Dead Weight

by John Francome

  She returned to the sitting room to watch the last race. The television camera cut to a huddle of men in the parade ring, Phil among them. Julia tried to read her husband’s face as he was caught mid-conversation with an owner she did not recognise. Phil had not mentioned his losing streak that morning but she knew he had been banking on Ashburton. He had to be bitterly disappointed. If so, he showed no sign. Just before the camera cut away, he put his head back and laughed in the uninhibited, full-throated way that was now so familiar to her. The sight cheered her up and she realised the nicotine pangs had disappeared. What right had she to wallow in gloom when Phil, ever optimistic, was obviously just getting on with it?

  She knew he didn’t fancy his mount in the upcoming race. He’d ridden Snowflake at Lingfield shortly after returning to the saddle in December and the horse had struggled to come last, ten lengths behind the field. `Don’t expect me back early,’ he’d said as he’d left that morning. `I’ll still be getting round on Snowflake.’

  Julia had laughed but she’d felt bad about it afterwards out of loyalty to the horse. She tried not to have favourites among the animals she worked with but it was hard to ignore her likes and dislikes. To her, horses were much like people, each with their own distinctive personalities. And, as with people, there were some with whom she just clicked - like Snowflake. When she’d first started her physiotherapy she’d been told he was lazy, that he was avoiding work after a lay-off from a stress fracture sustained on the hard courses of late summer. Julia had quickly come to the conclusion that the little horse was still in pain though, game fellow that he was, he was trying his best not to show it. To her mind it was no surprise that he was performing badly in races - he shouldn’t have been running.

  She’d said as much to Russell, who had promptly placed the horse in her charge. Since the New Year she’d been massaging the little grey and riding him out. In the last week he’d been working well and her impression was that Snowflake was finally getting his confidence back. She had the feeling he might be capable of springing a surprise. She’d kept that to herself, though - it was between her and the horse.

  She watched the parade of runners circle the ring. Snowflake was looking alert and frisky. Maybe there was still hope.

  Julia was on Phil’s mind as he rode down to the start. He’d have guessed she’d been working with Snowflake even if he hadn’t known. In his experience, all animals at Deanscroft benefited from her attentions, and the little horse beneath him was no different. The grey was taking a good hold on the way down to the start of the two-mile novice hurdle.

  Phil noted that the animal was comfortable with the going, which was now heavy. On reflection this was not entirely a surprise - for a horse recovering from a stress fracture, soft ground was preferable to firm. And, though Phil was pleased the horse was happier in himself, it was not likely to make much difference. He doubted that Snowflake was going to run fast enough to stay in touch with January King or any

  of the other fancied runners in the race. The bookies had him at 33-1, and he had no reason to question their judgement.

  Keith kept his betting book in two colours of ink: blue for the punts he fancied making and red for the bets he actually placed. Blue was the predominant colour in these pages, a fact that gave him a considerable degree of satisfaction. It demonstrated to him that restraint, self-control and discipline were now present in his life - which had not always been the case.

  He had employed this two-tone method for the past three years and, whenever its frustrations became oppressive, he reminded himself that it was better than his previous system. In those days all bets were red - which is why he no longer owned his own home and worked as a rural skivvy in the back end of nowhere without even his slut of a wife to keep him company.

  At least now he was no longer a slave to the bookmakers. The blue bets - his theoretical wagers - required the same degree of research and racing knowhow as before but they had the advantage of being risk free. Betting blue, as he frequently reminded himself, he couldn’t lose. If his chosen runner nosedived then the only blow was to his pride. Without the pain in the pocket he could consider the loss as the mere statistic it was, a simple addition to the sum of racing knowledge required by a dedicated gambler like himself. And if a blue bet came off he had the satisfaction of knowing his judgement had been sound. Admittedly this was the difficult part - he’d be a bloody fool if he didn’t admit he’d rather have the cash.

