Rat Race

by Dick Francis

  ‘Suppose they try again?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head a fraction. ‘They don’t do it twice.’

  He picked himself off the side of the fuselage and looked at his reflection in the Polyplane’s window, licked his handkerchief and wiped most of the blood off his face.

  The nose had stopped bleeding. He felt it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘It isn’t moving. Can’t feel it grate. It did, when I broke it.’

  Without the blood he looked pale under the red hair but not leaden. ‘Guess I’ll be all right. Think I’ll get into the plane and sit down, though… Came in it, see…’

  I helped him in. He sagged down weakly in his seat and didn’t look like someone who would be fit to ride a racehorse in forty-six hours.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I never asked you… are you O.K. yourself?’

  ‘Yes… Look, I’ll get your pilot to fetch you some whisky.’

  His reaction showed how unsettled he still felt. ‘That would be… fair dinkum. He won’t go though.’

  ‘He will,’ I said.

  He did. British aviation was a small world. Everyone knew someone who knew someone else. News of certain sorts travelled slowly but surely outwards and tended to follow one around. He got the message. He also agreed to buy the whisky himself.

  By the time he came back, bearing a full quarter bottle and a scowl, the last race was over and the passengers for all the aeroplanes were turning up in little groups. Kenny began to look less shaky, and when two other jockeys arrived with exclamations and consolations, I went back to the Cherokee.

  Annie Villars was waiting, not noticeably elated by her win with Rudiments.

  ‘I thought you said you were going to stay with the plane,’ she said. Ice crackled in her voice.

  ‘Didn’t take my eyes off it.’

  She snorted. I did a quick double check inside, just to be sure, but no one had stored anything aboard since my last search. The external check I did more slowly and more thoroughly. Still nothing.

  The thumping I’d collected started to catch up. The ringing noise in my head was settling into a heavy ache. Various soggy areas on my upper arms were beginning to stiffen. My solar plexus and adjacent areas felt like Henry Cooper’s opponents on the morning after.

  ‘Did you know,’ I said to Annie Villars conversationally, ‘that two men just had a go at beating up Kenny Bayst?’

  If she felt any compassion she controlled it admirably. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘An uncomfortable night should see him through.’

  ‘Well then… I dare say he deserved it.’

  ‘What for?’

  She gave me a direct stare ‘You aren’t deaf.’

  I shrugged: ‘Kenny thinks Mr Goldenberg arranged it.’

  She hadn’t known it was going to happen. Didn’t know whether Goldenberg was responsible or not. I saw her hesitating, summing the information up.

  In the end she said vaguely, ‘Kenny never could keep his tongue still,’ and a minute later, under her breath, ‘Stupid thing to do. Stupid man.’

  Major Tyderman, the Duke of Wessex and Fenella Payne-in-the-neck arrived together, the Duke still talking happily about his winner.

  ‘Where’s Colin?’ asked Fenella. ‘Isn’t he here after all? What a frantic nuisance. I asked for him at the weighing room and that man, who did he say he was? His valet, oh yes, of course… his valet, said that he had already gone to the plane.’ She pouted, thrusting out her lower lip. There was champagne in her eyes and petulance in her voice. The gold bracelets jingled. The heavy scent didn’t seem to have abated during the afternoon. I thought Colin had dodged very neatly. The Major also had been included in the celebrations. He looked slightly fuzzy round the eyes and a lot less rigid everywhere else. The hand that pushed at the wiry moustache looked almost gentle. The chin was still tucked well back into the neck, but there was nothing aggressive any more: it seemed suddenly only the mannerism of one who used suspiciousness instead of understanding to give himself a reputation for shrewdness.

  The Duke asked the Major if he minded changing places on the way home so that he, the Duke, could sit in front. ‘I like to see the dials go round,’ he explained.

  The Major, full of ducal champagne, gracefully agreed. He and Fenella climbed aboard and I waited outside with the Duke.

  ‘Is there anything the matter, my dear chap?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir.’

