Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `Come on,’ she said, grabbing his hand. `Let’s dance.’ `I can’t,’ he protested.

  She ignored him and set off downstairs. He followed, muttering, `I’m hopeless.’

  He wasn’t, of course. No man with his natural rhythm and balance was without hope on the dance-floor and when the fast stuff came on he threw her around with some flair.

  `You fibber,’ she protested as Ricky Martin faded out. `You can dance all right.’

  He grinned and put his arms around her for the next - slow - number.

  `Won’t Phil mind?’ he murmured in her ear.

  `Of course not,’ she said. And to herself she thought, who cares if he does?

  But Mark was still anxious. `You won’t tell anyone what I said about not getting rides, will you?”

  ‘No, Mark. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  She felt his body relax against hers as they moved in time to the music.

  The Editor

  The Racing Beacon Dear Sir

  May I draw your attention to the 4.15 at Wincanton this afternoon, supposedly won by a rank outsider called Snowflake. I say supposedly because, to any honest observer, the race was plainly chucked by Adrian Moore on January King. Moore was four lengths clear going into the last hurdle, then he stopped riding so Snowflake could catch him on the line. In a lifetime of watching racing I don’t think I’ve seen anything so blattant. I don’t suppose the fact that January King was 7-2 and Snowflake 33-1 had anything to do with it?

  To add insult to injury, when Moore was up before the stewards he was suspended for ten days and fined ?500. Ten days! He should be banned for six months at least. And ?500 is a joke - he probably got ten times that for pulling the horse.

  No punter complains when he’s beaten fair and square but this

  is as bent as a five-bob note and it happens all the bloody time. Six months ago at Sandown Park a jockey stopped his horse at the wrong winning post. At Fakenham the favourite lost because he was pulled up a circuit too early. And I’ve lost count of the times my horse has been second and the winning jockey has been banned for misuse of the whip - how is that fair? Why should I lose out to a jockey who has broken the rules?

  I tell you why - it’s because the whole thing is crooked. Racing is run for insiders and their cronies, a small cleek of crooked bastards who are milking the honest punter dry. But why should you lot care? You journalists go on about the `sport’ of kings and the `rules’ of the turf but you sit up in London stuffing your faces on expense accounts, tenners hanging out of your back pockets, because you’re in on it too.

  The Beacon claims to shed a spotlight on the sport of racing, doesn’t it? And to be the friend of the average punter. It’s about time you proved it. How about an exposay of cheats and charllatons? Naming and shaming bent jockeys and trainers like the News of the World did with peedophiles? I challenge you to live up to your name for once and give us a campagne for justice in racing.

  If you don’t do it then I bloody well will. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

  It was strange for Julia to feel another man’s hands on her body in the intimate clinch of the slow dance. Strange but not unpleasant. She closed her eyes, the alcohol in her system fogging her thoughts. Phil had become so much part of her in such a short time. One flesh, that was how people described the sensation, wasn’t it? When they were close her husband’s body was simply an extension of her own. Only this wasn’t her husband’s body she was holding now. It was another man’s hands on her hips, his hot breath on her face, his leg pressing against her thigh.

  She broke away abruptly in the middle of the dance. `I’m sorry,’ she cried. `I can’t-‘

  She ran from the dance-floor and blundered up the steps, aware of other people staring at her. It wasn’t Mark’s fault but she had to get away from him. It was wrong for her to be dancing with another man.

  She tripped on the top step of the stairs and strong arms caught her. It was Phil.

  ‘Jules, are you all right?’

  `Take me home,’ she blurted. `Please, Phil. Now.’

  Keith felt better now he’d written the letter -just a bit. It was as if he’d thrown the Beast inside him a scrap, a morsel to chew on that would keep his hunger at bay. But he knew the Beast all too well - it couldn’t be appeased with scraps.