  What was more, he could see from a tally of his blue bets where he used to go wrong. In the past he’d been too impatient; now he waited until all the factors in the betting equation looked good before he put his money on the table. It was hard work, constantly studying form, weights, breeding and the rest, but it narrowed the odds in his favour. And the blue bets put a brake on his gambling instincts. This afternoon, however, was going to be a red-ink race day, no question.

  His eye was on the runners circling the ring. He picked out the black and yellow diamonds of January King. The horse looked in fine condition - lively, powerful and well turned-out - which was as well considering that there was ?800 of Keith’s money on him. Not that Keith had wagered ?800 in the first place - this was the last leg

  of a treble. His initial stake had been ?100.

  Keith was sure January King would bring home the bacon. He noted with interest that the price had gone out to 7-2, making January King second favourite behind Skipjack at 7-4. Keith felt a stab of alarm but then reminded himself why he hadn’t fancied Skipjack for this race. Though he’d beaten January King on this course as recently as November, he was now carrying five pounds more in weight, and the ground that day had been good. Today it would be a different ballgame. The ground was a bog - just how January King liked it. Keith congratulated himself on consulting the long-range weather forecast before he’d laid out his cash. At least if the bet went down he’d know he’d covered all the angles.

  As Phil lined Snowflake alongside the other runners at the start the rain lashed into his face and body. There wasn’t much protection from the elements in a jockey’s lightweight racing silks. Once they were off, however, all thoughts of personal discomfort vanished and he thought only of the race.

  There were a dozen runners and they bunched together in the early part of the race, passing the stands for the first time before heading out into the country. Phil eased Snowflake along at the rear of the pack, pleasantly surprised by the little horse’s rhythm and neatness over the hurdles. As they turned into the back straight on the far side of the course, they met the worst of the weather, but even that didn’t slow him down. On the contrary, Snowflake began to pick up the pace, and Phil was only too happy to let him forge on. The little horse was skipping across the heavy turf with relish, making his way through the field.

  As they approached the sixth, Phil was amazed to find them drawing alongside the race favourite, Skipjack. The big bay was struggling and barely got airborne, ripping the hurdle from the ground. Through mudspattered goggles, Phil could see his rider working hard to keep Skipjack upright. Then, turning for home, they passed the unhappy pair and the course was clear ahead but for the distinctive yellow and black of Adrian some way in the distance on January King. If he kept going like this, Phil realised, he could finish second.

  Keith was not a man to count his chickens - he’d lived long enough to know that was how you got egg on your face. Still, surely the money was in the bag now with January King ten lengths clear and Skipjack run out of it. He allowed himself to relish the thought of picking up a cool ?3,600. Enough to get Denise off his back for a while, pay a few bills and still have something left over to give him breathing space. Time maybe to plan a few more coups like this. He wouldn’t mind making a living as a full-time gambler.

  The sound echoed round the little room, drowning out the TV commentary.

  `Go on, Snowflake! Go on, Snowflake! Go on, Snowflake!’

  Julia was on her knees in front of the set, scarcely aware she was shouting.
She didn’t think that Snowflake could win from so far back but the horse that she believed in was coming good. And even if Phil only finished second, this heroic ride on an unfancied mount would surely prove to everyone that he was returning to form.

  `Go on, Snowflake!’

  He was catching January King, but going into the last there were six lengths between them. Surely that was too much to make up?

  Phil never thought of using his whip. There was no need - Snowflake was as keen to catch the horse ahead as he was. He rode high over the little grey’s shoulders, urging him on with his hands, amazed by the transformation in the animal beneath him. How he wished there were a couple more furlongs to go. As they jumped the last hurdle - farther out, thankfully, than the last fence on the chase course - they were fast running out of room.

  Keith couldn’t believe it. He’d been about to land the sweetest gamble of his life. January King had been four lengths clear and in sight of the post when the jockey had stopped riding! It was as if the horse was over the finishing line and the race was already won. But it wasn’t. The rider - that twat Adrian Moore - had simply dropped his hands, sat still in the saddle and let some pathetic outsider catch him on the line.

