The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  But Tranter reined back to come round and move inside as we rounded the bend, at which point he bumped my horse hard, forcing us into the middle of the track.

  He followed.

  I glared across. ‘Tranter, what the…?’

  He bumped us again, and then with an exaggerated show of trying to control the big black gelding, he forced him onto mine, leaning and boring diagonally toward the river.

  ‘Straighten up, you bastard!’ I yelled, but he was half-standing in the stirrups, pretending to haul at the reins while carrying me off the course. Looking at the bridle, I saw the bit had come right through the horse’s mouth. Tranter was without brakes or steering.

  We were feet from the white rails and I tried desperately to pull Cliptie up, but Tranter’s horse carried us through in a crackling shower of plastic shards as the rails shattered. We were on the downward slope of the riverbank, travelling too fast for an emergency ejection. I made do with getting my feet out of the irons just before Cliptie burst through the glinting surface of the peaceful, slow-flowing Tay.

  The sound of half a ton of galloping thoroughbred hitting deep water was like a bomb blast, shaking me almost as much as the shock of the temperature change and the sudden confusion of my senses. Cliptie’s momentum carried me under as he overturned in the water.

  Temporary panic. Sucked down by the horse. Very cold. Goggles filling through the tiny air holes. Water swilling darkly. On my back now. The sun a watery molten disc above. Terrible memories.

  A heavy punch hits my shoulder. Must be Tranter. Mad bastard. I turn, in fear.

  No Tranter but Cliptie, kicking out, beginning to swim. The reins move like dark skinny eels. I grab at them and pull myself toward Cliptie’s strong neck, which I clasp in a hug, forcing tiny bubbles from his coat. Could use some of them. Not much air left in my lungs. But Cliptie’s paddling strongly. Best rely on him.

  We break the surface.

  Cliptie blows through his nostrils as though applauding himself. I cough and splutter and try to look up. Blinded by the light.

  5

  The horses were okay. We’d been lucky to miss the rocky shallows and plunge into a deep pool in the river’s curve. At the Stewards’ Enquiry, Tranter looked suitably shocked and penitent. The patrol film ‘showed clearly’, according to the Stewards, that the loose bridle had caused Tranter’s misfortune and therefore mine. Although he swore the bridle had been correctly fitted, they fined the baffled trainer of Tranter’s horse £200.

  Now I knew why Tranter had been fiddling with the bridle at the start, a point he quickly raised in his defense, claiming it had felt loose and he’d been worried about it.

  I was certain he’d sabotaged the bridle. I’d considered Billy Tranter nothing more than a bad loser, a small-minded guy who harboured grudges. But if he had deliberately loosened that bridle then he’d endangered himself as well as me, not to mention two racehorses.

  I wondered what I had to do to stop him. I’d tried being tough on the track, I’d decked him at Bangor, I’d threatened to have him warned off. What next? He was rushing to ride in the second race and I was in a hurry to get back to the stud. I had to settle for tugging his sleeve and speaking quietly. ‘When are you going to give up, Billy? When we’re both dead?’

  He grinned coldly and triumphantly, and I was left unsure as to whether that meant his ‘honour’ had now been satisfied or if he was already planning the next round.

  By the main gate, Cliptie’s lad was walking the steaming horse in a circle. Cliptie seemed bright and refreshed for his cool bath. Barney Dolan, his trainer, looked shell-shocked.

  He leant against the fence, watching Cliptie with unblinking eyes. He didn’t see me until I stopped beside him. The sun filtering through his loose-weave Panama hat cast a tight pattern on his face, making his booze-reddened nose even darker. The knot of his tie hung six inches below his sweat-stained shirt collar and a heavy sports jacket was draped across his forearm. On the grass at his feet lay his battered binoculars case.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  He pulled his mind to the present and focused on me. ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  He reached in his jacket for cigarettes and matches, then dropped the jacket beside the binoculars and lit a cigarette. ‘He would have won that, Eddie. Pissed up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was pointless telling the Tranter story. I let him believe it was just bad luck.

