by Joe McNally
‘Be careful closing the door.’ Eddie said. They walked back along the road, listening for vehicles, eyes adjusting to the rural blackness.
‘I can see better now we’re out of the woods,’ Maven said.
‘Courtesy of your ancestors. Your pupils dilate as you get used to the darkness.’
They walked in silent apprehension until they saw the lights in the house through the trees. Maven whispered, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, yet.’
Ten more paces. They heard a vehicle approach. Eddie took Maven by the arm and they stepped onto the grass verge and into the hawthorn bushes. Eddie sensed her holding her breath. The car flashed by. They got back on the road.
‘What if they’re armed?’ Said Maven
‘They’re amateurs. They’ll be more afraid than we are.’
‘Than I am, you mean.’
Eddie smiled.
The gate to the wide driveway lay open. The surface was loose, heavy gravel. A van was parked five paces inside the entrance. A gate in the front hedge led to a door via a row of circular stepping stones. Light came from the windows on either side of the door, but other than the stepping stones, gravel surrounded the house. Eddie signalled Mave to follow, and they retreated. Eddie said, ‘We’ll have to go round the back through the fields. The gravel at the front will make too much noise.’
‘Okay.’
Dew had formed already in the meadow they crossed. Mave looked at the sky. ‘The clouds are breaking up. Do you think they could see us by moonlight? ‘
‘I’d be more worried about the dogs picking up our scent…our sound.’
‘How do you know they’ve got dogs? ‘
‘Most country folk do.’
‘Watch-dogs?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’
The property was unprotected at the rear. No hedges. No gravel. A railed paddock backed onto the house. They ducked through the gaps in the wooden spars. A strip of light showed near the centre of the big window where the curtains hadn’t been fully closed. All Eddie could see through the gap was a coffee table with bottles of alcohol on it. No sound came from inside. Eddie led Mave to the side opposite the driveway where a windowful of pale light fell on the Range Rover Maven had tagged that afternoon.
Eddie turned to her and smiled. She looked petrified. Eddie whispered, ‘Do you want to go back to the car and wait for me? ‘
‘No.’
‘Stop worrying.’
They stayed close to the wall. The window was too high for Eddie to see through. He signalled to Mave that he’d lift her. She nodded. Eddie bent and hugged her hips from behind and slowly raised her to the corner of the window. ‘Nobody,’ she whispered. ‘That’s the kitchen.’
Eddie lowered her. She seemed less afraid. That didn’t last long. When she saw him try the handle on the kitchen door, Eddie heard her sharp intake of breath. The door opened. Eddie gestured for her to follow.
Inside.
Door closed behind them.
No noise except the buzz of snoring…it sounded as though it was coming from the next room. They crossed to the door which lay open a few inches. Eddie could feel Maven close behind. He eased the door halfway ajar and waited. Nothing. Leaning forward, Eddie looked inside. Two people. Asleep in chairs. The redhead was one. The snorer was a man whose chin was on his chest, thick dark hair hung over his face. His ankles were crossed, his knees wide apart. Beside him, on the green rug, was a glass with a mouthful of red wine in it. The redhead held an empty glass in her lap with both hands. Eddie walked over and took the glass from her. She stirred for a moment, then closed her eyes again.
‘Wake up.’ Eddie said. She shifted sideways on the sofa, the overhead light glinting in her hair. She stared at Eddie, and her sleepy eyes filled with panic and she tried to rise. Eddie pushed her back down. ‘Jonty!’ She cried. Eddie turned to look at him. Slowly he raised his head and narrowed his eyes against the light, then lifted a hand to shade them as though trying to block the sun. The redhead looked afraid. Eddie said, ‘Where’s Sonny?’
‘Jonty!’ She was angry now. Eddie hauled him from the chair by the lapels of his leather jacket, and turned, swinging him, keeping him off balance, then dumped him on the sofa beside the redhead.
‘Where is Sonny? I won’t ask again.’
She looked at Jonty, then at Eddie. ‘He’s in the darkroom upstairs.’
‘The darkroom?’ Eddie said.
