‘When the Pope was an altar boy.’
‘Want me to remind you what it feels like?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve got some old videos at home. Maybe I’ll watch them tonight.’
‘Black and white?’
‘Ha bloody ha!’
Tobin, smiling, trotted ahead as they went behind the stands. In the betting ring, Eddie could hear bookies shouting odds on the photo finish, trying to squeeze some extra cash out of the race before the official result was announced. They were offering 5-1 against Chatscombe and no price against Tobin’s. An option to bet the loser only. Eddie shook his head; no wonder some bookmakers got themselves bad reputations.
Riding into the bay reserved for the runner-up, he couldn’t understand why the result hadn’t yet been announced. As he undid the girth and slipped the squeaking saddle off the sweat-stained horse, the PA blared: ‘In the third race, the judge has called for a print.’
Eddie and Chatscombe’s trainer, looked at each other, then Eddie caught Bobby Tobin’s equally quizzical glance. The judge normally asked for a print of the photo finish only when the result was desperately close. A murmur rippled through the crowd. A minute later the announcer’s voice silenced everyone: ‘Here is the result of the third race: first, number four, Chatscombe; second—’
Even over the noise of the PA, Eddie heard Tobin say, ‘You have got to be kidding!’
The print of the photo was put on display, and many more than usual gathered to see that Chatscombe had won by a very short head.
In the changing room, Tobin sat in shell-shocked silence. Eddie patted him on the shoulder then changed into blue and yellow hooped colours and went out to ride in the next.
2
His losing sequence broken, Eddie walked into the paddock with more confidence. Halfway across, trainer Matt Nash fell in beside him, slipping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. ‘Eddie, I’ve seen sleight of hand a few times but that’s the first time I’ve seen sleight of head! Well done.’
‘Thanks.’
Matt steered him to the centre of the lawn then turned him so they faced each other. The trainer seemed over-excited and nervous. Eddie seldom saw him completely calm; normally Matt fizzed with optimism. Today he was starey-eyed, talking too fast as he gave Eddie instructions on riding Carpathian.
At five nine, Matt stood an inch shorter than Eddie. He’d put on less than half a stone since retiring as a jockey ten years previously, the extra weight taking the gauntness from his frame. Matt was forty-three but kept his brown hair long and unruly, frequently pushing it back from dark, deep-set eyes.
Eddie wore blue and yellow silks, colours he knew were Matt’s, which meant Matt owned the horse as well as trained it.
Eddie let the anxious trainer talk himself out, then he looked inquisitively at him and said, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? You on speed or something?’
Matt laughed nervously and squeezed Eddie’s arm again.
‘Nothing like that. I just need a winner. This winner. Be all right then. No problem. Everything’ll be fine if— ’
Eddie gripped his arm. ‘Calm down.’ Matt felt the panic rise, bringing a sudden need to pee. He needed to tell Eddie how crucial this was for him, but he didn’t want Eddie to feel under pressure. That’s when jockeys make mistakes.
The tension eased when a blonde woman in a long camel coat and suede boots with three inch heels joined them. On her coat collar, a diamond brooch brought some glitter to the gloom. The woman’s eyebrows were as fair as her hair, which, when Eddie saw it close up, looked to have some darker tendrils among the soft and luxuriant natural blondeness.
Her eyes were a rich hazel dotted randomly with tiny dark specks like black stars. Her skin was pale and smooth. She wore mascara, but no lipstick on her generous mouth. Eddie reckoned she’d be in her mid-twenties and he thought he knew her from somewhere.
She leaned forward, allowing Matt to kiss her and waited to be introduced to the jockey. Matt said, ‘Eddie, you remember Rebecca...’
Eddie smiled, holding out his hand. ‘I know we’ve met before, I…’
Rebecca smiled wide showing brilliant white teeth. ‘But you’re not sure where.’
Eddie still held her hand. She didn’t pull it away. ‘It’ll come back to me.’
‘In time for you to ride in this race?’
‘Hopefully.’ They looked at each other.
Rebecca said, ‘I’m Granville Bow’s daughter.’
Eddie said, ‘Of course. I used to ride for your father years ago! How old would you have been then?’
‘Thirteen, fourteen. I remember you much better than you remember me. Had a major crush on you along with half my class at school.’
‘No doubt your tastes have improved since then,’ Eddie said.
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Rebecca said, and finally let go his hand.
Matt spoke. ‘Well, now that you two are reacquainted, I can tell you that Rebecca’s got a couple of good horses with me and we’re going to win lots of races.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, and Eddie wondered if there was more than a trainer/owner relationship there. Matt, as optimistic about his women as his horses, had divorced three times. Rebecca smiled at Eddie again, eyes glinting. ‘Maybe you’ll accept my invitation to ride some time?’
Eddie smiled. 'Maybe I will.'
The mounting bell sounded and Carpathian’s lad turned the horse onto the lawn. Eddie saw that Matt’s nervousness had cranked itself up another notch. They walked toward the big bay gelding. Eddie glanced at Rebecca; the mischief and devilment had gone from her pretty face, replaced by edginess akin to Matt’s. Eddie swung into the saddle, wondering what was at stake here.
