by Rory Barnes
‘Check the threads,’ I yelled at Easter.
Easter smiled — a bit self-consciously. To give him a bit of a boost, I yelled, ‘Go for it, East. Give ’em hell, mate.’
A couple of very well-dressed punters looked up from their race cards, looked down their noses at me and then wrote something on their cards.
‘That’s the winner,’ I said to the couple, pointing to where Tanya was leading Staxa Fun. ‘Number twelve. It’s going to romp home by a mile.’
‘I admire your confidence,’ said the well-dressed woman, ‘Especially at a hundred to one.’
‘It’s dead intelligent, that horse,’ I said. ‘It can do tricks — watch.’
I squinted through the eye-piece of my disposable camera and took aim at Tanya and Staxa. ‘Hey, Staxa,’ I yelled. ‘Smile for the camera.’
Staxa turned to look at me, peeled his lips back from his teeth, and grinned his hideous grin. Tanya did the same. Click went the camera.
‘See,’ I said. ‘A horse that can do that can do anything.’
The gentleman of the couple said, ‘I’m not sure that doing tricks for the camera is a guarantee that a horse will come home first.’
‘Don’t bet on it,’ I said.
‘We’re not going to,’ the man said. ‘We favour Great Guns at five to one.’
‘Only three legs,’ I said.
Just then there was a commotion in the mounting yard. The horse behind Staxa, an ugly brute with blinkers half covering its eyes, suddenly jumped forward and bit Staxa on the rump. Staxa shot forward, jostling the horse in front of him, which turned it’s head, saw Staxa, and then tried to kick him with both back legs at once. The strappers hauled on their reins, swearing at their horses.
‘Get your horse’s teeth out of my horse’s arse,’ Tanya yelled at the strapper behind her.
‘Your nag started it,’ the other strapper yelled. ‘It’s forever poncing about — upsetting things.’
‘Go on, blame the victim,’ Tanya shouted. ‘It’s always the victim’s fault, isn’t it?’
Official-looking chaps with big badges on the lapels of their tweed jackets suddenly swarmed all over the place, speaking harshly to the strappers, writing stuff in their notebooks. Slowly a sort of order was imposed. The jockeys came forward and were hoisted into their saddles. They cantered their horses away towards the starting gates on the other side of the track.
‘He’s always causing trouble, that horse,’ the well-dressed lady said. ‘It was Staxa Fun who stirred things up at the three-thirty at Murray Bridge.’
‘Look, lady,’ Tanya said, climbing over the fence to join us. ‘I was at Murray goddamn Bridge. Staxa didn’t stir things up there and he didn’t stir things up here. It was that great lout of a horse behind him.’
‘The horse behind him,’ said the lady coldly, ‘was Great Guns. And all I know is that whenever there’s trouble in a jumps race, it always involves Staxa Fun. He comes from a very disreputable stable. I have to say it — even if you are Staxa Fun’s strapper. The owner carts the horse around in a furniture van. It’s a well known fact. And there are rumours that he lets the horse into the house to watch television.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with the owner,’ Tanya said. ‘It’s all the other horses. They just don’t think Staxa’s one of them — a horse. They think he’s a dentist.’
‘Yes, well, that would explain it then, wouldn’t it,’ said the woman as she took her husband’s arm and moved away.
‘Come on,’ I said to Tanya, ‘let’s get back to the others. I want to see this thing properly.’
As we were making our way back through the crowd we came upon Sergie Poldarski in plain clothes. He had a couple of fat daughters with him, but no wife. The fat daughters were chewing bubble gum.
‘Family access day?’ said Tanya brightly. ‘This place sure beats going to the zoo, again.’
The cop flushed bright red and looked angry. Tanya had got it right in one.
‘Don’t worry, Senior Constable,’ she said. ‘I know what it’s like. Or rather, I don’t. My old dad took the bimbo option years ago and we haven’t seen him since. No access visits for me.’ She turned to the fat daughters: ‘You’re lucky. And if your dad’s bet on Staxa Fun, you’re going to be even luckier still.’
‘I reckon my money’s safe on the favourite,’ said the cop. ‘Number fourteen, Captain Oats.’