‘For pictures,’ Jonty said, ‘developing.’
Eddie stepped back. ‘Lead the way.’ She got up, barefoot. Eddie kicked Jonty’s ankle. ‘You too.’ He slid to the edge of the cushion and pushed himself to his feet. Eddie looked round at Maven and smiled.
Jonty unlocked the door of the darkroom. Eddie made him and the redhead go in first and turn on the light. Eddie followed, then took a step back, bumping Mave. ‘Jeez! What’s that smell?’ Eddie asked.
‘Developing chemicals. Sorry. We kept the fan on during the day.’
Mave went to Sonny who was shackled to a radiator. He smiled at her the way he always did, and she knew everything was okay. ‘Are you all right?’ Mave asked.
‘Bit of a headache, but I’ll live.’
Eddie said, ‘Have you been locked up with this smell since they brought you here?’
‘No, Jonty’s right. They had the fan on most of the time.’
Eddie turned to the bedraggled Jonty. ‘Most of the time! What are you doing with a darkroom anyway? Haven’t you heard of digital?’
‘I use both. As, I’m afraid, you’ll soon see.’
It took them ten hungover minutes between them to find the keys to the handcuffs locking Sonny to the radiator. Mave sat with him, a hand on his shoulder, while they waited. She said, ‘You seem kind of disappointed the excitement’s all over.’
Sonny chuckled. ‘I suppose I am.
Back in the big living room, they learned that the woman’s name was Nina. She sat again on the sofa with Jonty. Sonny stood, his arm around Maven’s shoulder. Eddie sat where Jonty had been and watched him and Nina. Jonty was fully awake now, thin-faced, big-eyed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow. ‘Can I get some water?’
‘Any weapons in the house? ‘Eddie asked. Sonny said, ‘They had a shotgun.’ Eddie looked at Jonty. ‘It’s under the stairs.’
Within ten minutes, Eddie had the gun, Jonty had his water, Nina had a large measure of gin, and the others had coffee. Sonny also had an apology from his captors. Jonty and Nina had a problem, and from the story they told, Eddie discovered he had an even bigger one.
10
Jonty Saroyan was a freelance photojournalist. He’d been working on a magazine piece about the decline of the traditional bookmaker. He’d noticed Sonny one time too many collecting a bundle of notes from a bookie. Jonty followed him. Not only had he a file of pictures of Eddie accepting money from Sonny, he’d a hundred more of Sonny taking wads of cash from various bookies. Each picture was time stamped. Jonty had sold copies of the pictures to a tabloid journalist called Barney Scolder.
‘Sorry,’ said Jonty, ‘we’ve been pretty desperate.’ He and Nina had met a year ago. She told them that her marriage to a man called Onur Olusu had soured after five years and that he had kidnapped their son Zeki, and taken him to Turkey. As she explained this, Eddie glanced at Sonny, who seemed unruffled, even sympathetic.
‘So,’ Nina said, ‘we need to pay a private investigator to find Zeki and bring him back. With all this corruption stuff coming up in the courts, we thought the papers would pay a lot for those pictures. But we could only get ten grand. That’s when I had the idea of trying to get in on whatever scheme you were running. I’m sorry. I’m at my wit’s end worrying.’
Eddie said, ‘So you thought you’d bugger up Sonny’s life and ruin mine, as yours wasn’t going so well?’
‘We thought you were a crook,’ said Jonty.
‘Did you ask Sonny? ‘
Nina nodd
ed.
‘And, he obviously told you the same as I did, that I was collecting the money for a friend. I knew nothing about the horses he was betting. Sonny knew nothing until he got a phone call.’ Another nod, then Nina said quietly, ‘We didn’t believe that.’
‘Do you believe it now? ‘Eddie said. Nina looked at Jonty and he tried to prompt her with his eyes. She turned to Eddie. ‘I suppose so.’
Eddie said, ‘You need to get those pictures back.’ Jonty put his arm across her shoulders and said, ‘We’ve already paid the money as a deposit to the guy who’s going to find Zeki.’
