Dead Weight

by John Francome

  Simone considered this. `So you’re the big tough guy sheltering her from the winds of adversity?’

  `That’s a bit of a poncy way of putting it.’

  She smiled but stared at him keenly, still expecting an answer. `Well,’ he conceded, `I suppose that is how I see it.’

  `Has it not occurred to you, Phil, that the pair of you might be more effective as a partnership if you faced the wind together?’

  His first impulse was to say that he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he held his tongue.

  She got to her feet, signalling the end of the session. `Just think about it, Phil.’

  He nodded. Like hell he would.

  Mark had never thought of himself as the jealous type but, sitting in Phil’s fancy car on the way to Newbury, he felt a sudden surge of envy for what his friend had in life. The car was the least of it.

  Julia had seen them off from Deanscroft in dirt-spattered jeans and a shapeless sweater that failed to conceal her shape. She was the kind of girl who’d look good in a coal sack. Phil had kissed her goodbye carelessly, casually palming the rounded curve of her hip as she lifted her heart-shaped face to his. Mark had looked away hastily, a stab of desire lancing through his gut. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever met, all the more so because she seemed totally unaware of her appeal.

  She’d kissed him goodbye too, a chaste touch of her plush pink lips on his cheek as she’d said, `Good luck this afternoon.’ To think that Phil went home to her every night. Lucky bastard.

  He promised himself that one day he’d be champion jockey with a top-of-the-range car, a woman to make your knees go weak - and the best horses. That was the catch. You needed the best horses to become champion, and the way things were now Mark wasn’t sitting on enough of them. He was back in the queue at Deanscroft behind Phil, trying his heart out on the second string. Mark had every confidence in his riding ability, but the fact was you could be the most gifted rider on God’s earth but no one would ever notice if you were riding a donkey.

  Julia gave herself half an hour to clear up the cottage. She’d always been a bit of a messy person - she’d grown up in households where no one gave two hoots about keeping the place tidy. And Phil, being a man who’d always lived with his mother, was even worse. It was really only the thought of Phil’s mum popping in unexpectedly - as she often did - and seeing the place in complete disarray that drove Julia to these bursts of industry.

  Things had almost returned to normal after their quarrel in the middle of the night. Well, it hadn’t exactly been a quarrel, but his outburst had shaken her to the core. The way he’d sounded - as if she were a pest, asking for sex all the time, and stupid as well, too dumb to realise there were other ways of responding to distress apart from offering her body.

  But when shed thought about it more rationally she’d realised he had a point. Often, in a relationship, sex had been her stock-in-trade. Her response to a man’s anger or sorrow or pain had invariably been to offer him the comfort of her embrace because … well, because that rarely failed. She wasn’t the most confident woman in the world, but she knew that her body was what men liked. Ever since she’d developed curves, boys had made it clear her shape had pleased them.

  So the outburst from Phil, shocking though it was at the time, had maybe done her some good. He had a point. In a proper, long-term relationship, she couldn’t solve every crisis by opening her legs.

  `I won’t be offering you a bonk when I’m ninety, will I?’ she’d said to him the next evening when they’d talked it through. `You’ll be in trouble if you don’t,’ he’d replied. `I’ll ask for a divorce.’

  Then he’d made love to her on the sofa with a tenderness that made up for his early-morning bad temper. Afterwards she’d lain in his arms,

  looking at the vase of sumptuous roses he’d bought her as a peace offering, and breathed a sigh of relief that their first real breach had been mended.

  Since then things had almost been back to how they used to be. Except now when she heard him wake in the middle of the night she lay still, pretending to sleep even as he slipped from the bed and out of the room. She mustn’t make the mistake shed made before.

  There’d been one other change. When it came to sex, she’d stopped making the first move. Before, she’d often given Phil the come-on. An impulsive kiss, a hand on his thigh, a certain kind of look - these were second nature to her. Now she consciously cut these gestures out in case she should be rejected again. As a result they made love less often than before. It’s inevitable, she told herself. We’ve been married six months - sex appeal wears off. She herself didn’t feel any different about Phil, but maybe he was going off her?

