by Brian Cain
CHAPTER FIVE
Stanton chuckled when he was informed the Prime Ministers media attaché was standing with Whistler and Lee Hayford veteran sports reporters at Sydney airport. Arrangements had been made to include the trio on the phantom flight. The original float was used by the phantom trio and team doubles kept out of sight in the float as it covered the tarmac and mounted the ramps into the jumbo transporter. Flaxmead and the entourage were about to touch down in the UK, Foulness Island near the mouth of the River Thames, an old military stamping ground of Stanton's. A local farmer up in the early hours of the morning heard the unusual flight timing; he peered out the window and watched the lights of the lumbering transported touch down on the runway through the darkness. He was concerned the noise curfew had been broken, finished breakfast and walked to his tractor, the lumbering plane had disappeared, not the first time he had noticed such goings on. As the sun peeked over the horizon he had been cutting hay along the runways edge for over an hour, he was startled and brought the tractor to a halt as three thundering horses flashed past from behind, turf flew up all around some striking the window of his cab. He climbed out and onto the ground, not uncommon to see horses early in the morning with riders enjoying the morning air, however these were not locals and they were big horses unlike the equines from the local pony club. The farmer was an ardent follower of thoroughbred horse racing, he watched as the horses pulled up at the end of the field turned and thundered back towards him. The colours of the shirt on what appeared to be a girl child riding the black stallion sent him into grand disbelief; he identified the colours immediately, the Harper stable from the Hunter Valley in NSW Australia, the trainer of the champion Flaxmead. The trio pulled up next to Burrows the farmer, he recognised them, Ross Hildebrand riding Celtic Storm, Jessica Flametower riding Flushing Meadow and tiny Lindy Cumberland on the monster Flaxmead. Hildebrand spoke in his broad Scottish accent. "Good morning to you sir, sorry to have startled you."
Burrows was speechless for a few seconds, his chubby face pale, his cockney accent sounded the same as Lindy had heard in Monty Python films, she smiled. "Mr Hildebrand, Ross Hildebrand."
"I."
"Then this is bleeding Celtic Storm."
"You're a betting man."
"I follow horse racing, I love horses." As Burrows followed the faces of the riders the equine trio eager to run they took his gaze across the field towards back roads adjacent to the old island runway as they restlessly stamped around, a red Ford Mustang sat ominously still some mile away, the sun caught the shiny supercharger above the bonnet and splashed the light in Burrows eyes. It suddenly roared to life going around in circles in a cloud of smoke.
Hildebrand tipped his helmet with his right finger. "We have to go sir, sorry again, we would appreciate it if you didn't mention you'd seen us."
Burrows nodded his herringbone cap tight on his head. "Right, I'll sort that."
Lindy Cumberland called to Hildebrand. "Fifty metres start, run down over four ks." Hildebrand and Flametower kicked their steeds into life a shot off in the direction they had came from showering Burrows in grass.
Burrows looked at Lindys smiling face, Flaxmead reared up wanting to run. He shouted. "You give them fifty yards."
Lindy laughed. "I like you, you make me laugh. I have to go, bye." She let Flaxmead loose and he powered to full speed chasing his stable mates. Burrows watched as they turned before crossing the concrete road and headed at right angles to Burrows, he could plainly see the action. The next fence was about a mile, in four hundred metres the pocket rocket had taken Flaxmead past the galloping pair and had ten lengths on them before turning to run along the fence line directly in front of him. By the time Cumberland pulled Flaxmead up she had put fifty lengths between them. The cantered back toward the red mustang, Lindy waved from the distance.
"Blimey." burrows muttered. He took his herringbone cap off and watched the group fade from sight. "He'll bloody well slaughter them tomorrow." He rummaged around in his pocket and found his mobile phone, he hastily rang his bookie Ken Flanders, the phone rang out. He tried again, it rang out again, he mumbled nervously. "Come on wake up you lazy git." He tried a third time.
Flanders lay in bed, his wife demanded he answer the phone as she was now awake and it was annoying her. Flanders looked at the screen, Dave Burrows. Flanders was a cockney. "Gaud blimey, Dave, bloody farmers." He answered with a frown. "Dave me ol cock sparrow, how are you mate."
"A thousand quid on the black Aussie."
"What." Flanders sat up straight on the side of his bed.
"Flaxmead, the Australian horse tomorrow at Ascot, thousand quid to win."
Flanders shook his head running his free hand over his grey hair. "Have you lost it, I spoke to Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington only yesterday, they don't think that horse is up to taking on Kings Ransom, that's why this Flaxmead is four to one."
"Five thousand quid on Flaxmead, do you want it or do I call someone else."
Flanders thought for a few seconds. "It's your money mate, that's a few weeks in the field. I'll take it your a good payer. Why? That horse has never run here, I think you're mad"
Burrows was about to explain but held back, he blinked, looked at the ground and played with his hat. "I just got this feeling, as the sun came up, I can't explain."
"Just for you Dave, if Flaxmead wins you get twenty thousand quid, I think your nuts but just my opinion."
Dave Burrows face turned to a wide warm smile. "Opinions are like arseholes Ken everybody has one."
"That's original Dave, have a nice day I'm getting up now thanks to you."
"Say hello to your lovely wife, he he."
"Yeah right." Flanders hung up.
Kens wife came out from under the covers. "Who was that love."
"Dave Burrows, just put five thousand quid on that Flaxmead from Australia."
