Michael had called her each night to check on preparations and to make sure she had everything she needed. His uncle kept him occupied with meetings, and she assured him that her schedule was too hectic for him to be with her. Besides, she was too exhausted at the end of the day to be good company. They agreed that his arrival on the fifteenth for the private race would be best.
The day of the maiden hurdle race arrived, and the stables were full of trainers, owners, and jockeys. Jessica rolled her neck and shoulders around in circles, trying to relax. Immaculate white breeches emerged from her tall black and brown boots. Lettering proclaiming MMC, Ltd sponsorship raced up her right thigh. If Michael wanted to make his presence any more known, he could not have found a more clear way than emblazoning her thigh with his initials. The blue and green silks of her jersey matched the tightly fitting cover of her helmet. Doherty gave her an approving look.
A horn called in the distance signaling ten minutes to race time. Doherty signaled the grooms to bring Kilkea out. Today’s field would race eighteen horses. Kilkea hadn’t raced against that many horses since his accident. Immediately Jessica knew he was off. His eyes were too wide and darted from the track to the stands. His nostrils flared. With each step, she felt time slow, details sharpened into focus.
A second sounding of the horn called the riders to the starting line. The starts of a hurdles race and steeplechase are different than the start of a flat horse race. Rather than being lead into a long line of individual gates that burst open at the sounding of a bell, the steeplechase starts with the riders trotting or cantering slowly as a group to the starting line. All looked very civilized until the tape would drop and all hell broke loose. Jessica followed the others, wondering about the wisdom of the British way to not use the calming presence of a stable pony as in the States. The horses skittered and danced their way along, jockeys gripping bits up tight to keep the high-strung horses from bolting too soon.
The race consisted of sixteen flights, each slightly different. Jessica’s strategy was to keep to the outside, open up and pass on the flat and take the jumps cleanly. The first mile and a half’s ten fences were challenging, and she positioned Kilkea to be in the top three horses.
Within seconds of the tape dropping, she knew Kilkea was not ready to be tested. Doherty’s assumption that Kilkea could cope in a field of beginners and that the other jockeys would sideline advanced strategies for the hurdle race nearly got her killed. At the twelfth fence, the horse in the second position, ridden by a jockey wearing the bronze colors of Devon-on-Thames, cut her off in midair, bumping them off balance. Kilkea panicked, his front legs stiffened in fear, and he slipped on the landing. Momentum rolled them over, and his hooves flailed wildly. She couldn’t hold on and careened over his shoulder. Her vest deployed, surrounding her in a ball of air. One hoof caught her in the side and would have splintered her ribs if she had not been wearing her vest.
Jessica instinctively curled up making her as tiny a target as possible as horses crashed and skidded into a pile. Jockeys cursed and horses screamed. She was as helpless in the muck as a clot of turf.
One jockey remained motionless in the mud, his legs at odd angles—face ashen and racing career over. A horse thrashed its body around, trying to regain its footing, and screeching in pain and confusion. An equine ambulance pulled close, and screens were hurriedly set up to keep the hopeless reality of injury away from investors’ eyes. Jessica didn’t have to look into the faces of the others to know she would bear the blame.
She limped off the track, head down and avoiding eye contact with the other jockeys. Doherty came up to her and assessed her quickly. Deeming her fit for the next day’s race, he went on to deal with Kilkea.
Michael’s escorts deposited her back to her suite. As she soaked in a hot bath, she noted the usual bustle of the hotel was missing. Everything appeared quiet and calm.
SATURDAY, JUNE 15
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
DALLY THORPE WAS about to end her double shift at ETV, Manchester’s scraggly answer to the BBC, when the news hotline rang at 10:15 a.m. Reflexively, her stomach clenched as she reached for the black phone.
“N-news Desk. What’s your s-s-story?”
“There is a truck with two thousand kilograms of explosives parked at the corner of Commercial and Cannon Streets that will blow at 11:15 a.m.”