  Today, as she cleaned up, her thoughts turned once more to their love life. Phil hadn’t laid a finger on her for four days - five maybe. That had to be a record in their relationship - except when he was laid up by his accident, of course. But even then they’d found ways of expressing their desire. She’d even pleasured him in hospital once or twice.

  She was surprised to find his personal organiser under the bed as, along with his mobile phone, it was a toy he carried everywhere. The organiser had been her Christmas present to him, and it had been a big hit. He used it all the time - though not so he could organise his life. He’d fallen in love with a game feature which looked to Julia like a lump of frog-spawn; the idea being to eliminate sequences of shaded blobs till you achieved a blank screen. He’d explained it helped while away the time between races.

  Julia opened up the organiser and the game screen came on automatically. She chuckled indulgently - he’d be missing this at Newbury.

  She touched the `Phone’ icon at the bottom of the small screen and brought up a page arranged in columns for names and numbers - only there weren’t any. She touched `Contacts’ and a different format appeared, laid out for names and addresses. It was also empty. She tutted to herself. She’d been nagging Phil to copy these details from the old loose-leaved diary he carried around but he’d obviously preferred to play frog-spawn. Perhaps shed take pity on him and offer to input the information herself.

  She moved on to `Agenda’, arranged in days like a diary page. At least there were entries here - times, places and names, indicative of a busy life. Today was full of details of his Newbury rides, but it was the morning entry that caught Julia’s eye.

  ‘10.00 Simone.’

  That was all it said. But it was enough.

  The talk of the press room at Newbury racecourse was the list of declared runners for the following day’s big race, the Tote Gold Trophy. The absence of Devious was a shock to all, and Gerry Fowler had been quizzed closely about the disappearance from the card of the antepost favourite.

  Hugh was among the group of journalists who waylaid the trainer on the way to the stables to check on his runner in the third race. Gerry was as affable as usual, explaining that a last-minute injury had ruled the horse out.

  `What exactly’s wrong with him?’ asked one writer. `He’s got a bruised foot.’

  `How’s Mr Rose taking it?’ asked Hugh. The horse’s owner was a theatrical impresario well known to the press and public - and to the bookmakers.

  It seemed to Hugh that Gerry’s affability faded a degree or two. `He’s disappointed, naturally, but he only wants what’s best for the horse.’

  More questions rained down on the trainer as he moved off. `Any idea what caused the injury, Gerry?’

  ‘What did Mr Rose say when you told him?’

  But Gerry refused to answer. `Enough now, lads,’ he said as he moved off, adding apologetically, `That’s racing.’

  Arnie Johnson, a tabloid reporter next to Hugh, muttered, `I bet that’s not what Rose said.’

  `No?’

  ‘He had Devious antepost at ten to one. Apparently he’s just kissed goodbye to twenty grand.’

  Hugh was still musing on Gerry’s comments when, in search of a drink, he spotted a familiar tangle of red hair on the other side
of the

  ground-floor bar. Louise Fowler was nursing a cup of muddy brown coffee and exuding gloom.

  He pushed through the crowd towards her. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Despite his shambolic appearance - or maybe because of it - Hugh got on well with women. He was not overawed by attractive girls and he never tried to impress them. Most women found that a relief.

  Louise managed a wan smile as he came over.

  `What’s it to be - more coffee? Large gin? Or a bacon sandwich?’ `Ugh. A couple of aspirins maybe.’

  Hugh liberated a cardboard packet from inside his coat. `Paracetamol - best I can do.’

  He watched as she took two pills from the packet and washed them down.

  `What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be mucking out or currycombing or something?’

  `I’m keeping out of Dad’s way, if you really want to know.’ `Any special reason?’

  She looked up at him soulfully and Hugh noticed that her milkyblue eyes were red rimmed and moist. `I’ve done something awful.’ The words took him by surprise. He didn’t know her that well - though he always kept an eye out for her at meetings. He’d have been intrigued even if he wasn’t a journalist.