  He nodded again, slowly, not looking at me. He drew deeply and blew smoke into the hot still air. ‘We needed that, Eddie.’

  Gently I clasped his arm. ‘There’ll be another time. I’d love to ride him again.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  More smoke. That faraway look again. ‘Gimme a call if there’s anything,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  After an hour’s driving, I was yawning at regular intervals. My ribs ached too. After my ducking, the doctor at Perth had restrapped them but the bandages felt tight. And I was hungry. To hell with it. The mystery of Martin Corish could keep until tomorrow. I turned off and headed west toward home.

  6

  I left after breakfast next day and reached the stud just before ten. I parked by the wall of the house as Fiona came out of the yard, leading a mare whose bright chestnut foal followed anxiously, tottering on too-long legs like a child in high heels. Fiona didn’t acknowledge me as I got out. ‘Good morning,’ I called after her.

  ‘Morning,’ she said without turning.

  ‘Is Mrs. Corish home?’

  ‘Try the garden.’

  Following a side path, I came to a gate in a high hedge. The big sandstone house cast a long shadow over the kidney-shaped garden, only the top third of which was in sunshine. Two white patio chairs stood in the centre of the lawn. Another white chair and a matching table had been moved into the sunny spot. On the chair, her back to me, sat Caroline Corish.

  She stirred slightly as she heard the metal latch click when the gate swung closed, but didn’t look round. I called out, ‘Good morning!’

  She turned, saw me through her sunglasses but said nothing. I crossed the lawn, lifted a chair and put it down by Caroline’s table.

  She wore cream-coloured calf-length leggings, which were stained, and what looked like one of her husband’s shirts, blue-striped and open-necked, showing a sunburned V of skin. She was shoeless. Her feet were dirty. Cracked dried blood showed on the toes of her right foot.

  On the soiled tabletop lay a packet of cigarettes, an expensive lighter, a half-empty bottle of white rum and a litre of cola. She drank from the fat glass in her hand. It wasn’t yet 10.30.

  Even behind the dark glasses Caroline looked haggard. Fortyish, she was naturally slim but looked gaunt. As she raised the glass, her wedding ring slid an inch along her bony finger. I’d known them for years and had never understood what Martin had seen in her. Most times I’d met her, she’d had something to whine about. Her commitment to drowning sorrows this early told me that Martin was causing plenty trouble.

  I kept it light. ‘Sunbathing?’ I asked, as I sat down.

  ‘Do make yourself comfortable, won’t you?’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Drunk. Cheers.’ She emptied the glass in two long swallows and refilled it, the cola frothing and running over the edge.

  ‘What’s the celebration?’

  She turned petulantly and I was glad I couldn’t see her eyes. ‘Surviving another night alone in the fucking Ponderosa,’ she said, nodding toward the house.

  ‘Where’s Martin?’

  ‘Screwing stablegirls, probably.’

  ‘He’s been away for a few days?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss if he never comes back.’ She shook a cigarette from the packet and lit it, killing the scent of the flowers with the smoke flaring down her nostrils.

  ‘Caroline, it’s important that I speak to Martin soon. Have you any idea where he’s gone?’

&nb
sp; ‘Why don’t you go and ask that little whore, Fiona? Ask her if he plans to be there to hold her hand when she’s in labour?’

  Oh dear. My thoughts returned to Fiona’s open jodhpurs and protruding white belly. And her haranguing of Martin on the phone. I guessed he had more problems than just Town Crier.

  In the yard, red-haired Fiona looked almost as rough as Caroline did, though considerably plumper. She was yelling at two lads to get some tack cleaned. They wandered slowly out of the feed-room, chatting as if she didn’t exist.

  ‘Glad to hear you’ve got your voice back,’ I said.

  She stared at me, flushed from shouting. I asked where Martin was and she continued the silent treatment, which was really beginning to piss me off. I said, ‘Fiona, if you want to have a job this time next week then answer me when I talk to you.’

