by Joe McNally
I soon found Iron Fist. He was by the parade-ring rail with his equally tall friend from Dunn’s place. Two for the price of one. I climbed the steps to the balcony. Three horses were being led round and as each of them approached the pair, who were deep in conversation, I raised the camera and took a few shots; more than I’d intended with the first burst as the rapid motordrive reacted to my heavy finger and fired off a salvo. I shot the whole film, then found Charlie Harris by the unsaddling enclosure and returned the camera.
Esher High Street is a short walk from Sandown Racecourse. I doubted I’d find a one-hour-development place but not only did I find one, the girl offered to produce standard size prints within ten minutes. My intention had been to order eight by sixes to give Mac a clearer picture, but I could get those done later.
My luck had been good and I didn’t want to push it by going back into the racecourse. I couldn’t be sure that the hard men, or maybe Candy if he was involved with them, hadn’t already seen me. I sat in my car and dialed Mac’s number.
‘Mac, can you spare a few minutes to come to the car park?’
‘When?’
‘Now. It’s important. I won’t keep you long.’ Shortly afterwards I watched his grey-suited bulk amble toward me.
Mac, grunting as he stooped, settled into the passenger seat, his dark wavy hair brushing the roof. I showed him the pictures, told him I’d just taken them. ‘Recognize them?’
He stared, brushed his finger over a slight flaw on one of the prints. ‘No.’
He didn’t convince me. ‘You’ve never seen them before?’ I asked.
‘Can’t be certain I’ve never seen them before but I definitely don’t know them.’
‘Think you could find anything out?’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe.’
I turned to face him. ‘Mac,’ he looked at me, ‘can you still make the telephone number top priority? This was a bonus today, and I’m glad for it, but what I really need is the address that call was made from.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Good. Thanks. Can you call me when you get it?’
‘Okay.’
He left. I was glad he hadn’t drawn it all out with the usual whys and wherefores. I drove to Dunn’s place, stopping off at Compton Breslin’s office to pick up a Private & Confidential envelope and the last three seasons’ formbooks as promised. Heavy skies hung over Six Mile Bottom, particularly dark and sombre above the woods opposite Dunn’s bungalow.
No lights flashing on the answerphone. I dialed 1471 again to reassure myself and found it was the same number as this morning. In the dim kitchen, I shifted the table and a chair close to the window. I couldn’t risk switching the light on. I plugged in the charger for my mobile and left the phone slotted into it. Armed with a cup of coffee, pens and a thick notepad, I settled down to try to find some strategy in Alex Dunn’s betting habits.
The computer printout listed 2,418 bets in the space of 123 weeks with total stakes of £482,115. Almost half a million.
It worked out at an average of just under £200 per bet. Dunn’s losses in the period were £98,777.
Breslin’s customer monitoring was very efficient. He’d put a note in telling me that his profit margin on Dunn’s bets, 20 percent, was slightly worse than average for Breslin since he normally expected a margin, on all business, of around 22 percent. Breslin also apologized for being unable to provide a more detailed analysis of Dunn’s bets. The printout showed every horse he had backed but there was no trainer or jockey information, something Breslin said was being built into his new computer programme.
Almost all the bets had been struck on course, which meant betting tax wouldn’t be deducted. Comparatively few had been placed by phone. I stared at the list of horses’ names feeling like a commentator studying for the Charge of the Light Brigade. I’d sat down to this with considerable optimism but now it looked as if it would take days.
I sighed, sipped tepid coffee and set up list headings on my pad: Owner, Trainer, Jockey, Date and Racecourse. Then, starting with Dunn’s very first bet, I opened the relevant formbook.
By the time McCarthy rang, I was working by a flashlight lodged between books.
‘Any news, Mac?’
‘Yes, though I’m not sure it’s what you want to hear. The telephone number you gave me is from a public callbox in Newmarket.’
‘Public or in a pub or something?’
‘In the street, the High Street.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Well, I don’t know exactly but there can’t be many, it’s hardly Sunset Boulevard down there.’