  It was incredible. Keith had never seen anything like it. It had to be a fix.

  Standing in the winner’s enclosure for the first time in a month, Phil felt relief rather than euphoria. Though his smile was broad as he accepted the handshakes and back-slaps, he told all who would listen that the horse deserved the real credit. In truth he hadn’t had to do a great deal.

  He found Adrian sitting in the weighing-room next to Beatle, the dog’s head resting in his lap. He looked up as Phil approached, his face pale.

  `I’ve just been booed off’

  Phil had heard the commotion at the end of the race. Not everyone had been happy with Snowflake’s last-ditch victory.

  `Don’t worry about it. It’s happened to everybody.’

  `Not me.’ Adrian looked close to tears. `Some bloke called me a cheating bastard.’

  Phil put his hand on the lad’s arm. `It goes with the territory. It’s not your fault some clot’s done his beer money.’

  Adrian managed a grin. `But it was my fault.’

  `I wouldn’t beat yourself up. You’re not the first to do it and you won’t be the last.’

  `He was tiring at the end. Since we’d obviously won I couldn’t see the point of racing him to the post so I dropped my hands. Didn’t see you coming at all.’

  Phil knew just how Adrian was feeling - something similar had happened when he’d lost on Ashburton. Sometimes racing was a pure lottery and this time his number had come up.

  The television was off and Keith sat in the dark. He ought to see to the hounds but, for the moment, he couldn’t move. Since the race had finished he’d sat frozen in shock.

  He’d been robbed. That was the only way to look at it. It happened in all sport so it wasn’t a surprise. The blatant penalty not given, the plum lbw denied - the horse stopped on the line. Everyone knew it went on. The reason was money, obviously. In this case, the winner was a rank outsider at 33-1. Some jokers would be celebrating tonight, and you could bet that included the smartarse riding January King.

  Keith had never counted himself a fortunate man and he’d learned to live with the fact. These days he relied on graft and preparation and cunning - not luck. Like this red-ink treble that had just blown up in his face. That bet had not been based on good fortune but on the exercise of betting intelligence. And it had been about to pay off - until some little bastard on the take had robbed him.

  He knew the little bastard’s name and the training yard where he worked. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out where he lived.

  Keith slammed his fist on the table in front of him. He’d been playing by the rules, but where had it got him? Sod the rules.

  The shock was fading now, to be replaced by other feelings. Deep, dangerous feelings of hurt and anger that he knew well and which lived inside him like a separate creature. The Beast, that was how he thought of it. He’d lived with the Beast all his life, and he’d learned the hard way how to control it. But sometimes the Beast wouldn’t be penned in. Its need was too strong and too terrible. The way he felt now, after this humiliation, he didn’t know whether he could keep it in check.

  Chapter Two

  `What do you think, Phil?’

  Julia turned towards her husband, who was sprawling on the bed, watching her get dressed. A small, dark furrow of anxiety creased her brow. Selecting the right clothes for the evening ahead was a serious business. It was important to look her best.

  `Phil?’She couldn’t read his expression, which was hidden in shadow. `Let’s see the other one again,’ he said.

  Her mouth tugged downward in frustration, but she obediently slipped the straps of her oyster-pink dress from her slim shoulders and wriggled the tight garment over her hips. Beneath it she wore just a tiny satin thong - a Christmas present from Phil - and she was conscious of her near-nakedness as she stood directly beneath the overhead light. Across the foot of the bed lay her other possible choice - a black sheath which had been on and off a couple of times already in her search for the right outfit. As she reached for it again, she heard Phil chuckle.

  She jerked upright, her bare breasts quivering. `You pig,’ she cried, the penny suddenly dropping. `You just want to gawp at me!’

  She could see his eyes now, glinting wickedly, as the chuckle grew into full-blown laughter. She threw the dress at him.

  `Come here,’ he said.