  She half-sneered, ‘You can’t sack me.’

  ‘Martin’s disappeared. I’m applying to have the business assigned to me.’

  She seemed uncertain. ‘You can’t. He’ll be home to…’ She stopped herself.

  ‘When? Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m not to say.’

  ‘Okay, pick up your things. I’ll pay you a month’s wages in lieu of notice and send your cards on.’

  I turned and went into the office. She yelled after me: ‘You can’t! You can’t!’ I brought out a jacket and a shoulder bag. ‘These yours?’

  She crossed her arms. ‘I won’t accept them!’

  I laid them on the ground. ‘Anything else you want to recover from the office?’

  She scowled. ‘You can’t do this!’

  I checked my watch. ‘It shouldn’t take you long to walk to the main gate. Be off the property in half an hour.’ I returned to the office. A few minutes later, I was going through the contents of the filing cabinet when the door creaked open. Fiona stood there, the sun haloing her carrot hair. Staring at her feet like a little girl, she said, ‘Martin will be here in the morning.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘First thing.’

  ‘Fine. Come in and start explaining how this place has been running.’

  She worked confidently through the paperwork, showing me the accounts. I learned little either way. I was not enough of a financial gourmet to detect the whiff of cooked books and Fiona probably realized this.

  Although I knew where Town Crier was stabled, I asked her to take me there to see if that shook her confidence, but she led me to the box without hesitation.

  In front of me was a long strong bay horse, well ribbed up with straight hocks and good legs, a fine head with large ears and a bold eye. The only marking on him was a touch of white no bigger than a thumbprint on his forehead. I was sure within a minute this was the genuine Town Crier, and equally certain that physically at least there was not a thing wrong with him.

  I asked Fiona when he’d last covered a mare.

  ‘Er. A week ago today, I think. Yes, last Friday.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you see him covering?’

  ‘No.’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Who else?’

  Her brows knitted. ‘A couple of the lads, I think.’

  I dropped the subject and told her I was heading into Marlborough to book a room for the evening. I warned her that if she rushed off to ring Martin she’d better tell him that if he wasn’t here first thing in the morning, she’d be out of a job and I’d be out looking for him.

  7

  I rang home to my answerphone. No messages.

  I found a small hotel, removed my rib strapping, had a cool shower and lay wet and naked on the bed, letting the air from the open window dry me. I thought about Martin Corish. He had been my boyhood hero, champion jockey when I was a teenager. It hadn’t been just his brilliant riding that had bewitched me: he was interviewed often on TV and always seemed to have a twinkle in his eye and a joke ready, usually told against himself. He was handsome too, but seemed to manage that rare balance of attracting women while not alienating men.

  By the time I started riding, Martin’s career was winding down, but I’d made no secret of how much I admired him. Admiration which increased when he accepted me immediately as his equal, as a man and as a jockey. He made me feel special and it took me a while to realize that was how he made most people feel. It wasn’t contrived on his part; he was simply a charismatic type of guy.

  After retiring he’d spent some time working on TV and radio before setting up as a trainer, something I felt he’d put off deliberately till the highs of his riding days were more of a memory. To achieve the same success training would have been a tough enough task without carrying the burden of other people’s expectations.

  Martin never reached higher than middle rank when he was training, and when that position started slipping he packed up, unwilling to wait for the humiliating slide to obscurity. That’s when he set up the stud, which had been going for three years when he’d approached me last summer, offering me a fifty-fifty partnership for £200,000.

  In any normal season I’d be lucky to have a twentieth of that in the bank, but I’d come into some money via an insurance company reward. My share had been a hundred and seventy-five grand. I had ten of my own in cash and I’d borrowed another fifteen and gone in with Martin. I guess I’d never really lost that desire to impress him, to win his approval.

  It hadn’t made me a millionaire but it hadn’t proved disastrous either. I’d managed to make the loan repayments quite comfortably and start rebuilding modest savings from the director’s salary the stud paid me. But I was a long way from getting my money back.