‘Can you find out exactly where it is?’
He sighed. ‘It’ll have to be tomorrow.’
‘Morning?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘What about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I’ve showed the pictures to my own people. Nobody can put a name to either though some mentioned seeing them around recently.’
‘How recently?’
‘The last three or four months is the best guess.’
‘Mac, could you put a man on one of them for a few days?’ That sigh again, louder this time. ‘Eddie, it’s very difficult.’
‘I know it is but I need a favour. I’m sure it’ll be worth your while finding out who these guys are.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Till when?’
‘Please don’t push me, Eddie.’
‘I’m in a pushy mood.’
‘Are you ever any other way?’
I smiled. ‘Where are you tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Back at Sandown. Aren’t you riding at Market Rasen?’
‘Not unless there’s a message on my answerphone, promising me a winner. I’ll still be here in Newmarket. Will you call me in the morning?’
‘I will.’
‘And Mac, look out for those guys again tomorrow. I’ll be interested to know if they turn up and more interested to know if either of them is seen in the company of Francis Loss.’
‘Why?’
‘I saw one of them getting out of Loss’s car at Sandown today.’
‘So?’
‘Just a thought. No big deal but if either of them is seen with Loss again, I’d like to know.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Okay. Call me tomorrow.’
At 9 p.m., my mobile rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Mister Malloy, it’s Alex Dunn.’
The last person I’d expected. Odd, too, to feel I was sitting in his house.
I stayed silent. He said, ‘Do you still want information about your stallion?’
‘I want to know what’s wrong with him.’
‘I can tell you that. Meet me tomorrow at noon at your father’s place.’
‘Are you there now?’
‘No, but I’ll be there at noon tomorrow, I promise.’
‘You’ve promised before.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
There was something wrong. Dunn’s heart didn’t quite seem to be in what he was saying.
‘Why this time?’ I asked. ‘What’s changed your mind?’
‘Today I… look, I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
I still had doubts but there was little to lose. ‘Okay. I’ll be there.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
I considered ringing my mother, hesitated, put down the receiver and picked it up again. Dialed. The answerphone at the stud clicked on, my mother sounding all proper. I hung up.
I decided it was best not to let Martin know I was meeting Dunn next day. He might go blundering in, scaring him. There was also a strong chance Dunn wouldn’t turn up and I didn’t want another scene with my partner if that happened.
Best if I went alone.
I was there at 11.45. Dunn’s blue estate was in the drive. There was no sign of any other vehicle. I wondered where my father’s car was. I went to the house fir
st and rang the bell. No answer. I waited a minute then pushed through the creaky gate into the stable yard.
Something wasn’t right.
A row of empty boxes. Last time I’d been here all six had been occupied. Now the doors stood open.
I resisted calling Dunn’s name and moved forward slowly, quietly.
I thought I heard a groan coming from the box in the corner and something moving in the straw. I glanced behind me as a car passed on the road, the sound fading quickly into the distance. I walked toward the open box, stopped outside and listened. Silence.
I looked round again then took a step inside. The half-doors were unevenly opened, the gap throwing an oddly shaped wedge of sunlight against the wall of the box, highlighting the dust motes, tiny stars above the straw landscape.
A sudden noise made me turn, but someone pushed a wide hood over my head, light cloth, the sun still bright through the material as I was spun round, as a pad was clamped across my nose and mouth, sweet-smelling but sharp, recognizable even as consciousness left me. Ether.
31
When I woke up the sun still shone. Blue sky. No clouds. I was staring at the sky without having to tilt my chin. Couldn’t understand it. Blinking wildly, screwing my eyes up against it as consciousness returned, senses revived. And I could feel something familiar beneath me, feel it and smell it. A horse. Warm, reassuring.
But skittish. Whinnying lightly. Shuffling.