Eddie shook his head in disbelief. Maven watched him, and Eddie could see she wanted to speak, to offer them the money to pay the journalist for the pictures. But she stayed silent.
Eddie said, ‘Then tell Barney Scolder the pictures were faked.’ The couple looked at each other. Jonty said, ‘Can you give us some time to try and think this through?’
‘I doubt that’s going to make any difference, is it?’
Jonty rubbed his face, beard shadow crackling lightly. ‘Probably not.’
‘How well do you know Scolder?’ Eddie asked.
‘Not that well.’
‘Has he asked you to testify that the photos are genuine and that you followed Sonny etcetera, if it all comes to court? ‘
‘Yes.’
‘Did you sign a contract with his paper to do that? ‘
He pursed his lips and looked at Eddie. ‘Yes.’
‘Fuck.’ Eddie said quietly, and stared at the floor.
Dawn was breaking when Sonny drove Eddie’s car out of the woods. Mave was in the passenger seat. Eddie lay in the back hoping for some sleep on the way back to Maven’s Shack. Eddie was due to ride at Catterick and he worried about dozing off at the wheel on the way there. Sonny offered to drive him to the races.
‘Thanks, Sonny. But given that we’re both likely to be featuring on the front page of a Sunday newspaper sometime soon, it might be best if you’re not seen chauffeuring me around.’
‘I’ll drive you.’ Maven said.
‘I’d rather walk. Barefoot.’
Sonny smiled and insisted. ‘We’ll be okay. It’ll give us a chance to make some plans.’
‘What, like leaving the country?’
Sonny chuckled. ‘We’ll figure something out, Eddie. Don’t worry.’
Eddie gathered the blanket and tried to settle. His best hope for sleep was the rocking of the car and exhaustion. Maybe that would be enough to slow Eddie’s frantic mind and let him sleep. The biggest bully among the rabble of negative thoughts was the memory of Eddie being warned off. Five years in the wilderness, just when Eddie was at the top of the tree.
Seven years ago, Eddie’s licence was returned, and he was just managing to make a decent living again from riding. He lay in the back seat knowing this could finish him.
11
Broc Lisle rose at dawn and began the routine he’d followed since leaving the army. He emptied his bladder, pulled on black shiny compression underwear, and picked up a 16kg kettlebell. After twenty minutes of exercising, he lay on a yoga mat to rest and stretch and plan the blocks of time in his day.
First was a breakfast meeting with Nic Buley who had contacted him out of the blue to discuss ‘an opportunity.’ The research he’d done on Buley indicated that the CEO of the British Horseracing Authority was an ambitious man, like himself. Though Buley was just 37. Lisle envied him that.
Sweat puddled below his neck.
Lisle thought of his father, who had been a racing man. He’d won the Grand Military Cup at Sandown and young Lisle had been there with his mother, watching from a private box. He recalled that even at ten, discipline and dignity decreed that he applaud politely rather than jump up and down shouting his father home on the big black horse.
That seemed like ten lifetimes ago. Now dementia had robbed his father of any discipline or dignity. His days were spent haunting the corridors of a nursing home. Wandering like a lost soul, his face pained and questioning, his eyes seeking escape.
It was a fine nursing home. And the sale of the family house in Berkshire would finance Lisle senior’s care as long as he lived. Broc had no concerns about money. What troubled him was the aimless wandering. When his father had first been admitted to the home, Broc had visited every night. An only child, his mother long dead, Broc was the sole family carer. And he would have borne it bravely had he not been confronted every night with the sight of his father groping his way along the walls of that place, touching every door, trying every handle, searching for a way out, seeking a response from a dementia-riddled brain, a plan, some method of escape.
It so distressed his son, that Broc had eased himself down to twice-weekly visits. After long nights of soul-searching, Broc had decided that the nightly visits were of little benefit to his father, but of serious detriment to his own mental health.
Twice a week he could handle. Whatever proposal Buley had for him, it would need to allow for those two visits.
Lisle sat up on the exercise mat. Then got to his feet without using his hands. Core strength. How old would he be when the ability to do this deserted him? How long could dementia be delayed if he looked after his physical fitness as well as he’d always done?