‘Hasn’t got an outside chance,’ said Tanya.
‘It’s odds on at two to five.’
‘Great Scott!’ Tanya said. ‘You’ll make a dollar fifty if you’re lucky.’
‘To all intents and purposes, it’s already the winner. I don’t need luck.’
The two fat daughters smiled and kept chewing but didn’t say anything.
‘Purposeful herd behaviour,’ Tanya said to me as soon as we were out of earshot.
We got back to the others and were joined by Alex who nervously fiddled with his binoculars.
The race, of course, was a total shemozzle. An out and out farce. A disaster. What happened was this:
Easter managed to get Staxa into the starting gate without too much trouble, although even from where we were sitting on the other side of the racecourse you could see that the rest of the horses were pushing and shoving him. A light flashed for a few seconds above the barrier. Suddenly the row of mechanical gates snapped open and the whole mob shot out like mad things. Except for Staxa who came loping out in a lackadasical sort of way and started tagging along behind everyone else. This was part of the plan, we’d been expecting this. Staxa wasn’t going to start his personal stampede immediately. He was going to conserve his energy until all the other horses were starting to feel the strain. You could see Easter urging Staxa on, kicking away with his heels, and Staxa just thundering along in a nice relaxed style. There was nothing for the stewards to get uptight about: the jockey was doing his best.
The only trouble was that Staxa wasn’t completely last. There was another animal pacing him. I could tell by the jockey’s colours that the horse was the same one that had bitten Staxa on the bum in the mounting yard. It was Great Guns. As far as I could tell, Great Guns’ jockey was working hard to make the animal run like stink, but Great Guns would go no faster than Staxa. As they came up to the first jump, they were neck to neck for last place. The rest of the field were spread out in front of them, with a big bunch already taking the second jump together. I looked at Staxa: Staxa was looking sideways at Great Guns. Staxa obviously decided to get away from the beast. He increased his stride and pulled ahead. Wrong move. Great Guns was now immediately behind Staxa, his nose only inches from Staxa’s rear.
‘Yikes,’ I said. ‘That animal’s going to bite poor old Stax again.’
‘Well, that’ll shift him,’ Rachel said.
It did. Stax speeded up considerably and went over the second jump half a metre in front of Great Guns. Great Guns closed the distance. Stax suddenly went out wide. Great Guns followed and for half a second got his teeth into Staxa’s rear again. Easter looked round, saw what was up and hit the animal a sharp blow on the snout with his whip.
‘Arghh, no,’ Alex screamed beside me. ‘They’ll be disqualified.’
‘It’s not Easter’s fault,’ Rachel said. ‘That was justifiable self-defence.’
‘They always blame the victim,’ Tanya said. ‘It’s called scapegoating. We did this project on it in year seven. Part of the Say No to Victimization Campaign. The trouble is the victim often comes to believe in his or her own guilt. It’s called internalization of the values of the oppressor.’
‘We’ll be down millions,’ Alex groaned.
‘You’ll be down millions,’ Rachel said. ‘The rest of us haven’t bet anything.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Mrs Chandor said. ‘Some of us like a little flutter.’
‘Mum! I told you,’ Tanya said. ‘Just because Easter’s your boyfriend …’
‘Stop chattering, watch the race,’ Gazza said.
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br /> Staxa had started to overtake the stragglers. He was coming up to the main bunch, going over the jumps in great smooth arcs. The trouble was, Great Guns was right behind him, closing in for another chomp. The pair of them went over a jump like kids playing chasey. But as he landed Staxa checked himself just slightly, kicking a leg out behind him. Great Guns copped it fair in the face, stumbled and went down, rolling on the ground. The jockey went tumbling clear, jumped up and made a grab for Great Guns’ reins. But Great Guns was too quick. He was up and away, racing wildly down the track, no extra weight on his saddle at all.
I’ve never seen anyone look as lonely as that jockey. He stood in the middle of the track, watching his horse disappear: a small, muddy streak of disappointment. Then he shrugged and walked over to the rails, ducked under them and started to trudge back to the stables.
