by Joe McNally
‘Thanks,’ she said.
They carried me past her and when she looked down I tried to smile, but it hurt too much.
19
They sedated me and I remember little of the first couple of days in hospital. On the third day things had eased enough to move me from pain-killing injections onto tablets. On day four I asked if I could have a bath and they took so long deciding they must have assembled the whole area health board to discuss it.
When I closed the bathroom door the first thing I saw was a stranger in the mirror.
The image you carry of yourself in your mind’s eye is so solid that even age seems to change it only imperceptibly. To see someone you don’t recognise using your body is a hell of a shock. The first reaction is one of panic and my brain took some time bringing things under control again.
I stood there for a long time, staring. The mirror was six feet away. After some minutes fixed to the spot I moved closer. I stopped and looked at myself from six inches.
The damage was bad. There was nothing on my face that looked like skin in either colour or texture.
It was made up of patches: livid pink, blood red and colours in between. There were small areas of tiny blisters and larger areas of egg-size blisters. My forehead and cheekbone on the right side were badly grazed and my nose and lips had swollen to twice their normal size.
On the remote islands of skin that had survived grew a week’s stubble. It flourished on the large sections of uninjured skin on my neck, making me even uglier.
I ran a warm bath and lay a long time in it. I thought about damage. Permanent damage ... temporary damage ... Damage to my face, my ego, my spirit, my supply of courage ... Well, I could hardly claim to have used any of that which, in the normal way of things, would be good because I would have plenty left.
But I didn’t have. I was frightened. My memory kept dragging me back to the pain. I tried to make myself think of other things, but I couldn’t because that cold logical section of my mind wanted to make me confront reality.
It wasn’t a game. It had never been, I had only thought it was. I’d planned to be the hero, the one who’d get justice for himself and other victims. Too many movies, Eddie ... You’ve seen too many. In real life you were like a child. Helpless, pathetic. They just took you and did what they wanted and you never raised a finger. You’re out of your league, Eddie. They’ll kill you next time. Give it up. Go back to breaking horses.
Conscience speaking. Logic. The Real Me. Whoever ... I knew he was right. Knew I’d never go back. Never try to find the men who did this, never find Kruger.
No licence. No career.
But I’d be alive. I’d be breathing. Nobody would be coming looking for me to scald my face again. A deep groaning sigh escaped from my body, taking me by surprise. Tears welled and a terrible weariness came over me. I had never felt so vulnerable in my life.
Over the next couple of days I came as close as I ever have to total despair. There was plenty pain and lots of self-hatred.
I spoke little and ignored those who spoke to me. I criticised the nurses, wouldn’t eat, was sullen with doctors; when most patients were in bed I’d go to the day room to be alone and if anyone came in I’d leave and lock myself in a toilet cubicle, staying there for hours.
At night I lay thinking how much of a bastard I was being, how big a coward. I should have phoned McCarthy, found out if Harle was okay. I knew the longer I delayed the call the harder it would be to make.
Finally I couldn’t live with it any longer. I rang McCarthy and told him where I was.
Two hours later he was sitting by my bed trying to hide the shock at seeing my face. ‘You don’t look too good.’
‘Don’t feel too good.’
He stared. ‘How long’ve you been in here?’
‘A week.’ I avoided his eyes.
‘A week!’ the whole ward heard it. I glared at him. ‘For God’s sake stop shouting.’
He leaned forward, lowering his head and whispering harshly, ‘Don’t tell me to stop shouting! I get a call from the hire company that the police have found your car abandoned in Lambourn, I’m wondering whether you’re dead or alive and now you tell me you’ve been here a week and you haven’t rung me before now. Why?’
I looked away again. ‘I’ll tell you sometime.’
‘You’ll tell me now!’
Slowly I turned back to face him. ‘Mac, sometime, if I ever feel human again, I’ll tell you why I didn’t contact you ... I’ve spent a hellish time in here, it doesn’t look like getting any better and I don’t need you making me feel worse than I already do.’