  He studied me slowly. ‘There is, you know.’

  I put my fingers on my forehead and felt the sweat. ‘It’s a hot day,’ I said.

  Colin came eventually. He too was sweating: his now crumpled open shirt had great dark patches under the arms. He had ridden five races. He looked thin and exhausted.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said abruptly.

  ‘I knew,’ said the Duke.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Colin looked back to where the Polyplane still waited on the ground.

  ‘Is Kenny bad?’

  ‘A bit sore. He didn’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘One of the jockeys with him on the trip came back over and told us. Kenny said you saved him from a fate worse than death, or words to that effect.’

  ‘What?’ said the Duke.

  Colin explained. They looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘I’m fit to fly, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  Colin made a face. ‘Yeah, boy, it sure is.’ He grinned, took a deep breath, and dived into the back with the tentacly Fenella. The Duke folded himself after me into the front seats and we set off.

  There was thick cloud over the Humber at Ottringham and all the way south to Cambridge. As he could see just about as far forward as the propeller, the Duke asked me what guarantee there was that we wouldn’t collide with another aircraft.

  There wasn’t any guarantee. Just probability.

  ‘The sky is huge,’ I said. ‘And there are strict rules for flying in clouds. Collisions practically never happen.’

  His hands visibly relaxed. He shifted into a more comfortable position. ‘How do you know where we are?’ he asked.

  ‘Radio,’ I said. ‘Radio beams from transmitters on the ground. As long as that needle on the dial points centrally downwards, we are going straight to Ottringham, where the signal is coming from.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said.

  The replacement Cherokee had none of the sophistication of the one which had been blown up. That had had an instrument which locked the steering on to the radio beam and took the aircraft automatically to the transmitter. After the attentions of Kenny Bayst’s assailants I regretted not having it around.

  ‘How will we know when we get to Cambridge?’ asked the Duke.

  ‘The needle on that other dial down there will swing from pointing straight up and point straight down. That will mean we have passed over the top of the transmitter at Cambridge.’

  ‘Wonderful what they think of,’ said the Duke.

  The needles came up trumps. We let down through the cloud over Cambridge into an overcast, angry looking afternoon and landed on the shower soaked tarmac. I taxied them over close to the buildings, shut down the engine, and took off my head set, which felt a ton heavier than usual.

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it,’ said the Duke. ‘Always motored everywhere before, you know.’ He unfastened his safety belt. ‘Annie persuaded me to try flying. Just once, she said. But I’ll be coming with you again, my dear chap.’

  ‘That’s great, sir.’

  He looked at me closely, kindly. ‘You want to go straight to bed when you get home, Matthew. Get your wife to tuck you up nice and warm, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Good, good.’ He nodded his fine head and began to heave himself cumbersomely out of the door and on to the wing. ‘You made a great hit with my nephew, my dear chap. And I respect Matt’s opinion. He can spot good’uns and bad’uns a mile off.’

  ‘He’s a nice boy,’ I said.
r />   The Duke smiled happily. ‘He’s my heir.’

  He stepped down from the wing and went round to help Annie Villars put on her coat. No doubt I should have been doing it. I sat with my belt still fastened, feeling too rough to be bothered to move. I didn’t relish the thought of the final hop back to Buckingham, up into the clouds again and with no easy well-placed transmitter to help me down at the other end. I’d have to go round the Luton complex… could probably get a steer home from there, from the twenty-four hour radar.…

  I ached. I thought of the caravan. Cold little harbour.

  The passengers collected their gear, shut the rear door, waved, and walked off towards the buildings. I looked at the map, picked out a heading, planned the return journey in terms of time and the cross references I’d need to tell me when I’d got to Buckingham, if the radar should be out of service. After that I sat and stared at the flight plan and told myself to get on with it. After that I rested my head on my hand and shut my eyes.

  Ridiculous wasting time, I thought. Cambridge airport charged extra for every minute they stayed open after six o’clock, and the passengers were already committed to paying for more than an hour. Every moment I lingered cost them more still.