Free of Great Guns, Staxa was now making his run for the front of the mob. He was passing everything in sight, soaring over the jumps. Easter was crouched low, looking for all the world like a jockey well in control of his mount. The whole mob had been round the track once and were passing the spot where the moveable barriers had been when they started.
‘Check the neddy without the rider,’ Gazza said.
Left to his own devices, Great Guns was taking a shortcut. He swung out wide and then came curving in to take a flying leap over the inside rail. He landed a few metres in front of the ambulance. The ambulance braked suddenly and swerved, but the horse was away and running — going straight across the middle of the racecourse.
‘Holy dooly,’ Rachel said. ‘He’s going to head them off at the pass.’
And Great Guns was. He went hurtling across the great open space in the middle of the racecourse, smashed straight through the flowerbed and smoothly cleared the inside rail again. He landed just in front of one of the brush fences. And the mob was closing on him fast. You could tell what Great Guns was doing. He was hunting for Staxa Fun.
He saw Staxa, coming up fast on the outside. Great Guns made his move. He ran straight across the track in front of the fence. He was too late. The whole mob were upon him. No less than three horses collided with Great Guns at once. No less than five horses collided with those three horses. Sacks on the mill, more on still. Talk about a chain reaction. Horses went everywhere, rolling and tumbling. Jockeys went everywhere, rolling and tumbling. There were great lumps of mud and turf flying off thrashing hooves. Flash silk shirts turned to chocolate in an instant. The brush fence was demolished. Shattered. Smashed. And at that instant it started to rain. Hard. The scene became bleary. Those riders who had managed to pull up in time hunted around for a way over the remains of the fence. But it was no good. The place was swamped with riderless horses, horseless riders. Jockeys were limping and cursing. Nursing broken arms. Horses were flailing and kicking. And everything, everything, was covered in mud.
‘Go East,’ yelled Mrs Chandor beside me. ‘Get on board.’
And we could see someone who looked like Easter, covered in mud, drenched by rain, picking himself up out of the scrum and making a grab for Staxa’s reins. Like lightning he was into the saddle. The pair of them were up and running. Going for the next jump. Way out in front. A one horse race. A couple of mud-encrusted heroes, romping home. The crowd was on its feet cheering and barracking. We were all cheering and barracking too, taking no notice of the downpour. Stax and East came thundering down past the winning post in fine style. And as they did, the rain eased and the sun shone. Then two smart-looking dudes in bright red jackets trotted out on clean, fresh ponies and began to escort Easter and Staxa to the winner’s enclosure.
Then suddenly the three of them stopped. A bit of a discussion ensued.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Alex muttered, glaring through his binoculars.
One of the bright red guys got down off his horse and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He started to rub the mud from Staxa’s saddle cloth.
Alex suddenly threw his binoculars on the ground and started stomping on them.
‘What’s up with you, you mad berk?’ Rachel said.
‘Look,’ spluttered Alex, pointing with a shaking finger at the three horses. ‘Just look.’
We looked. And we saw the number on the saddle-cloth. It was 14. Easter had grabbed the wrong mud-encrusted horse. He’d ridden the wrong winner. He’d ridden Captain Oats.
Chapter Seventeen
Alex was screaming and shouting and stamping and swearing and frothing at the mouth. He was a bit of an embarrassment, but there was nothing we could do about him. He was ruined. His scam had come unstuck. The Staxa Fun Caper was no fun at all. We left him to it and drifted away.
‘Check poor old Stax, will you,’ Rachel said.
We looked over towards the melee. Another couple of riders had got back onto their horses and were setting off for the winning post. The rest — horses and jockeys — were wandering around dazed or lying in the mud waving their arms and legs. Except for Staxa Fun and Great Guns. They were murdering each other. There was this unholy dust-up. Although I suppose you’d have to call it a mud-up. It was awesome to behold.
The two horses were lunging and kicking and biting and whinnying. Charging and retreating. Turning their great rumps towards each other, lashing out with both hind legs at once.
‘Go Staxa!’ yelled Tanya. ‘Kill the crudwit.’
Like I say, it was awesome to behold. A scene from Dungeons and Dragons, a scene from Hades, a scene from the Primeval Swamp, an historic clash of steel and flesh from the Mists of Time itself. And it was a fair fight. The two horses were evenly matched. They were set to slog it out until nightfall.