He shook his head and sighed, ‘Okay.’ He said, sitting back and crossing his legs, ‘Can you tell me what happened then?’ There was a note of sarcasm.
I told him, though when it came to the scalding I felt my voice go and had to stop and compose myself. McCarthy listened in silence.
When I finished I couldn’t look him in the eye but I had to tell him, forcing it past a lump in my throat, ‘Mac, I’m finished ... I’m sorry ... I’m sorry, but it’s not there ... I can’t cut it ...’
He leaned forward and squeezed my arm. ‘This isn’t the time to decide, Eddie. I know that’s the way you feel just now but you’ll get better, then you’ll want to come back. You’ll want revenge.’
I shook my head, still avoiding his eyes. Harle was in my mind and I wanted to ask Mac to go and find out if he was still okay but I knew that would be me getting involved again, so I kept quiet.
McCarthy persevered with the pep talk but soon saw it was pointless.
The weight of the whole business settled so heavily on me it felt almost physical. I couldn’t talk any more. McCarthy, who’d just started one of his nosebleeds, went home.
I had a bad night and didn’t sleep till dawn. The nurse left me undisturbed through the morning and when I woke around noon the gloom had lifted from me.
Much of the pain in my face had subsided and I felt altogether brighter. I wondered if that was due to me telling Mac I was pulling out, but as soon as I considered it my conscience niggled and I wondered if I’d done the right thing.
Thoughts of Harle still crowded me. I had to deal with it. I rang Cranley. His voice snapped down the line, ‘Malloy! Where are you?’
‘In a call box and I don’t have much change so ...’
‘Where are you, Malloy?’
‘Never mind that, just tell me Harle’s all right.’
‘Harle is not all right! And you’re the man I want to talk to about it.’
‘Where is he?’
‘That’s what I want to ask you. Now get to this station or tell me where you are!”
My gut sank. ‘You took that guard off him, didn’t you?’ I asked quietly.
‘Listen, Malloy ...’
‘You took the guard off him, Cranley, didn’t you, you stupid arrogant bastard.’
‘Malloy!’ He was almost screaming. ‘I’ll have you for this!’
I rang McCarthy and asked him to come and get me. I told the nurse I would be discharging myself and started getting my things together.
When McCarthy arrived he took off his hat, slung it carelessly on the bottom of the bed and combed his hair back with his open chubby fingers. ‘How goes it?’ he said. ‘You look better.’
‘Thanks, I feel better.’
‘And you’re coming back for another go?’
I nodded.
‘Knew you would,’ he said smugly.
‘How’s that?’
‘I just knew.’ He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘You’re a born rebel. Angry young man. You’ll always bounce back, always want something to fight against, it’s your nature.’
‘Good at summing people up, are you?’
He smiled again. ‘Never been wrong yet.’
‘I’m glad you’re in such a positive mood, Mac, because I want to ask a favour.’
‘Ask, I can only say no.’
‘Let’s talk in the car. I�
��ve spent enough time in here.’
I strapped on the seat belt and opened the window. The breeze cooled my face as McCarthy pulled away.
‘Mac, what would you say to a gun?’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If I wanted one.’
‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘No way, Eddie, it’s not on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s going too far. It’s illegal.’
‘So’s murder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean, for God’s sake! The two guys who attacked me, who killed Danny Gordon and probably Alan Harle, it’s called murder.’
‘That’s their problem. They’ll have to face the consequences.’
‘When? After they’ve killed me or somebody else, maybe even you?’
He was getting upset, shaking his head and rubbing the steering wheel with his left hand.
‘No, Eddie, no. I’ll get you anything else I can but no gun. I’d rather you chucked it altogether.’
‘Mac, listen!’ I clutched his arm but he jerked it free and kept staring at the road ahead muttering, ‘No gun, Eddie, no gun.’
