by Joe McNally
The majority of my rivals had known of their intended rides for months beforehand, which left me at a disadvantage. Knowledge of the strengths and frailties of others can give you quite an edge in the National, and I’d had no time to make any detailed assessments.
Still, I was beginning to get a feel for Gospel Oak’s power from the way he used himself, his long swinging walk, and springy muscular jog.
Suddenly, there was a sharp crack. Women screamed and the crowd scattered as a horse went down three ahead of us, his jockey rolling into the foetal position on the grass. Sollis drew his pistol and aimed in the direction of the sound.
People were ducking, staring wildly around. Two policemen came rushing in from the far side. All TV cameras swung toward the spot. Some jocks had leapt from their saddles. I watched, trying to understand what had happened. The fallen animal was scrambling, attempting to get up, but its lad sat on its neck gripping the reins, immobilizing it.
The rifle-crack noise had come from the horse lashing out with a rear leg and catching one of the stanchions with a shoe, shattering its pastern. When calm was restored, they wheeled the screens in to shield the stricken horse and its weeping connections, and waved us out onto the course.
Sollis was white-faced and wide-eyed.
The jocks who’d dismounted, diving for cover, were looking rather sheepish as we circled at the start. All the horses were well on their toes. Equine and human nerves seemed intertwined, taut as twisted stirrup leathers.
The stands behind us, and the enclosures on either side, were packed solid. I wasn’t the only jockey anxiously scanning faces on the rails, looking for some sign of madness, searching for the face of Victor Roe which stared out from the front page of every newspaper.
As much to ease the tension as out of habit, a bunch of us broke off and cantered to the first fence. Gospel Oak immediately took hold of his bit and set off, gliding over the turf. Crossing the cinder-covered Melling Road, he half-jumped from instinct without breaking his stride, and when we halted by the jump he had the cheek to plunge his head into the belly of the fence, coming away with a mouthful of spruce.
In the last few minutes, he’d told me all I had to know about him, and I had no complaints.
As the starter called us in, I emptied my mind of everything except tactics. I’d decided to go down the inside where the steepest drops lay. This would let me keep my eye on the leaders while hopefully avoiding the crowding and trouble which was inevitable at the first three fences.
We lined up, and when we were all still, and facing the right way, a momentary hush fell over the racecourse, then a huge roar as the tapes shot skywards.
Above the noise I imagined I could hear Sollis’s sigh of relief.
55
We were off, the crowd noise quickly fading in the mad rush for a good take-off position at the first, most going too fast in the desperate quest for what seemed the same eight yards of fence.
I heard the crashing noises before seeing the signals of trouble in front of me. The leader of the trio just ahead must have come down, because the tails of the two following him were erect and waving like flags as they tripped over the rolling faller.
Three horses thrashing around on the other side, but where exactly? There was no way of knowing and I pulled violently on my right rein to force Gospel Oak over at an acute angle. At full stretch, the horse grunted in mid-air and landed inches from Bob Jenner, who’d fallen toward the middle of the fence.
The horrified look on Bob’s upturned face told me he’d lost his nerve, the worst thing that can happen to a jump jockey. Once your nerve goes, you’ve gone, and as he caught my eye we both realized, he with embarrassment, me with sadness, that he’d soon quietly retire.
We raced on, my horse and I sharper for the close call. Taking a good hold of his head, I guided him over the next four without getting near another horse. Becher’s Brook loomed and that cold little blob of extra tension tightened my gut.
Seeing a good stride from a long way out, we met the take-off bar spot-on and soared over, the thrill as strong as it was when I’d last jumped it, six years ago. That additional second you’re airborne over Becher’s seems like a moment frozen in eternity.
We were nearer last than first approaching the right-angled Canal Turn, and I decided to take my chance to reduce the deficit. Pulling ten yards off the inner, I then asked Gospel Oak to veer sharply left, attacking the fence at an acute angle.
His grey head missed the upright end of the fence by centimetres, and we passed at least fifteen others who’d been forced to jump straight before being yanked around the right-angled bend to confront Valentine’s Brook, the next jump.
Having improved our position so dramatically with little effort, we settled into a rhythm, conserving energy for the same spot next time round.
The spruce tops seemed to slip easily underneath, and when Gospel Oak flew over the huge Chair fence, real hopes of running a very good race crowded my mind. With a circuit to go, fate couldn’t be tempted by thoughts of actually winning.
As we came to the first again, now the seventeenth jump, I was glad to see Bob Jenner on his feet by the rails, a broken bridle hanging from his hands, horseless maybe, but in one piece. He looked up as we jumped past, knowing he’d never be with us again, and shouted, ‘Good luck, lads! Good luck!’
Surviving the first circuit offers confidence mixed with reminders to be careful: holes torn in fences, equine casualties hobbling to the stables, loose horses careering across the centre of the course, jockeys being attended by medics, broken stirrup irons, deeply gouged furrows... drawing a breath I checked the others, about twenty still galloping, some beginning to labour.