Couldn’t see the horse. Wasn’t astride it. But fixed there. Uncomfortably. Tied on spine to spine. Wrists bound under the neck, ankles roped underneath, as though girthed. Thought it must be a dream, an after effect of the ether. I tried to get up, almost wrenching my wrists out of their sockets. Tried my legs: the same. They’d been splayed across the animal’s ribcage, fastened under her belly, fixing me like a hog on a spit except that nothing had been shoved in one end and out of the other. Not yet.
The sun was hot on my body. I raised my head. I was naked.
Nearly laughed.
Tied to a horse. Naked.
I’d heard of King Midas in reverse. Now Lady Godiva in reverse.
No blonde hair to cover my modesty. Nothing. Funny. I might have laughed if I hadn’t been so uncomfortable.
What was happening? What the hell was Dunn doing to me?
As my mind began to clear of ether, there came a sound that blew away all my comical notions: the unmistakable snort of a stallion. Off to my left, not underneath me.
He neighed excitedly and tramped the ground and I realized that I was tied securely to a mare in season.
I turned as far as the bindings allowed, trying to see exactly where he was. The first pass reminded me of the shark in ‘Jaws’. His head glided past, mouth open, big stained teeth, eyes wide, ears pricked. Black he was.
I swallowed, prayed for my brain to clear properly.
The mare moved nervously beneath me. I could hear her ears flick. I realized her spine was noticeably dipped. An old hand, her back curved with age and the strain of bearing foals. God only knew what was going through her mind.
The black stallion came alongside, rubbed himself against her, jamming my right leg. The mare shied. Somebody said, ‘Whoah!’ quietly and held her steady.
‘Dunn!’ I called out. ‘Dunn! Is that you?’
No answer.
‘You crazy bastard! Get me off this!’
The stallion came in again, nipped my bare calf, snorted, rubbed again. I could feel no bridle. I raised my head. No one was holding him.
I pulled with hands and feet but the rope bit tight and the mare whinnied and reared, giving me a brief rollercoaster view of the big black stallion as he prepared to mount her. They held her steady then suddenly he was up, his huge dark head and wild mane blotting out the sun. I yelped in fear as his front legs clasped mine hard to the side of the mare, and his big open brown-toothed mouth bore down on me.
But he slipped off.
Then he was up again, more anxious now, eyes wide and white, staring madly at this strange intruder, this naked helpless chaperone. Then he was in her and on me, grunting, slobbering and biting at her neck, catching my left arm, biting me. I wanted to cry out in pain and fear but didn’t want to enrage him so I lay there, eyes closed in terror, feeling the rhythmical pump of his loins, thinking of the times I’d sat astride others of his breed beating just as rhythmically with my whip.
I curved my spine desperately downwards, trying to follow the line of the mare’s, trying to get some of the weight of the stallion off me as his belly spread on my pelvis. Sweat lubricated our backbones, allowing me to slip that vital few inches lower as the stallion’s sweat rubbed into a froth covering my genitals and thighs. His huge lolling tongue painted saliva on me as his head rose and fell, and I heard his teeth grate against the hair on her neck and I prayed he wouldn’t take my arm in his mouth.
Suddenly the mare neighed and moved as voices urged her forward. The stallion raised his head and almost screamed as he tottered after her, struggling to keep his penis inside. I saw what I thought was a pitchfork arcing upwards, the tines hitting the stallion in the mouth. He squealed and backed off, and I lost sight of him as the mare trotted off, bouncing and bending my spine. She went in a straight line and I realized she was still being led. Raising my head again, I saw us approach the gate in the corner of the sandy quadrangle we’d been locked into. The gate was open. The escape route was there. I sighed long and loud.
But the mare was pulled up short and my bonds quickly cut. I was dragged to the ground, landing hard on a sharp stone that bit into my buttock.
Then the mare was away through the gate.
And the gate swung closed.
And I rolled over to find myself alone with a half a ton of dark wrathful thoroughbred. He stood foursquare by the gate staring after the departing mare, his neighing almost a roar, his huge penis pulsing and swinging, pushing through the bars of the gate as he reared.