I’d been pretty sure he wouldn’t wear it anyway but I had to try. At least it made him a bit more amenable to my other requests: a faster car, more money and a renewal of the promise to help me get my licence back. After half an hour without me mentioning guns I think a trace of suspicion that he’d been conned into the other concessions was creeping up on him.
Searching for something to take his mind off the subject I suddenly remembered that the last time I’d spoken to Harle he’d given me a tip for the Triumph Hurdle.
‘Mac, did Roscoe’s horse win the Triumph?’
I watched his memory rewind the weeks. ‘No, thank God, it didn’t.’
‘Why thank God?’
‘Because it would have been another embarrassment for us with Perlman.’
‘You don’t honestly believe this guy exists?’
‘Maybe I don’t but what do I tell the senior steward? We’re dealing with a ghost?’
‘You can tell him that Perlman is Kruger. If he has trouble remembering the guy just remind him he took my licence away because he couldn’t nail Kruger. Then you can tell him that Kruger and Roscoe are running some major scam, probably from Roscoe’s place. Whether it involves heroin, horse-doping or both I don’t know yet but I’m sure as hell going to find out.’
He smiled. ‘You’ve changed your tune from yesterday.’
‘Blame it on that silly bastard Cranley. I get my face cooked for saving Harle and he goes and lets Kruger’s men get him. Wouldn’t that wind you up?’
McCarthy shrugged. ‘Suppose it would.’
‘Damn right it would!’
‘Anyway, you’re back in the game, that’s the main thing. Back in pitching.’
We drove in silence for a minute then I thought back to Cheltenham. ‘I take it the dope test on Roscoe’s Champion Hurdle winner was okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes, why?’
‘It would have been a hell of a race to pull off if Kruger had perfected his dope.’
McCarthy’s foot eased involuntarily off the gas pedal. ‘Don’t say that, Eddie, for God’s sake.’
‘There’s got to be a possibility. What would the chances be of having tests done on every one of Roscoe’s runners from now on?’
He shook his head. ‘Virtually impossible. We’d be openly declaring our suspicion without any evidence to justify it.’
‘Okay then, couldn’t you have one of your men visit Roscoe’s? They must have something set up there. Did you know Skinner was Roscoe’s private vet?’
He nodded, pondering. ‘Maybe we should arrange a visit, maybe we should ...’
It was late afternoon when Mac dropped me at the cottage. He came inside just to make sure I had no unwelcome guests, then left me with the address of his ex-colleague who’d just retired. The man lived in Cheltenham and Mac told me to call there next morning and pick up my ‘new’ car which was this guy’s Jockey Club company car.
The furniture was dusty. Mooching around, half-heartedly I vacuumed and opened windows. I felt claustrophobic. I’d been cooped up in hospital too long. I needed fresh air and exercise.
Outside, in the dusk, I chopped wood till I was tired, which was quickly after lying around so long. Sitting on a pile of logs I breathed hard and waited to recover energy enough to chop some more. But the longer I sat the weaker grew my arms and legs and I accepted it would take a few days to get back to full strength. I put away the axe and went inside. When the water was warm enough I ran a bath and eased myself into it.
Lying back in the hot tub, sweat quickly started breaking on my body. My face didn’t hurt but I began feeling faint. I ran the cold tap, cooled the water and lay back again. My palms stung from gripping the axe shaft. I stretched. My body relaxed, my mind closed down and I slept.
20
Next morning I took a taxi to Mac’s friend’s house. He gave me the keys to a black 2-litre injection Cavalier which was parked on a concrete standing at the bottom of his long drive.
When I reached the car I started practising a routine I intended to make habitual.
Cupping my hands around my eyes to block out reflection I looked inside the car, at the seats, back and front, and the floor, Going to the opposite side I did the same. I went to the rear passenger door, then thought again and turned to the boot. Opening it, I took out the floor rug and put it on the ground, then I knelt down and bent low so I could see the underside of the body.
Where I couldn’t see I ran my hands over. I moved the mat around and covered the whole car.