Approaching the Canal Turn again, we lay fourth. I glanced behind, maybe fifteen or sixteen remaining, most of them showing signs of weakening. Nothing looked to be going better than us. It would soon be time to kick on and try to break them.
Taking the fence less acutely than on the first circuit, I glanced back again at those still jumping it. Among the cavalcade of vehicles following on the tarmac road inside the rails, something struck me as not being right. The horse sensed my concentration drifting and his stride faltered for a moment.
We faced Valentine’s, the first of four jumps in the long straight before the turn for home. Still unsettled, a hundred yards before the fence, I looked over my shoulder again: the usual vehicles tracked us, camera cars, ambulances, stewards, vets... then I realized what was strange the ambulance was weaving in and out as though trying to overtake the others.
I turned my attention to Valentine’s, saw a good stride and we sailed over. I glanced back, one was coming after us, black colours, could be Layton.
Three more fences in the straight. From the corner of my left eye, I saw the ambulance drawing alongside me on the road. He should be at the tail of the field waiting for casualties, not up with the leaders. I turned to look directly at him.
The driver’s window was down. He looked terrified. Upright beside him, leaning against the passenger door, was a man with a rifle. He was aiming it at me.
Instinctively I crouched low, the horse’s action changed as he guessed at what I wanted. The fence was close. I stayed low, no help to Gospel Oak, and he rose a stride too soon...only the gap punched in the fence on the first circuit saved us.
We raced to the next. I looked at the gunman, the ambulance swayed, the weapon swung in a ten-inch arc and he fired. The bullet zinged over my head. The horse didn’t falter. Jesus! What do I do? Slow down? Speed up? Stop? Couldn’t stop, that would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
He drew slightly ahead of me, looking for a broader target, aiming at me front-on. I moved to the inside, narrowing the angle. He slowed and widened it again. I ducked below the horse’s neck... another bullet went singing past as I heard the rifle-crack.
How long before he gets his range?
Over the fence. Flew it again, the horse travelling strongly, not yet sensing my terror. Wher
e the fuck were the police? They must have suspected something was wrong by now.
One to jump before the home straight. The ambulance level again. The incongruous sight of a man in a St John’s uniform aiming a rifle at me, the poor driver crying with terror and struggling to keep the vehicle straight. After this fence, he would run out of road. Either he turned away or came crashing through the rails to follow me.
Hoofbeats behind, getting closer. I glance round; it’s Layton, driving his horse on, grimacing, shouting at me, seemingly unaware of the ambulance. At my heels now, trying to force his way up the inside and I’m so tempted to let him come through and give me cover.
He yells, ‘Give way, Malloy!’ and barges through, knocking me off balance as we rise at the fence. Mine hits the top and starts to topple. I let go the reins and instinctively pull my feet from the stirrups...going down, almost slow motion, a gunshot, Layton screams, the earth pounds the air from my horse in a cavernous grunt and I’m over his head, rolling clear, spinning forward, Layton’s horse slumps in front of me, see-saws once then comes to rest lying on my legs.
I can see the clouds, and hear Layton moaning. I turn my head, but can’t move. The screech of brakes, boots running on tarmac, horses landing either side of me, their jockeys trying with wild disbelief to take in the scene; then Victor Roe above me, blocking out the sky, a terrible murderous madness in his wet eyes as he levels the weapon at my face. ‘You made me kill the horse, Malloy!’ Then screaming it, ‘You made me kill the fucking horse!’ I stare up at him, blank-faced, a baby at the mercy of a giant. He rests the rifle barrel between my eyes and squeezes the trigger and I hear the sound but feel no pain.
56
I opened my eyes and the rays of the afternoon sun made me think I was in Heaven rather than a bed in Walton Hospital. McCarthy was there, and Lisa…she smiled at me. I could see she’d been crying and she started again when I smiled back.
McCarthy said, ‘You okay?’
‘Am I alive?’
He nodded. ‘And in one piece.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter to one, Sunday afternoon. What do you remember?’
‘I remember Roe pulling the trigger and I remember hearing the shot.’
‘As he was pulling the trigger, half a ton of sweating steeplechaser landed right on top of him. One of the amateur-ridden stragglers determined, luckily for you, to finish the course.’
‘Roe dead?’
‘Badly injured, but he’ll live. You were luckier than you thought too. The horse that took Roe out kicked you in the head. Your skullcap’s holed.’
‘My head could have been holed by a bullet, so I’m happy. What about Layton?’
‘Roe shot him in the knee, his career’s over. The bullet went straight through and killed his horse.’
‘That’s what Roe was screaming at me,’ I mumbled.
Mac said, ‘What?’
‘Nothing. Who won?’
‘Santa Lucia, the favourite.’
‘Punters would’ve been pleased.’
Mac nodded. Lisa was squeezing my hand. I smiled. ‘Must’ve been fun at the Stewards’ Enquiry.’
Between them Mac and Lisa filled in the rest of the story. David Cooper was helping police with their enquiries on the basis that he’d conspired with Roe in giving him personal details about two people: Digby Craddock and Vanessa Compton.
