouble with Loretta Whitehead.

  3

  Emotions bubbling, brain buzzing with plans and hopes, high on the prospect of showing thousands of racegoers and TV viewers I could still cut it, I strode into the changing room, grabbed Tom, my valet, by the shoulders, shook him and said, ‘I ride Cragrock in the big race!’

  He stared at me. ‘By the looks of you you’d think you’d already won it!’

  Wearing green and blue colours, Bill Keating, a veteran, saw my smile as he passed and said, ‘You look as if you’ve won the pools, Eddie.’

  I fought to contain my excitement. ‘Hubert Barber’s asked me to ride the favourite in the Greenalls.’ I had tried to say it calmly but it came out loud and boastful. Most of the jocks heard me.

  Bill looked puzzled. ‘Where’s Tommy Gilmour?’

  I shrugged. ‘Hasn’t turned up. They weren’t going to run him but they’ve had a few quid on and decided to have a go.’

  ‘Good luck to you,’ Bill said. Then Con Layton piped up. ‘Gilmour could handle that horse, Malloy, but you couldn’t hold one side of him. You’ll make an arse o’ yersel.’

  I turned to face Layton, it hadn’t taken him long to recover from our earlier scrap. I stared at him and got the usual taunting look from his pale close-set eyes.

  I said, ‘Well, you’d certainly recognize an arse before most people, Layton, since you see one when you’re shaving every morning.’

  The place went silent. They watched Layton who’d lost his mischievous look and was glaring at me. He spoke, trying to sound menacing. ‘Pretty full of yourself, Malloy, on the strength of a single ride, ain’t you? Pretty full of yourself for a has-been.’

  I smiled warmly. ‘I’d sooner be a has-been than a never-was.’

  ‘Listen, Malloy –’

  ‘You listen! How long does it take you to learn a lesson? How many second prizes have you got to get?’

  He growled, ‘You’ll get yours, Malloy!’ and marched out. His sidekick, Ben Meese, a swaggering little runt, tried a bit too theatrically to fill the silence by pointing the end of his whip at me and saying, ‘You’d better be very careful, Malloy!’

  Taking two strides toward him I bent over until our noses were almost touching and said, ‘Meese, if the organ grinder doesn’t scare me, what chance has the monkey got?’

  He didn’t care for that, or for the burst of laughter from the lads. He reddened, glared at me, then turned and whacked my saddle hard with his whip before scuttling away after Layton.

  Ten minutes before the off, three of us huddled in the paddock feeding off each other’s tension. I was edgy, aware it was my big chance. Barber’s money was on the line along with his judgment. Paul Whitehead had a sizeable financial stake, too, and he stood close as Barber gave me riding instructions, Paul repeating them, nodding, tugging at his ear lobe.

  ‘Where’s Mrs. Whitehead?’ I asked.

  Barber said, ‘Eh, we persuaded Loretta to watch it on TV. Muriel’s under instructions to keep her occupied.’

  I smiled. ‘You told Loretta Tommy had arrived, didn’t you?’

  Barber said, ‘Ask no questions, hear no lies. A Champion Jockey’s a Champion Jockey. Just get out there and ride like you used to.’

  At the start, Fred Harbour, the assistant starter, went among us checking girth straps, which always worked loose as horses stretched on the canter down the track. Fred was an ex-jockey staying in touch with the game as best he could. Accumulated injuries had forced him into early retirement. Fused vertebrae and dislocated shoulders had slowly curled his nine stone body up until he looked sixty rather than forty.

  It was the horses he loved; he spoke little to the jockeys, resenting the fact that he wasn’t one of us anymore. He walked toward me and I pulled Cragrock to a halt. Fred twanged the girths to test for slack. ‘How are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Okay.’

  From up here you only ever saw the top of his cloth cap. His injuries made it difficult for him to straighten his neck. Fred grunted as he strained to get my girths a hole tighter then, head still down, he said, ‘Watch yourself, I think Layton and Meese are going to try and put you out of the race.’

  It was the first time he’d spoken more than two words to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. He didn’t acknowledge, just patted Cragrock’s neck and moved on. I looked around. The others circled, chatting, trying to discover each other’s tactics, who was going to make the running, who would be dropping out early. Layton and Meese were together. Layton laughed harshly, rolling his head back. Meese smiled up at him.

  The starter called us into line. I moved Cragrock toward the rail. Someone barged up my inside, shoving me to the right. I glanced across. It was Layton, pale smiling eyes watery-looking behind his goggles. I glimpsed to my other side. Meese was there, smiling too.