  When he was a young man, the Beast had been a devil to control. A chance remark in a pub, a sly innuendo, sometimes an ill-timed glance across the bar, and Keith would be on his feet, swinging his big fists. He’d lost a few friends that way and a few teeth, and he’d seen the inside of a police cell more than once. But he wasn’t a stupid man and he’d realised that the terrible anger that burned inside would end up destroying him unless he could put it on a leash. There had been some casualties on the way. His mother, God rest her soul, had borne the brunt of his callow rage. And Belinda, his first wife, had seen him at his worst before she too had left him - not that he blamed her. It was as well she’d run away or something really bad might have happened.

  Of course, the one person he really wanted to harm, the one who had placed the Beast in his soul and turned him into its unhappy keeper, had cheated him. His father had died before Keith had had a chance to expend his adult fury on him. So now he never would and the Beast would never be tamed. Only kept at bay.

  Julia woke in the dark. The hollow in the bed next to her was empty but warm.

  `Phil?’ she croaked, her mouth parched, her temples throbbing. She remembered this feeling. What had she been thinking of? It had been months since she’d had a hangover.

  The bedroom door opened and a quadrant of light speared into the room.

  `I’ve brought you some tea.’ He placed a mug on the bedside table and sank on to the covers next to her. `How’re you feeling?’

  `Oh, Phil.’

  He chuckled. `You’re a dark horse. I’ve never seen you plastered before.’

  `I’m sorry.’ She struggled into a sitting position and noticed he was wearing jodhpurs and a sweater. `Aren’t you coming back to bed?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m running late as it is.’

  Julia squinted at the bedside clock. The LCD read 7:44. At Deanscroft the team would have been hard at it for nearly an hour. Fortunately she wasn’t due in today.

  She put her hand on Phil’s thigh. `Please.’

  `I promised Russell I’d ride work on Hollow Crown.’ Hollow Crown was one of the yard’s star performers, on a strict training regime that would, if all went well, put him in the winner’s enclosure at the Cheltenham Festival.

  Right now Julia didn’t care about that. She was remembering painful things about the night before and she needed some reassurance. She took Phil’s hand and held it against her chest.

  `You minx,’ he said, and kissed her throat, then her lips, softly at first but soon more urgently. His fingers took the bait, as she knew they would, and cupped the softness of her breast. She felt her nipple harden at his touch. Then he took his hand away.

  `Sorry, sweetheart.’ He kissed her forehead and stood up. `I hate you,’ she muttered.

  He laughed as he bustled about, putting on his watch and grabbing loose change from the dresser.

  Julia warmed her hands round her mug of tea and watched him. The events of the previous evening became clearer in her mind.

  `I mustn’t drink, Phil. I just can’t hold it.’

  `One drink and you’re anybody’s, eh? I saw you dancing with Mark.’ `Two drinks and I’m not capable.’

  `That’s true enough.’

  He was standing over her now, smiling, concerned, his eyes full of love. She remembered him in much the same position last night, tenderly undressing her, putting her to bed.

  `Tell me about Simone Brown.’

  His expression froze. The affection in his eyes vanished to be replaced by - what? Caution? Fear? Guilt?

  `Who?’

  ‘The woman you sat next to last night.’ `Oh, her. She’s OK.’

  `What did you talk about?’

/>   `Not much, darling, and I’ve really got to go.’

  He bent to kiss her goodbye and she clung on to him like a child, reluctant to let him out of her sight.

  Phil crouched low in the saddle and squeezed gently with his thighs, just a touch, like a feather-light pulse on the accelerator of a highperformance car. The effect was much the same. Hollow Crown powered up the schooling ground and took off like a bird, flying the fence. The north wind bit into Phil’s face and he filled his lungs with cold air. He felt great. The sky was blue above, the animal beneath him was pure class - and yesterday he’d had a winner.

  He slowed the horse at the end of the run, where Russell, muffled against the elements, was waiting for him.

  `He’s tiptop,’ he called to the trainer. `Jumping like a dream.’ `Once more,’ Russell said, and Phil trotted the horse round, eager to take the three-flight practice run again. This wasn’t work - it was fun. It was strange to think some people preferred lying in bed on a crisp winter morning. Of course, most people didn’t have the privilege of riding a Gold Cup chaser.