I began moving sideways at a crouch, anxious to stay below his line of vision. All around me was a high paneled fence, sheer and unscalable. The stallion blocked the only exit route.
He reared again, pawing the air then catching the top bars of the wooden gate with his hooves as he plunged down. I’d crept into the far corner. The fading sound of the mare’s hooves finally went out of human earshot, and a few seconds later, he turned and came toward me as if he’d known exactly where I was all the time.
Big black head down, thick neck stretched, eyes rolling wildly, ears laid flat, his shoulder muscles bunched and flexed as he came at me in a determined swinging trot. I sprang to my feet, painfully aware of my nakedness, blood running down my bitten forearm as my hands automatically covered my genitals. His open mouth twisted sideways, dripping red where the pitchfork had pierced him, and the sun caught silver strands of saliva spanning those teeth.
I looked around for a weapon: nothing. Nothing but loose dirt.
The dirt.
I bent and scooped a double handful as, teeth snapping, he came at me. I threw it at his eyes and saw most go in his mouth, but it slowed him long enough for me to race past him, deliberately brushing his shoulder so he would have to make a full turn to come after me.
I heard him splutter and cough as I sprinted for the gate about thirty yards away. Then his hooves grinding as he spun, and his angry snort. My bare feet pounded the small stones but I wasn’t aware of any pain as the strongest surge of adrenalin I’d known for years carried me to that gate, hoping and praying that whoever had put me in here wasn’t lurking, ready to cut off my escape.
I could hear the stallion’s hoofbeats, swore I could feel his breath on my neck, but I was within springing distance of the gate and my outstretched hands caught the top bar with perfect timing, helping me vault over to land on my back and roll in the dirt, praying once again that the bastard wouldn’t try to follow me.
He didn’t. And I lay laughing with relief and saying, ‘Jesus! Jesus!’ giggling nervously and uncontrollably at the
craziness of it all. I thought how ridiculous I must look.
Only his head was over the gate and he stared at me, snorting in rage and frustration. Smiling I said to him, ‘It wasn’t me that put her off. Maybe it’s your technique.’ I rose, very relieved, still smiling but feeling some sympathy for the stallion. ‘You need to treat them better. Bottle of bubbly. Some nice flowers. Try that next time.’
Then the elation ebbed quickly as I realized my attacker was probably still around. I stood and listened but could hear only the stallion breathing loud and pawing.
Where were my clothes?
Moving stealthily outdoors on bare feet isn’t easy, but I made a reasonable attempt at it, nursing my injured arm as I went in the direction the mare had been led. I found her, unperturbed and alone in a box. I rubbed her nose and she shied away, staring at me.
I said, ‘I didn’t mean to break up the party, honestly.’
I skirted the buildings, checking the other boxes, the feed room and the barn where I picked up a shining hand scythe.
Nobody. No more horses. Working my way to where I’d started, I returned to the open box where I’d been grabbed. I remembered thinking there’d been someone in there.
Holding the scythe loosely in my right hand, I pushed the bottom door of the box fully open and saw the straw behind it. Then I pushed the top door. It was gloomy inside, but I couldn’t hear so much as a breath. Cautiously I went in.
My clothes were on the floor beside the thin white-headed corpse of Alex Dunn. His body held some warmth but no pulse. He lay on his side in the foetal position, his face frozen in a painful grimace. There was nothing I could do for him, and I felt a powerful urge to get dressed and get my wound attended to. The last thing I reached for was my shirt. Lying on the straw beneath it was a large brown envelope.
My name was written on the front in broad black letters. Opening it carefully, I moved toward the light as I drew out a handful of typewritten notes. I stood in the sunshine but had never felt colder as I read those pages. They listed the most painful, shameful episode of my life, baring and freezing my soul in a few hundred words of harsh detail. I closed my eyes, raised my face to the sun, tried to find some hope, some miracle that would let me look again at the papers and find something different.