He shaved at the sink, spending more time working around his pencil moustache than on the rest of his face.
Lisle stepped into the warm shower for three minutes of washing with unscented soap. Gel left oil on the skin, preventing it from drying properly. He spun the shower dial to ‘coldest’ and forced himself to stand for thirty seconds.
One thing age could not rob him of was exhilaration when stepping out of a freezing shower. It lasted a long time. Lisle believed it fuelled his day.
He recorded his first voicemail message to cover the meeting with Buley, then opened a white noise app and chose the sound of men parading on a barracks square. Slowly, he dressed, doing everything by looking at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He knotted his tie, centred it, then stood to attention and saluted himself, and smiled.
He turned away and switched off the marching men.
For breakfast, Lisle ate one orange, then took a dozen vitamin pills. Five minutes later he locked up the small flat in North London and walked to Manor House underground station, mentally switching on what he called his ‘encounter counter’. He kept a record of the number of people per day who recognized him from his media work. Many spoke to him. Some just looked for a few seconds. A few were borderline “I think I know him but can’t recall his name.” Lisle counted them all. His record was 247.
Coffee was all the breakfast Eddie Malloy could risk as he had to do ten stones in the handicap hurdle. Sonny ate bacon and eggs in his usual unhurried manner. His short internment hadn’t seemed to bother him. He’d been confident Mave and Eddie would get him out, even if it meant paying, and he’d been carrying plenty of insulin. The affection Maven held him in had left him in no doubt she would do exactly for him as he would have done for her.
But he insisted on driving Eddie to Catterick races. ‘I’ll drop you a mile from the track. Nobody will see us, and you can get a nice warm up walking in.’ Maven had offered to pay the taxi fare for the 400 mile round trip.
She seemed suddenly lost. For years she’d worked toward perfecting this betting plan, shunning not just publicity, but daylight. Night was what she knew. In the dark she was comfortable, especially out here on the western rim of the country.
Now the plan had backfired. On her friends.
She was a genius. She’d won more than four million pounds. But she was lost. Sitting at the table, her back to the window and the morning sun, Eddie squinted against the light to watch her. She said, ‘Do you want me to see this journalist and make him an offer he can’t refuse?’
‘That’ll just drop me deeper in it.’
‘He won’t know who’s offering.’
‘But he will know that somebody thinks the pictures are worth more tha
n he paid, and for them to have any value, I must be guilty.’
A silhouetted nod from Mave. ‘I’m sorry, Eddie. I should have thought this through properly.’
‘Not your fault. I was the one who didn’t do the thinking.’
‘But I’m the one who’s been nagging you for the past two years to join me.’
‘Your plan was to wait until I retired. Remember? ‘
‘I should have stuck to that. I’m sorry.’
‘Spilt milk,’ Sonny said, ‘No point crying over it now. We’ll fix it.’ He smiled a big dazzling denture smile and mopped yolk with the last of his bread. The excitement seemed to have flushed away his natural melancholy.
The interior of the car was hot. Eddie lowered the window as they pulled away, and they waved to Mave. Sonny clicked to open the other windows, and the smell and the sound of the sea filled the car and he slowed to savour it. Smiling, he turned to Eddie and began singing Oh What a Beautiful Morning.
By the time Sonny dropped Eddie, they’d discussed all the possibilities with the pictures. Timewise, Eddie believed he had until the end of the upcoming trial of the jockeys at The Old Bailey. The Racing Post’s reporter reckoned it would begin on August 3rd and that it could run for weeks, maybe months.
It would be pointless publishing the pictures before the end of the trial. If the three jockeys were convicted, Scolder’s paper would run Eddie’s story as "the one that got away". If the three were found not guilty, the line would be that the sport was still crooked.
So Eddie had some time. What he was going to do with it, he hadn’t yet worked out.
The wasting Eddie had done to make ten stones paid off as he rode the winner of the big hurdle race. Normally he’d stay at the track until racing had finished, but Eddie had nothing booked after the fourth race, and he had a mile to walk to meet Sonny.