  He wondered why he was going off to see that shrink, Simone Brown. At this particular moment he couldn’t imagine. Then he reminded himself he’d never had a fall when schooling a horse. His problem only seemed to surface during steeplechases. It didn’t happen at every fence but sometimes, just a couple of strides from taking off, he would be gripped by lurid fears - of smashing into the hard-packed birch or being kicked like a football by the pounding hooves of the pack or lying buried and broken under half a ton of racehorse. At these moments he would just freeze and leave everything to the horse. On experienced animals that was fine but, on novices who needed assistance, he was an accident waiting to happen.

  Phil put the matter to the back of his mind and tried to give himself some confidence. These practice fences were as big and challenging as any on the circuit, and he was steering Hollow Crown over them as fearlessly as he had ever jumped in his life. And, classy though he was, the animal needed treating with caution. He’d run out once over hurdles at Warwick and, given half a chance, Phil knew he’d do it again. If a horse thought he’d got away with something once, he’d be bound to repeat it, even if years had gone by.

  It was as if Hollow Crown had read his mind. Coming in to the open ditch, the last of the practice obstacles, the horse suddenly cocked his jaw and swerved to his right. For a split second the pair were heading for the solid wooden upright that formed the end of the fence wing. Phil had seen more than one jockey smash his knee to pieces in that kind of collision. He already had his whip in his right hand and, without thinking, he cracked Hollow Crown down the right shoulder. The horse did not alter course; he seemed drawn towards the post as if to a magnet. Visions of losing his leg raced through Phil’s mind and he jerked both his knees up to minimise an impact that seemed inevitable. In desperation he gave an almighty yank on the left rein, at the same time giving the horse another crack of the whip with the sort of force that only comes from fear. Hollow Crown took one more stride and then ducked back inside, skipping neatly over the ditch as if it had always been his intention.

  Phil let out a long breath as he regained his composure, and then looked back towards Russell. From where the trainer was standing the incident had obviously looked insignificant. He gave Phil the thumbsup and pointed down the hill, in the direction of the yard. Phil sat back in the saddle with relief and clapped the big horse on the shoulder, his heart still pounding.

  So what was he going to do about Simone? Fancy her turning up last night - he could have done without that. He’d been caught on the hop and he knew Julia had picked up on it. Typical of her. It just went to prove that it had been a mistake to go and see Simone in the first place. His riding was OK now. He’d won on Snowflake. He’d laid down the law to Hollow Crown. He didn’t need any psychiatrist to sort him out.

  By the time Phil had walked the horse back down the path to the yard, he had resolved to cancel his future appointments.

  Julia dragged herself down to the kitchen, the mug of cold tea in her hand. She must have drifted off after Phil had left. She didn’t feel much better - in fact she felt worse.

  She made coffee in a fog and then did the one thing she’d sworn to herself she’d never do again. She lit the cigarette she’d found at the bottom of a little-used handbag when she’d dressed last night. She’d laughed when she’d discovered it, being on a high from Phil and Snowflake’s success and with the prospect of a happy evening ahead of

  her. Shed thought herself fortunate in not remembering it earlier in the afternoon when she’d had the urge. Well, thank God she’d not smoked it then or she’d not have it now.

  The stale tobacco scorched her throat, scrambling her thoughts for a few seconds. She held the smoke in, savouring the taste, the smell - the buzz - of the wicked weed. The first two drags hit her like a hammer blow. Maybe this was the way to smoke - one cigarette every six months.

  The ringing of her mobile interrupted her reverie. Drat - bad timing. She wanted to concentrate on her vice without distraction. But it might be Phil.

  `Is that Julia?’ A woman’s voice, cultured and gentle. `Yes?’

  ‘I’m Yvonne Mitton. I believe you are going to take a look at my horse.’

  Oh my God, Callisto! Last night’s conversation came flooding back. `I’m so excited,’ the voice continued. `Jack tells me you’re a miracleworker. I know you’ll have him running again.’

  `I can’t make any promises, Mrs Mitton.’