  `Really?’ he said and, to his amazement, she told him she had been responsible for not declaring Devious in time for the Tote Gold Trophy. `So the horse isn’t injured?’

  `No. Where did you hear that?’

  `Your dad just told half the press corps. Said he had a bruised foot.’ `Oh, shit.’

  Her face crumpled and she began to cry. For a second Hugh stared nonplussed, then he moved instinctively into action. He took the halfempty carton of coffee from her hands and dropped it into a nearby bin. Then, with his arm around her heaving shoulders, he manoeuvred her into a corner, shielding her with his bulk, and offered her a pack of paper handkerchieves. The newsman in him was elated by this discovery, but he was touched by her distress.

  She blew her nose hard. `What I’ve just told you is absolutely off the record, understand?’

  `OK, but aren’t you and your dad talking any more?’

  `He’s really angry with me. He had a terrible row with Mr Rose about it.’

  Hugh wanted to tell her he was the last person she should confide in, but he wasn’t that much of a saint. If a Titian-haired angel wanted to cry on his shoulder and serve up a good story, it would be unprofessional not to listen. He’d worry later about exactly how he would use the information.

  Mark’s discontent had been building all afternoon. He was still in a stew of envy over Phil, and its intensity puzzled him. When he’d first joined the yard as a conditional rider he’d been overawed by Phil, then thrilled to be accepted by one of the country’s top jockeys as a fellow professional. When Phil had become champion jockey he’d been delighted for his friend, and he’d toasted his health at last summer’s wedding as whole-heartedly as anyone else. But now, suddenly, those warm feelings had been replaced by distinctly colder emotions.

  When Phil had had his accident Mark had been shattered. He remembered sitting in the weighing-room at Worcester in a trance, his limbs like lead, muttering a prayer for deliverance that he wasn’t aware he still knew. All his thoughts were focused on the ambulance bearing Phil to hospital and on how soon they would hear news. Then he’d been summoned to see Russell out in the paddock. `You’re on the rest of Phil’s rides,’ he’d been told. Instantly all tiredness had evaporated, and concern for his injured friend with it. He’d ridden a first and two seconds and at the end of the afternoon, when he’d heard Phil was going to be OK, his first shameful thought had been I hope he doesn’t come back too quick.

  Things had not been the same since then. Mark had got used to the best Deanscroft had to offer in the months of Phil’s absence. He wasn’t proud of it but now, when Phil had the pick of the rides, a voice inside Mark’s head muttered, `I should be on that horse.’

  Take this afternoon. Phil was lined up for five rides, all for Russell, which left Mark on just two Deanscroft horses, both novices having their first runs and as green as the grass they were about to race on. His agent had secured him a couple of other rides for different trainers but the mounts were plodders. The afternoon would be like going to work in a factory. Turn up, do your job, get the wages and go home. There would be no bonuses in the form of winning percentages. In comparison, Phil was riding four favourites. Mark resented it - he couldn’t help himself. The time when he had been in awe of Phil had long since passed. To his mind, Phil had lost his edge since his accident, and Mark was certain that he was now the better jockey.

  Hugh found a quiet corner and rang Crispin Rose’s office. He’d talked to his PA once or twice before, Rose being happy as a rule to pontificate to the racing press. Hugh gathered he wasn’t quite so generous with show-business correspondents.

  `He said he wasn’t talking to the papers,’ said the PA, `but since it’s about a horse, you might be in luck.’

  Nevertheless the great man sounded thoroughly fed up when he came on the line.

  `Look, I don’t know what I can tell you. The trainer tells me the horse is sick and it can’t run.’

  `So there’s no truth in the rumour that Devious is in tiptop shape but just wasn’t declared in time?’

  `Who told you that?’

  `Only, if that’s the case, I wonder if you’d like to comment, especially bearing in mind the antepost bets that have gone west. I understand you yourself have lost a fair bit of money?’

  `Has Fowler been talking to you?’

  `I can’t reveal my sources, Mr Rose, but I am anxious to represent all shades of opinion about a matter of importance to our readers.’ There was a prolonged silence on the other end of the line.