Dally’s heart caught in her throat as she listened to the message. She forced her mind to clear as she assessed each clue. Male. Young. Gruff. Irish.
Dammit.
“How can I be s-sure this is for r-r-real? Who are you representing?”
“Carrickmacross”
The IRA codeword was clear. As soundlessly as she could, Dally stood up and looked across the mostly empty desks of the newsroom. She caught the eye of her editor, Don Hume. The expression on her face was the only clue she gave. Don picked up the other line to listen.
“I said fuckin’ Carrickmacross.”
“Oh. Okay. I g-got it. Truck. Bomb. Two thousand k-kilograms. Corner of Corporation and Can–” The phone clicked off in her ear.
Don was already dialing the police. Within seconds he confirmed the warning was real and made by the Irish Republican Army. The IRA was back in business.
She turned up the volume on the radio scanner. Calling Grandier news must have been an afterthought because other news stations and police were already on their way. Dally noted how smoothly the threat was made and how quickly the news crews and the police were mobilized by the use of the pre-established code word. How bloody accommodating of those shit-eating IRA bastards to plant a bomb and then give enough of a warning to clear the area of people.
“That’s less than a block from the Arndale malls,” Dally said as she gathered up her recorder and shoved other papers into her satchel.
Don stopped her before she left. “I have some of the guys already on their way.”
“This was my phone c-c-call! My s-s-story,” she said, cursing her show of nervousness and struggling for composure. Even towering over her boss did not diminish how insignificant she felt in his presence. She peered down at him and pushed her glasses back up the slightly hooked bridge of her nose. Did she look confident and determined? Doubtful. Her scraggly thin brown hair and wardrobe of a pink cardigan and ill-fitting, too-short trousers robbed her of any chance of gaining such an image. She drew her shoulders back and raised her chin.
Don stepped back and she could see his thoughts churning in his head. As a junior reporter, she had not proven herself with detailed investigations, but she had a knack for crafting words that could build a story out of an anthill. Unfortunately for Grandier News, that combination meant her reporting had drawn the attention of barristers and lawsuits. Maybe this time, her lack of polish and guile would help disarm sources and make them talk on the record. She tried to keep the desperation from her face as she silently willed him to give her this scoop.
He glanced quickly at the classic black and white clock with its long hand clicking downward to VI, then back at her.
“Time’s a wastin’. Get a move on.”
AINTREE RACECOURSE
FRIDAY’S MAIDEN RACE’S preparations were nothing in comparison to what she saw around her now. For each of the thirty-five horses, a team of at least ten people fussed about. In the States, the wagering occurred after the jockeys and horses paraded around an enclosure, but at Aintree, each jockey wore their silks and stood outside their horse’s stall, on display to make the wagering and deal making more informed.
Instead of trainers in threadbare tweeds and owners in last year’s fashions, the barns were full of scents and trappings of the super rich. If the cut of the suit and the quality of fabric weren’t enough to identify the owners and syndicate members, then the finely-attired and bejeweled women attached to their arms were. Without exception, when they approached Bealltainn’s stall, they stopped and gaped. Jessica squirmed at their unhidden shock, then recoiled further when their surprised expre
ssions settled into the machinations of wager. The largest concentration of onlookers clustered around Bealltainn’s stall, sheiks and businessmen traded insider glances. It didn’t take a mind reader to understand what they thought of her presence in a man’s game. A festive atmosphere mixed with the faint smell of bloodlust was unlike anything Jessica had ever experienced.
The bustle before her stood in stark contrast to the near-empty grandstands. Only a handful of seats were occupied.
Doherty approached Bealltainn’s stall and assessed Jessica more than the horse. Doherty’s interest in Jessica would cease as soon as she brought Bealltainn over the finish line. This temporary and tenuous relationship suited Jessica just fine.
“I won’t say it again, but you underestimated the jockeys yesterday and they took advantage of you. They screwed the maiden and spent the evening slapping each other’s backs over it.”