  She went - she couldn’t resist him.

  He slipped an arm round her waist and pulled her down on top of him.

  `We’ll be late,’ she protested.

  His hands were on her. Strong, callused hands now tenderly stroking and teasing. Tracing the tiny tattoo of a daisy high on her left buttock - and other places. He did not speak but his lips were busy.

  Julia could feel her heart pounding and a knot of desire gather in her belly. The anticipation before they made love was sometimes painful. It frightened her, the way he could turn her on so quickly, just as if he had flicked a switch.

  `You said this evening was important,’ she murmured.

  `So it is,’ he breathed into her open mouth, `but it’s not as important as you.’

  The knot inside her drew tighter as she returned his kiss with heart and soul.

  As they sped into town, Julia peered out of the window of Phil’s luxury Saab - a prize for becoming last season’s top jockey. Snug in leatherupholstered comfort, she made out vague shapes of houses and hedgerows along a road grown familiar to her over the last twelve months. It still seemed strange to her that her life had changed so fast. A year ago shell been suffering a miserable existence at the other end of the country - working as a drudge in a cafe just to stay near a man who didn’t love her. And now look at her: a valued member of the best training operation in National Hunt racing and happily - ecstatically - married to the champion jockey.

  They were running late but she no longer cared about that. Given the choice she’d have stayed in bed, in Phil’s arms, and finished what they’d barely begun. The depths of her physical passion for her husband surprised her - it seemed she wanted him all the time. She considered him surreptitiously as he concentrated on the wet road ahead. Did he look just a mite more relaxed now he’d won the first race of his comeback? Or was he, like her, still savouring the delicious way they had just made each other happy? She couldn’t tell. Whatever he did, Phil looked at ease. She’d rarely seen him disconcerted. Even lying broken in a hospital bed, he’d raised a smile and told her it was all part of the job.

  Shed always had a thing about jockeys. She supposed it followed from loving horses so much. Though she’d never actually owned a horse, she’d grown up with them, courtesy mostly of her mother’s men friends. `Mum’s the original hippy,’ she’d told Phil in their first serious conversation. `Me and my sisters wandered around
a lot.’ They’d wandered from communes in the Home Counties to crofts in the Western Isles to a farm in Northumberland, where her mother still lived with Big Alan, the last and best of Julia’s many surrogate dads. The one thing that could be said about the dads was that they all encouraged her passion for horses.

  Most little girls like horses - Julia’s sisters and friends were as keen as any but, when it came down to it, any cute furry creature with big eyes would do. Not for Julia, however. She couldn’t understand how anyone could prefer a soppy bunny rabbit or fluffy kitten to a horse. Horses were noble, strong, magical creatures. Who talked to her.

  The first horse to speak to her was a Shetland pony on the Isle of Mull when she was six. He was kept in a field near the caravan where they were living, temporarily, in the course of a domestic upheaval. Julia had gone to feed him with her sisters and had stood back as they thrust their hands through the fence, holding out pieces of apple and yelling to the pony. He shambled over, snaffled the fruit and then nipped the girls’ fingers. They jumped back shrieking and screamed at Julia not to go near the pony. She ignored them and held out her offering calmly. She knew the animal wouldn’t bite her and he didn’t. As he gently extracted the apple from her little fingers, he looked her in the eye and his words took shape in her mind. `I like you. Those others are too noisy.’

  Julia was overcome with delight. She hugged the moment to herself but later, when their mother was telling the girls never to go near that bad-tempered animal again, she made the mistake of standing up for him. `He only bit them because they were shouting,’ she said. `He told me so.’

  She never heard the last of it. From then on, whenever her siblings wanted to be mean, she was the mad sister. `Dotty’, `potty’, `crazy’, ‘flaky’- all these words and many more were hung around her neck. Sometimes, in the lonelier years of a misspent adolescence, they seemed to give her an identity that she herself could not provide. But she always found a purpose in horses - and then boys.