  I lay staring at the ceiling, promising myself I’d resist Martin’s charm in the morning, wouldn’t be calmed down by layers of bullshit. I’d be as hard with him as I had been with Fiona.

  I swung my legs off the bed and stood up in front of the full-length mirror fixed to the open wardrobe door. Fresh bruises added to the colourful display on my ribcage, shellbursts of yellow and blue. On my left shinbone, a familiar old pink scar, legacy of a pin insertion years ago, ran diagonally through the dark hair. My muscle definition was good, but I noticed a thickening round the middle and more flesh on the upper thighs. I’d never had a weight problem but last season a pound or two extra had somehow lodged itself on my frame.

  I decided to skip dinner.

  After the nine o’clock news, I made a final call to my answerphone. The first message was from Barney Dolan, Cliptie’s trainer. He wanted to meet me at Worcester tomorrow to discuss something important.

  The second call was from the blackmailer: ‘I see from the papers you took a little bath up at Perth yesterday. Most amusing. Don’t ever accept a ride again after the overnight stage. I’ll be in touch.’

  Arrogant bastard.

  Jockeys declared at the overnight stage were guaranteed to have their names appear alongside their mount in the morning papers. If this guy didn’t know where I was riding, he couldn’t ask me to stop one. I was seething as I worked through my diary in search of Barney Dolan’s number. He sounded anxious when I explained to him that I had no plans to be at Worcester tomorrow. I had no booked rides and, more importantly, I had pressing business elsewhere.

  There was a long pause then Barney said, ‘Eddie, I’ve got to see you. I’m in deep trouble. Fierce trouble. I need to see you tomorrow.

  8

  I was at the stud by 5.30 a.m. in case Martin decided to pay a fleeting morning visit. In the paddocks, mares and foals grazed. Mist rose from the river and dew lay thick on the front lawn of the big house. The yard was empty of people, though equine heads looked inquiringly over box doors, a few whinnying at the prospect of an early breakfast.

  The office was locked. I sat on the red-leaded windowsill and watched the sun rise slowly over the pitched roof of the stable block. Just after seven, as the lads arrived on foot and by bike, I heard a car and walked out to
see if it was Martin. The car had stopped two hundred yards along the road beside the cottage where Fiona lived. Martin drove a gunmetal grey Rover and the car was the right shape, though the angle of the sunlight made it hard to distinguish colour.

  I reversed my car along the drive and blocked the exit road. I’d thought the whine of the fast gear would bring him hurrying to investigate, but he stayed inside for almost ten minutes and didn’t look surprised when he came out and saw me.

  Many ex-jockeys quickly bloat as they indulge themselves after years of self-deprivation, but Martin had never been more than half a stone over his riding weight. Standing on the steps of the cottage, he looked a stone under it. His five foot ten was stretched and gaunt. With his hunched shoulders, curved spine and drooping head he resembled a jockey off one of the old cigarette cards.

  He stood like a prisoner in the dock waiting to be taken down, eyes on the ground as I approached.

  I’d spent much of the morning rehearsing angry words, but when I saw his face all I could say was, ‘Are you okay?’

  He raised a warm but very tired smile, and once again, maddeningly, I felt somehow privileged. It was almost as if he had only three of those smiles left to get him through the rest of his life, and he’d spent one on me. He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come in and have some breakfast.’

  I stopped him. ‘I’d rather we spoke alone.’

  ‘It’s okay, Fiona’s just leaving.’

  She must have been standing inside the open door for she appeared on cue, kissed Martin lightly on the cheek and came down the front step where he ruffled her hair affectionately before she walked up the dusty road in the direction of the yard.

  The cottage kitchen was untidy. Dirty clothes lay on the floor by the open door of the washing machine and the sink was full of dishes. Old newspapers and office books were strewn on the table, which had a pine bench on either side. Martin cleared a space. ‘Sit down, Eddie. Coffee?’