It seemed Roe had treated the boy kindly from the start, explained his beliefs to him, even sought comfort from the kid over the death of his own son. I felt stupid at being duped by young Cooper’s excuse of escaping from the cellar that night.
David, with Jack Cooper as a parent, had taken to Roe as a worthwhile father figure, someone to whom money meant nothing, but the lives of defenceless creatures meant everything. This had blinded the kid to Roe’s madness. They reckoned a good lawyer would keep David out of jail, and that maybe even Roe would escape it for a mental institution.
And Roe’s big plan for the Grand National? He had intended to release David Cooper on the Wednesday and have the boy claim he’d escaped. Cooper was then to help smuggle Roe into the weighing room on Saturday, where he would hold all the jockeys at gunpoint and give his anti-National speech direct to camera at the off time so that the broadcast went all over the world. With Roe’s face in every newspaper and TV broadcast, they’d had to settle for Cooper’s mini-version.
Beckman has yet to be sighted.
I was on my feet in a couple of days, and almost a hundred per cent within a week. The season was nearly over, I was tired and so was Lisa. Jack Cooper’s cheque arrived with the message that he was giving up his racing interests to spend more time with his son. Lisa and I decided to go away for a month and return refreshed for the new season.
We did some spring-cleaning before we left for Antigua, and I found the Bible which had been kept handy these last few weeks. Browsing through I discovered what looked like a suitable quote for Victor Roe. I scribbled out the chapter and verse numbers on a scrap of paper – “John 19:30” – and dropped it in an envelope addressed to the prison hospital.
We mailed it from the airport.
Book 3 Blood Ties
Blood Ties
Copyright © 2015 by Joe McNally & Richard Pitman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Authors’ note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a work of the imagination of the authors or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
1
In the dying days of the old jump season, after the toughest five months since my comeback, I got a phone call.
‘Malloy?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t recognize him.
‘You don’t know me, but you’ll get to know my voice.’
I hoped not. It had a sniggering, know-it-all tone. I said nothing.
He said, ‘You’re riding right through the summer?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Just listen. You’re riding through the summer.’ No longer a question.
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybe. You will be.’
Stern. Commanding. Certain. I felt a nervous ripple in my gut.
He said, ‘Over the next few months I’m going to call you a few times - probably on the evening before you ride something fancied. I’ll give you riding instructions and you’ll stick to them.’
Trainers gave riding instructions, and very occasionally, owners would; complete strangers were a new one on me.
‘You listening, Malloy?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘I know something about you. You do what you’re told or I give it to Kerman.’
Jean Kerman was a ruthless tabloid journalist specializing in dirt digging in sport - she’d ruined at least a dozen careers.
I’d been shamed and scorned enough in my life. There was only one thing left, one secret, and I said a brief intense prayer against his knowing it.
He spoke again.
He didn’t know it.
The sudden relief cushioned the shock of what he did say. I stayed silent, trying to gather my thoughts.
He said: ‘You’ve gone all quiet and shy, Malloy.’
‘Run it past me again.’
‘Don’t mess me around! You heard.’
‘I just want to be sure I’ve got everything right.’
There was a pause then he repeated everything in an impatient monotone, like a teacher with a backward kid. ‘You and Martin Corish are conning breeders. Town Crier isn’t covering the mares you say he is. You’re using a cheap ringer and charging the full fee. Now, if that gets ou
t, do I need to tell you how it will affect your little business, not to mention your career?’
A year ago, I’d invested everything I had in becoming equal partner with Martin Corish in the stud he had started. I hadn’t a clue what this guy was talking about, but he sounded very convincing. I said, ‘I think we’d better meet.’
‘I think you’d better get your cheating boots on. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Listen…’
He hung up.
I rang Martin. His secretary-cum-groom was evasive, defensive. She told me he wasn’t around.
‘When will he be around?’
‘Emmm. I’m not really sure.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Maybe if you call this evening.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I’m sorry Mister Malloy, I can’t say.’
‘Look, don’t make me drive all the way down there.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just to say he’s uncontactable. That’s what I was told.’
‘Where’s Caroline?’
‘Mrs. Corish isn’t well. She’s lying down.’ The girl was agitated, her voice rising. It was unfair to take out my frustrations on her. There was obviously something wrong at the stud. I told her I’d see her in an hour, clicked the answerphone on, grabbed my jacket and pointed the car toward Wiltshire.
I’d been sucked into enough whirlpools in recent years to sense another one when it was still some way off. I was already feeling the pull of its vortex.
2
It was close to nightfall when I reached the farm. As I swung the heavy wooden gate open, insects hummed in the greenery and swarmed around the headlights that illuminated the sign reading: THIS GATE MUST BE KEPT CLOSED AT ALL TIMES. It wasn’t unusual for a horse to get loose somewhere on the enclosed three hundred acres. If you could keep them off the roads, you stood a chance of getting them back unharmed.