Jessica’s mouth twitched at Doherty’s choice of words. “Well, then. They know better than anybody that you only get to screw a maiden once. After that, she has nothing left to lose.”
Doherty’s mouth opened in a wide grin. “You did well enough yesterday until you trusted that bloke wouldn’t cut you off midair. Today will be different. You’ll face more horses, and the race is twice as long. The jockeys riding for the same farm will use team strategies against you.”
“And they didn’t yesterday?”
“Hardly. They’re not going to show their hands before they have to. Bealltainn’s in superior condition. What about you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her sides. “A bit stiff, but I’m good.”
He appraised her appearance in the same way he judged all of his livestock. When he didn’t see any hint of injury from yesterday’s fall, he moved on. “Did the new vest fit?”
This vest was heavier than the one she wore yesterday. She argued the additional heft would throw off her balance as well as Bealltainn’s. Doherty waived off her objections.
The first horn sounded. Bealltainn stood coiled with his head high, ears flattened, and nostrils wide and red. She had to stand on her toes to double check the adjustments of the bridle and saddle, consciously reminding herself that touching him would not lethally complete an electrical circuit. She looked into his eyes and felt his thoughts with a jolt. Stay out of my way. Let me run my race. She adjusted her gloves to hide her shaking hands.
Doherty gave Jessica a leg up into the saddle by grabbing her shin and hoisting upward. Riding Bealltainn for a short time was not nearly enough to know all of his issues, but Doherty had provided the solid guidance she needed. He gave her last minute instructions as she positioned her stirrups, taking his advice to bring her feet closer to her hips than she had with Kilkea. She needed the extra leverage to enable her to stand up over Bealltainn’s neck to work with his natural motion.
Jessica breathed deeply to calm herself and hoped it had a similar affect on Bealltainn. A groom tightly held the reins to keep the horse steady as Jessica made her final preparations, bringing her goggles down over her eyes, adjusting the chinstrap of her helmet and pulling her gloves on even tighter. She refused a crop but was unsure if Bealltainn trusted her enough to believe she didn’t have one. She felt ready. Nervous and scared, too.
When mounted up, the jockeys towered over the owners and trainers who roamed about the paddock. Each team enjoyed the best preparation. The horses gleaming coats showed their powerful bodies to full advantage. The jockeys wore close fitting jerseys and helmets, making them indistinguishable except for the colors and numbers on the horses. She still stood out because of her height and braided bun secured at the nape of her neck.
Jessica stayed focused and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. She had entered the period before each race that every jockey refers to as “the zone.” The sounds of the track slipped away. She concentrated on her breathing and heart rate, knowing her legs and hands would telegraph anything she felt to her horse. Had she been less inwardly focused, she may have been able to catch the looks exchanged by several of the jockeys, even if she was not able to understand their meaning. She closed her eyes and pulled images from her memory of each turn and flight. The four-mile race today would last a little over ten minutes and leave horses and riders feeling as if they’d been through a meat grinder.
A repeated pat on her thigh brought her out of her thoughts. She glanced down to see Michael. He looked over at the empty grandstand and back at her.
“Jessica. This race today... don’t let it catch you off guard.”
A flash of annoyance creased her face. “I get it. I crashed yesterday because I did exactly that. You’re waiting until now to tell me this?” She shook her head in disbelief. He reached up and rubbed her back but she didn’t feel it, her jersey and gear serving their purpose. “Sorry,” she stammered, “I mean, hi. I’m looking forward to this being over.”
Michael flashed a tense smile. “Good luck. It’s just a horse race.”
The second horn sounded. Bealltainn chewed his bit and flicked an ear back to show he was engaged in listening to his rider while they cantered slowly to the start. Jessica steadied her breath and brought Bealltainn up more in the mouth, sending a signal to him to slow and gather himself. He felt the energy of the field and started to feed on it, wanting to charge forward and get on with it already. Jessica was astride a keg of lit dynamite.