Watching Eddie canter down the track, Matt blessed himself. He wasn’t religious but he needed something to cling to. Superstition would have to do. He had told some very dangerous people that the horse would win at a good price - the main reason he’d booked Eddie to ride. Eddie was a tough guy. He took no shit. Matt admired his riding skills but bugger his riding. Matt needed an ally if things went belly-up. Eddie would make an ideal human shield.
When the suspensory ligament on Carpathian’s near foreleg gave way after the fifth hurdle, Matt and Rebecca watched Eddie pull up quickly and dismount. Both lowered their binoculars. Rebecca’s head went up, looking to heaven for redemption. Matt’s head went down, and he stared into hell.
3
Eddie drove to his flat in Shropshire, happy, for once, with a single winner. He’d been disappointed for Matt when Carpathian had broken down. Eddie knew the big horse wouldn’t run again.
After the race Matt had seemed shell-shocked, Rebecca Bow dazed, but neither said anything significant to him, so Eddie had expressed his sympathy and left them staring at each other. He had an important dinner that evening.
Dark hair damp from the shower, Eddie stood in his best suit, knotting his tie when the phone rang. He glanced at the clock as he picked up the receiver: 7.50. Matt, still on edge.
‘Eddie, you’re riding at Taunton tomorrow?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Listen, I’ve got three runners there.’
Eddie looked anxiously at his watch. ‘Sorry, Matt, I’m already booked in . . .’
‘No, no, no, I don’t want you to ride for me, not at Taunton. I wondered if you’d like to leave home a bit earlier and drop in here for the second lot?’
Riding out for Matt would mean getting up before five. He’d been hoping to have a relaxed dinner and a drink. ‘Matt, listen, I. . .’
‘I’d like you to ride work on Prince Simba.’
Prince Simba. Matt’s stable star, so precious to the trainer that he’d sweated and worked to regain fitness and reapply for his jockey’s licence to ride the horse himself. Prince Simba had already won two of the biggest races that season and, whatever Matt’s reasons, Eddie would have been foolish to reject this chance.
‘Okay, Matt, I’ll be there.’
&
nbsp; ‘Good. And I thought that maybe we’d travel to Taunton together.’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Don’t be late then, will you?’
‘I’ll be there around eight.’
‘That’s fine.’
Although keen to get away, Eddie felt obliged to ask about Carpathian. Matt sighed. ‘He’s in bad shape but who knows, maybe we can do something after a year’s rest.’
Eddie smiled. That seemed more like the old Matt; never say die. Eddie went to the mirror to finish this tie-work. He looked at himself and wondered what lay behind Matt’s invitation to ride Prince Simba. Why hadn’t he mentioned it at Newbury that afternoon?
He slid the knot to the top button of the white shirt and leaned closer to the mirror. His fine-boned face glowed from the hot shower, the one inch crescent scar on his cheekbone raised and pink. Eddie couldn’t decide whether to be proud of that scar or not. A few jocks had them, mostly from spills on the track. Eddie got his when a man bit him as he lay trussed up in the boot of a car.
He stood straight and buttoned his jacket, ready for the short walk across the yard to Charles’s house. A chef had been brought in; Eddie believed he could already smell the succulence of cooking meat floating on the evening air. He’d been fasting more often lately. His last decent meal a vague memory.
As he was leaving, the phone rang again. ‘Eddie, how you doing?’ Ken MacAdam, a jockey
‘Not bad, Ken, but I’m under pressure, I’m afraid, been summoned by the big boss. You know how it is.’
‘Yeah, know it well. Old Indian saying: “He who pays retainer has jockey by bollocks.”’
‘Not quite as bad as that, but I’ve got to put in an appearance in about two minutes.’
‘No worries. I thought you’d want to hear about this, thinking of your interest in all things mysterious.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘That winner you rode today, well that so-called winner?’
‘Uhuh?’
‘The same thing happened to me at Stratford two weeks ago. I got beat a head, maybe more. Took the horse into second spot then bugger me if they don’t announce me as the winner! I’ll tell you summat, Eddie, I make as many mistakes as the next fool riding horses for a living, but I wasn’t wrong that day. That horse did not win that race. Okay, I took my percentage and I banked my present, you’ve got to go with the flow, but I rode a loser and I know it.’
Eddie had been involved in enough scrapes to recognize the faintest ping of alarm bells. Ken’s tale made him uneasy, but he didn’t have time to discuss things. ‘We’re the wrong side of thirty now, Ken. Maybe we should get our eyes tested.’
‘The wife says I’ve got eyes like a shit house rat.’
‘Well, it could be we’ve gone so long without a winner we don’t believe it when we get one.’
‘You’re making me think now, Eddie.’
‘Look, mate, I need to go. I appreciate the call.’
‘No worries. You at Taunton tomorrow?’
‘Yep.’
‘See you there.’
‘See you.’
Eddie switched on the answer-phone and made a final check of his slim frame in the mirror. He skipped downstairs and hurried across the yard toward the big house, his steps echoing off the cobbles, out into the winter night.
Thank you
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Joe McNally
Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Page 24