I was congratulating myself on thinking ahead and being clever when it dawned on me that while I was poking my head under cars someone could be aiming at it with ten inches of lead pipe.
Still, I would have to learn as I went along and hope my next mistake didn’t prove costlier than my first. When I was sure no one had stuck fifty pounds of gelignite on the chassis I got in and shut the door. It was quiet. Thinking of the last time I had driven a car, memories of the pain came back and scared me a little. But I shook them off. My mood was bright, positive. I was out, doing something, ready to hunt this time, ready for trouble.
Taped to the steering wheel was a note from McCarthy: ‘Eddie, this is a Jockey Club vehicle, for God’s sake take care of it.’
Slanting the rear-view mirror round I saw my reflection. Still bad but getting better – even my face couldn’t depress me today.
I headed for the police station to find out exactly how much damage Cranley had done.
After his usual bluster he admitted he’d removed the guard on the third day, planning to review the situation daily. He didn’t get a chance. By noon the same day Harle had disappeared.
Fellow patients reported he’d been wheeled away on a trolley by two male nurses wearing surgical masks. Cranley said he was now pursuing a ‘certain line of inquiry.’
He took a statement about the attack on me then told me I deserved all I got for playing amateur detective. He seemed to find an evil delight in meeting someone at last whose skin was worse than his. I spent an hour with him. He would have liked it to be longer, he would have wanted to have me there for days, locked in a cell, he told me. And he repeated his promise to ‘get me’. I told him he’d be better off trying to ‘get’ Harle or, rather, his corpse.
The meeting ended in the usual shouting match. I walked away, my ears ringing with another warning to stay out of it.
I had little hope of him talking but I drove to Nottingham next to try to see Bergmark. He was in the same spot by the door in his wheelchair wearing the same clothes, almost as if he’d never moved since I’d last been there. There was no sign of the sister.
I had to remind him who I was and he started into the same spiel about me being a good jockey, but as soon as I mentioned Danny Gordon’s name he clammed u
p and sat staring straight ahead.
‘You and Rask were blackmailing him, weren’t you?’ Silence. ‘Answer a few questions and I’ll leave you alone. I promise not to involve the police.’ Nothing. ‘The men who did this to you, were they working for Kruger? No response. I even tried a veiled threat, ‘Rask’s dead now ...’ But his expression was blank.
I gave up. It was late afternoon. I set off on the two-hour drive home.
Halfway down the track to the cottage I pulled over and parked in a small clearing. Locking the car I crept through the trees toward the cottage.
From the front it looked to be as I’d left it. Staying in the trees I circled warily to the back - nothing. All the windows and doors looked secure. Moving to the front again I hid behind a broad oak for five minutes, watching and listening. Nothing. My mind told me there was nobody there, but my heart pounded as I crouched and hurried across the track for a close-up check of the whole building.
There were no signs of entry, no footprints in soft soil, nothing amateur. Turning the key in the lock I hoped there was nothing professional waiting inside.
I opened the door into the living-room and immediately, instinctively, pulled it closed again as my brain registered someone sitting in the chair by the fireplace. In the time it took my heart to miss a beat, recognition followed and I opened the door again. Jackie, the girl who’d ‘saved’ me and taken me to Roscoe’s, was slumped in the chair.
Resisting the temptation to rush to her in case it was a set-up I cautiously pushed the door slowly all the way in till it touched the wall. Nobody was hiding behind it. I could see the whole room. No sign of anyone else. The only sound was Jackie’s steady breathing.
Moving silently through the house I checked all the rooms and cupboards. None concealed any threat. I hurried back to Jackie.
Holding her wrist in a pulse-taking grip I gently raised her chin. Slowly she opened her eyes and smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I must have fallen asleep ... I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Holy Mary Mother o’ God,’ I said in an Irish accent whilst slumping back to sit on the floor. ‘You had me scared half to death. How the hell did you get in?’