  `Mr Rose?’

  `Look, sonny, I’m in the business of mounting complicated and spectacular entertainments for a demanding public. Last-minute cockups are my speciality. In my world, whatever fiascos occur before the curtain goes up, the show goes on. But horseracing …’ He spat the word out contemptuously. `If some idiot is five minutes late in making a phone call the day before the race, then I’m stuffed. What kind of business is that?’

  `So you’d like to see a change in the rules-?’

  Rose cut him off. `I’m not interested in monkeying around with petty regulations. I’m sick of them. I’m thinking of quitting racing altogether.’

  The afternoon had gone much as Mark had predicted and his mood had not improved, even though the trainer of his third mount had been thrilled with the way he had ridden.

  `That’s the best he’s ever run,’ he’d said as Mark pulled his muddy saddle from the heaving animal. `But not good enough,’ he added. Mark was tempted to tell the trainer that the horse was hopeless. Instead he smiled and said that he’d love to ride him again if he could. As he made his way back to the changing-room he heard that Phil’s mount had won in a common canter, which only added to his frustration. As they lined up for the sixth race of the afternoon, a two-mile handicap chase, Mark was on Alone Again, a one-paced stayer with stamina but little else. He usually raced over longer distances but Russell felt he was swinging the lead a bit and a run over two miles might sharpen him up. The idea being that when he reverted to his regular trip he might find the slower pace more comfortable and his enthusiasm would be rekindled. At any rate, that was theory. Mark was sceptical but he wasn’t the boss.

  Phil was on Russell’s other runner, Funland, a crabby customer inclined to give anyone a nip or a kick if he got the chance. He was a big, powerful horse with plenty of ability, but also - in jockey parlance - pig ignorant. Mark had won on him at Uttoxeter in his last race but he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. Even he, who would ride almost anything with four legs and a tail, had been pleased just to get the race over with.

  Funland had come to Deanscroft from Ireland. The horse had been moved to England because his owner believed he’d benefit from better opportunities. The groom who dropped him off reported that he was
a really nasty individual and the whole yard were pleased to see the back of him.

  Uttoxeter had been his first run for Russell. Funland had pulled his lad all over the paddock beforehand and then shoved him hard against the railings as he’d tried to lead the horse with Mark on board out on to the course. As the lad let them go, Funland had plunged forward with his head low to the ground. Mark had used both hands on one rein and given him a good yank in the mouth. He’d hated doing it but he’d had no choice. Another split second and the horse would have been into his stride and Mark would never have got him back under control. As the steel bit jarred against Funland’s mouth Mark felt him give slightly and he pulled again, twisting the horse’s head sharply around to the left so that his nose was almost against Mark’s foot.

  It was a battle between the pair of them. By the time Mark had wrestled Funland to the start, his arms were hurting with the effort of trying to restrain him. The horse had been just as intractable in the race itself. Mark had kept him jammed in behind a wall of other runners but, by the time the race was over, he was exhausted.

  Funland wasn’t even a good jumper. He was a bit of a guesser who would launch himself from anywhere unless his rider made it clear where he was supposed to take off. It seemed to Mark that the animal thought he was invincible so he didn’t need to bother himself. What he needed was a bone-shaking fall to knock some sense into him. The question was, which poor sod would be on his back when he took it?

  Hungry as he was, this was one ride that Mark wouldn’t miss. As the starter called them in, Mark looked across to see how Phil was coping. Funland was dripping with sweat and tugging his rider’s arms out. Phil looked as white as a sheet.

  Mark shouted over to him. `He’s the biggest yak I’ve ever sat on.’ `Thanks a bunch,’ was all Phil could manage before the tapes went up.

  At least when Mark had ridden Funland there had been plenty of other runners and he’d been able to hide him behind a few. Today there were just seven, and Mark knew that Phil’s chance of getting Funland to settle were zero. The horse might be favourite but, if he ran away, Mark knew that he would win nothing. And that was just what he did.