  They knew Cragrock had to be held up in the middle of the field and they’d obviously decided to waste no time in trying to intimidate us. I had a little surprise planned.

  4

  I watched the starter. His fingers tightened on the lever and as he opened his mouth to call ‘Okay, jockeys!’ I kicked Cragrock hard in the belly. The tape flew up, Cragrock’s ears pricked, Layton cursed, and after the first six strides we were four lengths clear of the rest.

  Cragrock was confused. Used to his jockey fighting to hold him, his ears flicked as he tried to figure out why he was being not only given his head but pushed along. He was still thinking by the time we reached the first fence, and he took off a stride and a half too soon, but we sailed over and landed just as far the other side, balanced and running.

  We went ten lengths clear.

  Coming to the second, his blood was up. Going too fast. No time for adjustment. He took off way too soon. Jesus! His front hooves barely cleared it and his hind legs hit the fence, smashing birch twigs out like feathers from a shot pheasant. I sat back, expecting him to pitch forward, but the effort of the leap and staying upright brought only a short grunt from him as he sucked in air.

  Before he could regain full steam, I took a determined hold of the reins and managed to break his stride. He slowed to the easier pace I wanted. We were beginning to get an understanding.

  Initial exuberance gone, Cragrock settled to a steady pattern, his fluid stride beating out a rhythmic thud on the turf, all the more noticeable in the eerie silence afforded a front-runner. Each leap brought a brief suspension of the hoof beats and another fix of the exhilaration which had made an addict of me.

  As we approached the last in the back straight, four from home, they came after us. It sounded like a group of three. Ten strides from the fence Cragrock sensed them closing and suddenly his rhythm altered and he guessed at the take-off. There was nothing I could do. At full stretch I saw the birch coming up fast to meet us...

  We ploughed into the guts of the fence. Cragrock’s shiny black front hooves were higher than his head as he stretched, trying to save himself, then came that awful vacuum as his half-ton body hit the tight packed birch…the weird feeling of being in a snapshot, waiting for the punch of the momentum to catch up…as always, it did.

  And it smashed Cragrock onwards and downwards, thumping the air from his lungs in a long rasp. A fraction of a second before being catapulted forward, I saw a blurred mesh of bay, chestnut and grey horseflesh flash past in a graceful arc. Cragrock, still doing everything to stop himself crashing, was trying desperately to get a leg out…the effort caused his big frame to buckle, then straighten, throwing my legs and backside higher than my head as my face was forced into his mane. No brilliant recovery, I was on my way out frontward when suddenly he found a foothold, got his undercarriage down, then scamp
ered along like a crab before raising his neck, belting me in the face with his head and pushing me back into the saddle.

  Stunned and bloody-nosed, I tried to collect my senses as the horse found his stride again and galloped on.

  My head cleared. Three to jump. We lay fourth twelve lengths off the leader. But Cragrock was getting his second wind. He rallied as we rounded the bend into the straight. Ahead of me three pairs of white breeches pumped in union.

  Because of their crouch, I couldn’t see the colours but you get to know a rider’s style and build. One of those in contention, Meese, I recognized by his weightlifter’s thighs.

  Halfway round the home turn, Layton ranged alongside, his almost toothless grin telling me he still thought he had plenty of horse under him. The running rail was on my left, Layton on my right. He moved his horse, Machete, a big powerful grey, across to lean on us. Cragrock faltered.

  ‘Layton! You bastard!’

  He looked across, boring harder into us now and spat at my face. The wind carried the gob, splattering it greasily on my goggles as we were forced into the rails. The white plastic shattered, sending out a spray of shards. Cragrock broke stride and Layton, laughing, eased his horse away and kicked on toward the third last fence.

  I pulled my smeared goggles down and hauled Cragrock off the rail. He came quickly onto an even keel approaching the fence and met it on a beautiful long stride, landing far out on the other side, feeling as though he’d never left the ground. After going at such a hectic pace, maybe the enforced breathers had helped him.

  I was closing, though Meese was travelling best of those in front. Layton, seeing his friend creep through on the rail approaching the second last fence, eased his horse right handed, squeezing the chestnut in the middle onto Meese’s bay as they all took off. Unbalanced, the bay scrambled over then disappeared for a moment before I saw his hind legs come up as he somersaulted.

  Cragrock soared over and I looked down to see Meese lying under the rails as his horse slid on its side along the grass.

  Ahead, Layton was working on his next victim, intimidating the little chestnut alongside him.