His wife sat up wide eyed. "You accepted a five thousand quid bet."
"Yeah."
"On a horse that's never been beaten."
"Dahh, that Kings Ransom will eat it for breakfast."
Kens wife pushed him and he fell to the floor. "You idiot, that Flaxmead runs two seconds faster than any horse over 2,414 metres, that's the distance of the King George tomorrow."
"What's that in miles then?"
"One mile and four furlongs."
"I've seen Kings Ransom run that distance he's unbeatable at the moment."
"Remember you sent me on a holiday to Australia, I went to a meeting over there in a town called Melbourne, that horse took the piss mate. I told you about it you never listen."
Ken stood up. "Yeah but that was a while ago."
"Last year you idiot."
Ken dressed his wife rolled over under the covers in disgust. "I'm gonna walk down for the paper."
His wife came out from under the covers. "You should bleddin well try readin it mate, instead of looking at the bird on page three."
"You was on page three once."
"Yeah, well the novelty has well and truly worn of en it."
Ken left with a frown walking down the street to the corner newsagent, a pleasant July morning. He said hello to neighbours forcing a smile uneasy with about his morning argument. By the time he reached the shop he realised he really knew nothing of the Australian horse Flaxmead. Not only that, Dave Burrows had not picked a horse below the top three for as long as he had known him. He began to think he had been set up, taking a bet while he was half asleep. Ted in the paper shop greeted Ken. "Oh blimey, up early, getting ready for the big one tomorrow. All I've heard this morning is about this Australian horse Flaxmead or whatever he's bleddin name is. You'd be doing a rare trade with this lot wouldn't you?" Ted threw a paper in front of Ken on the counter. Flaxmead had made the front page of every tabloid in the land.
Ken had a stern look as picked up the paper and studied the headlines. "Don't know, the shop doesn't open till ten, we aren't newsagents you know."
"What you giv
e me on that Flaxmead."
"Two to one."
"Two to one, was four yesterday."
"Yeah well I've had a recent flurry on this thing."
"From who, its seven in the morning, you just said you don't open till ten."
Ken was engrossed in reading the headlines on Flaxmead. He spoke without thinking. "Dave. Dave Burrows put five thousand quid on this thing."
"Five thousand quid, blimey, he might know, he's been on Foulness Island for decades. The bloke who looks after security on this Flaxmead spent time working out of Foulness so the rumour goes, that John Stanton bloke when he was with MI6."
Ken looked up his face etched with concern. "I gotta go Ted."
"A thousand quid on that black thing, yeah, Flaxmead."
Ken drew a big sigh hesitating at the door. "All right, you've always taken it on the chin and paid up, you're on."
"Sure thing I reckon."
"What makes you think that?"
"First time I've ever seen you not go straight to page three mate, he he he."
By the time Ken got back home he had read a full report on the rise and rise of Australian flat racer, sprinter, stayer, Flaxmead. He was convinced by what he read and Burrows behaviour that this Flaxmead was a better than fifty percent chance of winning. He also had reason to believe the horse was already in the country hidden below the windswept airfield of Foulness Island.
Lindy slipped from Flaxmead's back into the waiting arms of Stanton to steady her jump. Stanton knew but asked anyway. "Well?"
"He likes it here, he ran the others down quicker than I have ever experienced. Just like last test trip, as if nothing happened. He ran four before I could pull him up flat out, tomorrow will be a big day for him."
Stanton turned to Ross standing by Celtic Storm. "She's right, the girls were carrying weight but he made us look like we were looking for a grazing spot." Hildebrand brought Celtic Storm close and rubbed Flaxmead's neck with his palm. "I've waited for tomorrow for years, some old scores to settle with the establishment, by tomorrow evening the entire institution will be in nursing the loss of their reputation. Couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of people." He turned to Stanton with a frown. "What about Roger and Kalika Palmer?"
Stanton looked down then up with a pout. "Do you know how many people are after this horse, they'll be there, with the decoys. I know Kalika's circle of friends has been infiltrated, I'll take care of it when I can, you know I can't tell you everything Ross. Roger and Kalika will be at the finishing line."
Roger gave a warm smile and put his huge hand on Stanton's shoulder. "It's far more important to us here."
"I understand that, if Flaxmead fails to make the starting gate what then."
"Nothing."
"Yes, and the establishment are well aware of that."
The argument between Flanders and his wife continued over breakfast, his wife went on line and brought up news feed of live coverage of Flaxmead's wins in Australia. "You remember Royal Rose."
"Yeah what a horse, wish it was still around."
"This is the race they call the Melbourne Cup, that's Flaxmead just crossing the line, Royal Rose from the same stable as Royal Ransom is back in the field there look, its still bleddin runnin mate. That's Won-Tolla the New Zealand horse that sorted us out a while back, left in this bloody Flaxmead's wake."
Ken lent back away from the screen with a look of shock. "Blimey." He picked up his phone ringing his shop manager. "Vince, listen. Get everyone on the phone, put a thousand on every bookie across the midlands for this Flaxmead to win. Don't burn anyone round here, we have to live somewhere."
"The odds are getting thin, you read the paper."
"I can read mate."
"I just thought you looked at the picture, he he he."
"Bloody smart arse get onto it."
"I hear the rumour on good authority that Hornswaddle and Fothrington have thirty million on this Flaxmead spread around the globe."
"I should have bleddin known mate, why does that not surprise me."