The tape dropped and the officials waved on a fair start. Jessica heard nothing as her concentration blocked out all sounds except for her own breathing.
The first mile and nine flights were not as easy as she had hoped. As soon as the race began, the field divided into two groups. No one had reached top speed. The jockeys focused on conserving their horses’ strength and positioning themselves for taking the obstacles cleanly. Jessica calculated how many horses were in front of her or behind, and figured she was in the middle of the second pack. Three jockeys from the Devon-on-Thames team penned her in, making it impossible to keep up with the faster group. She watched as one jockey in burnished silks came up on her left, looked over his shoulder at her, and smiled. He switched his crop into his right hand as Jessica felt the space between their horses narrow.
Even Bealltainn knew what was coming. He flattened his ears back and fought to free his head from Jessica’s grip. The jockey aimed his blow to Bealltainn’s neck. Jessica reached forward and the crop crashed down on her arm. The next five hurdles were a blur. Clumps of wet sod flew past her head. Horses began to falter from exhaustion or incompetence and threatened to fall. She kept urging Bealltainn forward, finding the gaps between horses, or forcing herself into the fray, demanding they make room for her.
In front of her was the jump at Canal Turn, where she and Kilkea were cutoff in midair the day before. She took Bealltainn in at a slight angle, cutting off the goon who had cropped her moments before. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his horse somersault, crash into another, and then skid to a stop in the turf.
As the track before her opened up, she let Bealltainn close the gap, risking expending precious energy. She checked the condition of the other horses. Two were already seriously bobbing their heads up and down. Their gaits looked disorganized, a clear sign of being overridden and approaching exhaustion. She maneuvered Bealltainn to the inside of the track seconds before one of the two horses missed clearing the hurdle, catching the top of the hedge in its chest and bringing it and another horse down on its rider. Jessica heard the jockey’s scream cut off mid-breath and knew he was terribly injured, if he was that lucky.
Before the halfway point, Jessica encountered Becher’s Brook for the first time. The horse closest to her was more than four lengths away, giving her room to take the jump as she wanted. She started Bealltainn’s jump a half stride early and jammed her feet home in the irons as he crested his arc. With her body as ballast, Bealltainn landed with his weight balanced. She could feel a slight buckle of his front legs but recovered, using his hind legs to lunge ahead. He rocketed forward.
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br /> Coming from behind the pack was both a blessing and a curse. She wasn’t being jostled or cut off by other horses; she chose a line down the track that kept her clear of unexpected moves. Bealltainn lengthened his stride. Jessica had to choose a fine balance between catching the lead pack on the flat by galloping hard or conserving her horse’s strength for the final half mile to the finish line.
Jessica knew Bealltainn was much more experienced than she was at this kind of race. The further they went, the more she trusted his judgment, allowing him to decide the length of his stride and the comfortable closeness to another animal.
Being one of the largest horses on the field meant he was carrying more heft than the others were—and could tire more easily. The added weight of that damned vest didn’t help either. The motion of her pulsing arms caused the stiff material to rub off patches of skin. If her attention faltered for a second, she would have felt the sticky wounds, raw and close to bleeding. Instead, she focused on her optimal position, crouched, arms forward, and head down. At mile three, Jessica’s back, arms, and thighs began to burn with exertion.
Bealltainn’s size had another benefit. The horse was an equine catapult for clearing fences. She soon realized that by jumping clean and big, Bealltainn would gain more ground than he could have by merely running. Her heart gave a little skip as she began to cue him to go bigger, to fly. She crossed the line from riding safe to riding fast.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw several jockeys in burnished silks and one with a malformed face approach her. Freddy yelled something to the other riders. They rode up three abreast. She had barely thought the command when she felt a momentary checking of Bealltainn’s speed. That fraction of a second caused one horse to miss its takeoff. She watched with satisfaction as they crashed into the hedge, bringing another horse with him.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 20