But Great Guns had mates. And Staxa had no mates at all. And Great Guns’ mates began to join in. One by one they picked themselves up out of the mud and began to circle the titanic pair. They were like jackals, like hyenas, prowling around the edges, rushing in for a quick bite or kick when they thought they could get away with it. Those jockeys who were on their feet were no help: they scurried around underfoot, trying to grab reins, trying to assert the mastery of man over beast. They might as well have tried to master a volcano. All they got was tromped on. Every horse that was still capable of standing was going for Staxa. And they were going to kill him.
‘You great bullies,’ yelled Tanya.
But her voice was lost in the roar and scream of the crowd. All those dorks and buffoons we’d seen in the car park, the guys in silly aprons, the women in hats like fruit shops, they’d all gone ape. All of them were now yelling and barracking and howling for blood.
‘Right,’ Rachel said. ‘Action … Grab Alex and get the keys off him. Get the van down there.’
I looked around for Alex. I could see his head twenty metres away across the crowd. He was out of it. He was lost in the realms of cosmic bankruptcy. Gazza saw him too and started to force his way through the mob. I turned to Rachel.
‘How are we meant to get the van onto the track?’
‘Just barge it through,’ she said. ‘Use it like a bulldozer.’
Easier said than done. The van was round the back of the stables along with all the other horse floats. There were a few fences and walls and rails and crowds of people between the van and poor old Staxa. But I needn’t have worried. Staxa knew his only hope was in the sanctuary of the furniture van. And what a van can’t jump, a steeplechaser can. With a mad charge he smashed through the snarling ring of his tormentors and set off round the track.
A well-ordered jump race with jockeys in the saddle would be one thing. A crazed rampage of horses who’ve ditched their jockeys is another. The mob thundered after Staxa, clearing the fences and rails with mighty leaps. And Staxa led them an heroic chase.
He quit the race track and thundered through a car park. The mob followed. He quit the car park and careered through the betting ring. The mob followed. Bookies dived for cover. Bookies were knocked aside. Bags of money went everywhere. Crazed punters could hardly believe their luck and scrabbled on t
he ground to help the bookies pick up the notes.
‘Stop watching the fun,’ Rachel said. ‘Let’s get to the van before Staxa does.’
Me and Rachel and Tanya and her mum started to race for the van. We passed Alex, still fuming and mumbling to himself, scarcely aware that Gazza had already relieved him of his car keys. We could see Gazza ahead of us, pushing through the crowd. Making for the stable car park. There was an official in a brown dustcoat with a big badge, guarding the gate to the car park. Gazza flashed something at him and stormed through — he’d probably knocked off Alex’s pass along with the keys. The official looked at the rest of us as if we were the barbarians at the gate.
‘There’s worse to come,’ Rachel told him.
We just barged through in a group. ‘Hold it,’ said the official. But you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. His attention was already on the approaching tidal wave. We raced for the van. Gazza was in the cabin, revving up the engine. Tanya and I hauled on the levers and swung the back doors open wide.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ yelled Gazza out of the cab window. ‘Get on board!’
Tanya and I scrambled into the back of the van. Rachel and Tanya’s mum piled into the front with Gazza. Tanya and I looked out of the open van doors.
Staxa was coming straight at us like a bullet train towards a tunnel. And what a sight Staxa was: mud, blood, sweat, great flecks of foam around his mouth, and his eyes — crazed beyond endurance. And behind Staxa, smashing through the gate, cannonading off cars and horse floats, came the mob.
‘Back against the wall,’ Tanya yelled.
But she needn’t have bothered. I was already spread-eagled against one side of the van. Tanya was spread-eagled against the other. And in came Staxa.
Did he come in! Did he what? He flew. His front legs were stretched out before him, his back legs unleashed every last ounce of power and through those wide open doors came the maddest, most deranged beast that ever graduated from a dentistry school.
He hit the floor of the furniture van, skidded on his stomach with his legs spread out in all directions and crashed his skull into the far end behind the driver’s cabin. If Gazza needed a signal, this was it. He let in the clutch and we were away.