  `Of course not. But you don’t know Callisto like I do. He was going to win the Murphy’s for the second year running before his accident. Jack thinks I’m a bit barmy but I can’t help feeling it’s not too late. Especially now you’re on my side…’

  By the time she rang off, some fifteen minutes later, Julia’s precious cigarette was an ugly mound of grey ash. Saved from herself by an unknown horse - maybe it was an omen.

  Keith considered Monty, the horse that Henry Carrington, the old buffer from the hunt, had just unloaded from his trailer. He was a big-boned animal who must have cut a dash in his youth. Even now he stood straight and carried his noble head high. He was still a handsome beast, even if he was a bit grizzled around the edges.

  Not that that was of much concern to Keith, who had four ?20 notes in his pocket for the trouble of turning the horse into dog meat. Carrington had stuffed the notes shiftily into Keith’s hand before he’d driven off, and Keith had no doubt he felt guilty about the whole business.

  `You’ll make sure he doesn’t suffer, won’t you?’ he’d said after spending a minute or so stroking the horse and chatting to him in an undertone Keith couldn’t catch.

  `Stay and watch if you like,’ Keith had replied, which had drained the blood from Carrington’s face and sent him scurrying back to his vehicle.

  Men like Carrington were stupid, in Keith’s opinion. He certainly wouldn’t waste good money on getting someone else to do his dirty work. But then, being a gamekeeper’s son, Keith had been accustomed to dead animals all his life.

  He took the horse’s rein and led him into the shed he used for slaughtering, the one with the blood channels and a drain in the centre of the floor. A few yards from the double doors the animal caught a whiff of dead flesh and planted his feet. Carrington had said he was twenty-four if he was a day and past it, but Keith wasn’t so sure about that. The old horse looked like he had a few more gallops left in him. He had certainly looked a lot more lively since he had sensed what was about to happen to him.

  Which was neither here nor there to Keith. He’d been paid to do a job so he might as well get on with it.

  Unless. A sudden thought struck. Someone he knew might be persuaded to pay him a bit more to keep the horse alive.

  He went into the house to make the call and returned five minutes later with a bucket of water.

  `It’s your lucky day, Monty,’ he said as the horse drank greedily. ‘Eleventh-hour reprieve.’

  Keith was pl
eased. It was his lucky day too. Soon Monty would have a new lease of life on the hunting fields of Derbyshire and Keith would be a few quid better off. He’d asked his pal for ?1,200 so, with luck, they’d settle on a grand. Provided Carrington never got wind of it, everyone was a winner.

  Phil had a good feeling about the 2.30 at Folkestone - a three-mile, two-furlong handicap chase. He was riding an old friend, Wolf Patrol, who he’d successfully piloted round the course the previous January, in the days before Julia, before the wedding and before his accident. It seemed more like five years ago than one. But he well remembered kicking the tireless Wolf Patrol home in the teeth of a gale to win by three lengths. The victory had put him in the lead for the jockey’s championship and he’d not been headed after that. Though he’d not ridden Wolf Patrol since - the horse had been sidelined for the rest of the season with a leg injury - he’d been looking forward to getting back on him. At nine years old, the powerful chestnut gelding was considered a seasoned campaigner. During Phil’s absence, he’d carried Mark to victory at Uttoxeter and Catterick, and Phil was keen to get reacquainted. All in all, the omens looked good. It was even blowing another gale.

  During a race, Phil always took the shortest route, around the inside of the course. There was no point in taking any other unless the ground was a bog and it was easier for the horse to gallop elsewhere. There were some days when he’d go miles wide just to find a firmer surface. The difference could be as marked as running on a beach, where it was firm at the water’s edge or soft in the deep dry sand beyond the tide line. However, racing on the inside was much more dangerous.

  Eighteen runners lined up, at least four of whom wanted to make the running. Phil was delighted that Wolf Patrol needed to be held up. He felt the now-familiar churning in his stomach and took a deep breath to fight the bile rising in his gorge. The thought of being jammed against the rail by a pack of horses filled his thoughts. The downside of taking the inner was that you could find yourself galloping flat out towards a fence and not able to see it because of the wall of horses in front of you.