  There was a tap on the window beside me. I raised my head more quickly than proved wise. Colin Ross was standing there, watching me with a gleam of humour. I twisted the catch and opened the window flap on its hinge.

  ‘Fit to fly, didn’t you say?’ he said.

  ‘That was two hours ago.’

  ‘Ah yes. Makes a difference.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I just wondered, if you don’t feel like going on, whether you’d care to let me take you home for the night? Then, you can finish the trip tomorrow. It might be a fine day, tomorrow.’

  He had flown a great deal and understood the difficulties. All the same, I was surprised he had troubled to come back.

  ‘It might,’ I agreed. ‘But I could stay in Cambridge…’

  ‘Get out of there and fix the hangarage,’ he said calmly.

  ‘I’ll have to check with Derrydowns…’

  ‘Check, then.’

  I climbed too slowly out of the aeroplane and struggled into my jacket. We walked together across into the building.

  ‘Call your wife, too,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t got one.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked at me with speculative curiosity.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not that. Married twelve years, divorced three.’

  Humour crinkled the skin round his eyes. ‘Better than me,’ he said. ‘Married two years, divorced four.’

  Harley answered at the first ring.

  ‘Where are you? Cambridge?… No, come back now, if you stay at Cambridge we’ll have to pay the hangarage.’ I hadn’t told him about the fight, about the way I felt.

  ‘I’ll pay it,’ I said. ‘You can deduct it from my salary. Colin Ross has asked me to stay with him.’ That would clinch it. Harley saw the importance of pleasing, and Colin Ross was his best customer.

  ‘Oh… that’s different. All right then. Come back in the morning.’

  I went into the Control office and arranged for the aircraft to be stowed under cover for the night, one last overtime job for the staff before they all went home. After that I sank into the Ross Aston Martin and let the world take care of itself.

  He lived in an ordinary looking brick built bungalow on the outskirts of Newmarket. Inside, it was colourful and warm, with a large sitting-room stocked with deep luxurious velvet upholstered armchairs.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  I did. Put my head back. Shut my eyes.

  ‘Whisky or brandy?’ he asked.

  ‘Whichever you like.’

  I heard him pouring. It sounded like a tumblerful.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  I opened my eyes and gratefully took the glass. It was brandy and water. It did a grand job.

  There were sounds of pans from the kitchen and a warm smell of roasting chicken. Colin’s nose twitched.

  ‘Dinner will be ready soon… I’ll go and tell the cooks there will be one extra.’

  He went out of the room and came back almost immediately with his two cooks.

  I stood up slowly. I hadn’t given it a thought; was quite unprepared.

  They looked at first sight like two halves of one whole: Nancy and Midge. Same dark hair, tied high on the crown with black velvet bows. Same dark eyes, straight eyebrows, spontaneous smiles.

  ‘The bird man himself,’ Nancy said. ‘Colin, how did you snare him?’

  ‘Potted a sitting duck.…’

  ‘This is Midge,’ she said. ‘Midge… Matt.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘The bomb man, aren’t you?’

  When you looked closer, you could see. She was thinner than Nancy, and much paler, and she seemed fragile where Nancy was strong: but without the mirror comparison with her sister there was no impression of her being ill.

  ‘First and last bomb, I hope,’ I said.

  She shivered. ‘A lot too ruddy close.’

  Colin poured each of them a Dubonnet and took whisky for himself. ‘Bombs, battles… some introduction you’ve had to racing.’

  ‘An eventful change from crop spraying,’ I agreed.

  ‘Is that a dull job?’ Midge asked, surprised.

  ‘Dull and dangerous. You get bored to death trudging up and down some vast field for six hours a day.… It’s all low flying, you see, so you have to be wide awake, and after a while you start yawning. One day maybe you get careless a ad touch the ground with your wing in a turn, and you write off an expensive machine, which is apt to be unpopular with the boss.’

  Nancy laughed. ‘Is that what you did?’

  ‘No… I went to sleep for a second in the air one day and woke up twenty feet from a pylon. Missed it by millimetres. So I quit while everything was still in one piece.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Midge said. ‘The next plane you touched disintegrated beautifully.’

  They laughed together, a united family, close.

  Colin told them about Kenny Bayst’s fracas and they exclaimed sympathetically, which made me feel a humbug: Colin habitually drove himself to exhaustion and Midge was irretrievably afflicted, and all I had were a few minor bruises.

  Dinner consisted simply of the hot roast chicken and a tossed green salad, with thick wedges of cheese afterwards. We ate in the kitchen with our elbows on the scarlet table, and chewed the bones. I hadn’t passed a more basically satisfying evening for many a long weary year.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Nancy demanded. ‘At this moment?’

  ‘Making a note to fall frequently sick at Cambridge.’

  ‘Well,’ said Midge. ‘Don’t bother. Just come any time.’ She looked enquiringly at her sister and brother and they nodded. ‘Just come,’ she repeated. ‘Whenever it’s handy.’

  The old inner warning raised its urgent head: don’t get involved, don’t feel anything, don’t risk it.

  Don’t get involved.

  I said, ‘Nothing I’d like better,’ and didn’t know whether I meant it or not.

  The two girls stacked the plates in a dishwasher and made coffee. Nancy poured cream carefully across the top of her cup.

  ‘Do you think that bomb was really intended for Colin?’ she asked suddenly.

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It could just as well have been intended for Major Tyderman or Annie Villars or Goldenberg, or even Kenny Bayst, really, because it must have been on board before he decided not to come. Or it might have been intended for putting the firm out of action… for Derry-downs, itself, if you see what I mean, because if Colin had been killed, Derrydowns would probably have gone bust.’

  ‘I can’t see why anyone would want to kill Colin,’ Midge said. ‘Sure, people are jealous of him, but jealousy is one thing and killing five people is another…’

  ‘Everyone seems to be taking it so calmly,’ Nancy suddenly exploded. ‘Here is this bloody bomb merchant running a
round loose with no one knowing just what he’ll do next, and no one seems to be trying to find him and lock him up.’

  ‘I don’t see how they can find him,’ Colin said. ‘And anyway, I don’t suppose he will risk trying it again.’

  ‘Oh you… you… ostrich,’ she said bitterly. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you that you don’t just lightly put a bomb in an aeroplane? Whoever did it must have had an overwhelming reason, however mad it was, and since the whole thing went wrong they still have the same motive rotting away inside them, and what do you think Midge and I will do if next time you get blown to bits?’

  I saw Midge looking at her with compassion and understood the extent of Nancy’s fear. One day she was certainly going to lose her sister. She couldn’t face losing her brother as well.

  ‘It won’t happen,’ he said calmly.

  They looked at him, and at me. There was a long, long pause. Then Midge picked up the wishbone of the chicken and held it out for me to pull. It snapped with the biggest side in her fist.

  ‘I wish,’ she said seriously, ‘That Colin would stop cutting his toenails in the bath.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I slept on a divan bed in Colin’s study, a small room crammed with racing trophies, filing cabinets and form books. Every wall was lined by rows of framed photographs of horses passing winning posts and owners proudly leading them in. Their hooves thudded through my head most of the night, but all was peace by morning.

  Colin brought me a cup of tea, yawning in his dark woolly bathrobe. He put the cup down on the small table beside the divan and pulled back the curtains.

  ‘It’s drizzling cats and dogs,’ he announced. ‘There’s no chance of you flying this morning so you may as well relax and go back to sleep.’

  I looked out at the misty rain. Didn’t mind a bit.

  ‘It’s my day off,’ I said.

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  He perched his bottom on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Are you O.K. this morning?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘That hot bath loosened things a lot.’

  ‘Every time you moved yesterday evening you could see it hurt.’

  I made a face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. In this house you say ouch.’