Dead Weight

by John Francome

  Mark watched as, ahead, Phil sawed at Funland’s mouth, desperately trying to hold on to him. When they got to within a dozen strides of the first fence the horse lifted his nose in the air and took off like a rocket. From the safety of Alone Again’s back, Phil turned to the jockey on the horse galloping alongside him. `Rather him than me,’ he said.

  The words were barely out of his mouth when Funland made as if to stand off the fence but lost his nerve and crashed straight through it instead, sending birch flying in all directions. Phil was thrown forward on to Funland’s neck and `called a cab’ with his right hand, as the horse’s momentum jolted him back again. Then Funland was into his stride and running away towards the next.

  Mark expected to see Phil lean back in the saddle and fight to get Funland under control, but he did nothing. It was as if he were paralysed.

  Mark knew that if Phil didn’t at least try to hold on to Funland’s head there would be an accident. When a horse bolts, the most important thing is to keep contact with his mouth. That way, when he gets into trouble, at least you can help him stay balanced.

  Funland galloped straight through the water jump and then powered on around the bend into the back straight. Mark knew that Phil was now in trouble, and he silently implored him to try something, anything, to regain control of his mount. To his amazement, Phil didn’t do a thing.

  Funland was burning up the grass, thundering towards the next fence, going too fast to jump with any accuracy, that was for sure. Then, suddenly, Phil stood up in the irons and gave an almighty tug on the right rein, pulling Funland away from the fence and on to the hurdle course.

  At first Mark thought Phil had felt the horse go lame and taken him out of the race. But when he looked across at Funland, now racing upsides them thirty yards to the right, the horse looked fine. There was nothing the matter with him.

  Suddenly the truth dawned on Mark and, for a moment, he couldn’t take it in. Phil had deliberately yanked his horse from the race because he was scared. The tough guy of jump racing had bottled it. Mark could hardly believe it.

  Phil slipped from Funland’s back in a daze. He tried to concentrate as Russell and the owner, Lavinia Morris, opened the inquest on the race. `What the hell happened?’ said the trainer. `I thought he must have broken down.’

  Russell was staring at Phil, giving him his famous glare, reserved for staff who had ballsed up.

  `I thought I felt something give.’ Phil avoided Russell’s eye. `I’m sorry, folks.’

  Lavinia Morris, a plump, good-hearted sort who had been making a fuss of the horse, said loudly, `For God’s sake, there’s no need for apologies. It’s not the end of the world, is it, Russell?’

  `No, Lavinia,’ he replied, but his eye was still cold and Phil knew he would have to account for himself later.

  But how could he explain it? The last thing he was prepared to say to Russell was that his nerve had failed him. He thought of some of his

  finer moments, but past triumphs were no consolation to him now - they were simply a measure of how his talent was slipping away, a yardstick of present failure.

  `Cheer up, man,’ cried Lavinia, slapping him heartily on the back. `You can’t win ‘em all, you know.’

  How true that was.

  Julia was exercising Callisto in the indoor school. The roof leaked a bit and there was still some broken-down farm machinery in one corner but it wasn’t too fanciful to call it an indoor school. Ted had said he’d used it exclusively for horses in the old days, before Tim’s accident. He’d cleared a lot of junk out of it so Julia could make use of the space.

  The surface was ordinary builder’s sand with some shredded rubber added to give it some bounce. The school was almost as useful in the summer, when the ground was baked hard outside, as it was when it was snowing a blizzard in winter. There was no doubt in Julia’s mind that horses learned twice as quickly when you had them indoors, away from any outside distractions. She used the area for jumping, schooling and breaking in youngsters - for just about everything, in fact.

  It was ideal for Callisto, whose fitness regime was proceeding steadily, if hardly spectacularly. The old injury to his sacroiliac joint had healed following cortisone injections, but the horse had been left with a legacy of weakness in his quarters down one side. This meant that, when he pushed himself forward, he tended to veer off a straight line. If the horse were ever to race again he would have to regain the strength in his right side, and Julia had designed a training programme to this end. At the moment he was wearing a special binding on his offhind leg, just above the fetlock, incorporating three pounds’ worth of weights. By lunging him for an hour each day with the weights and taking him for long uphill trots, Julia was gradually building up his muscles.

  As she walked she talked to him. Not all horses were good listeners, she’d found. Some of them, the younger ones, would rather fidget and play. Callisto, on the other hand, was a mature animal, one who’d suffered and survived. As she told him that the person she loved most in the world had betrayed her, he nodded wisely, as if taking in every word.

  Hugh asked Gerry Fowler for a moment in private then, without mentioning Louise, told him what Rose had said. Gerry did not attempt to deny it.

  `Look, I was only trying to save a bit of embarrassment. It was a slip-up in the office and it’s a damn shame for everyone.’

  `I’ve got to report it.’

  The trainer looked up at him. He was too proud to beg but Hugh could read the appeal in his eyes. `Have you really?’

  Hugh didn’t like this. It occurred to him that even if Louise didn’t hate him after today, her father certainly would. `It’s my job, Gerry. Besides, some other hack will get hold of the story and run it if I don’t.’

  The trainer sighed. `God forbid someone else should beat you to it.’ `I’m sorry, Gerry.’

  The trainer nodded. He appeared resigned.

  `I knew I shouldn’t have tried to wriggle out of it. Sometimes you’ve just got to put your hand up, haven’t you?’

  ‘Is that what you’d like me to say?’

  ‘Yes. I want you to make it clear that this whole business is entirely my fault.’

  Julia had returned Callisto to his box and was rubbing him down. `What shall I do about Phil?’ she asked.

  Of course, what she should do was confront him. Fling it in his face the moment he walked in the door. What’s going on with you and Simone? Are you sleeping with her? Do you love her?

  But suppose he said yes, he was in love and that was the reason he didn’t hunger for Julia any more. That he’d had enough of neurotic blonde girls and wanted a sophisticated grown-up woman like Simone.

  Then the whole mess would be out in the open and their marriage would be smashed in bits on the floor, beyond repair. What would she do after that?

  She could leave him. Pack her things and never look back. Find a good lawyer and take the bastard for all she could get. Her friend Eileen would approve of that - and lots of other women too.

  `I can’t do that,’ she said to Callisto. He cocked his head to one side. He understood.

  The house was empty when Phil arrived home. There was no sign of Julia. He had tried her mobile a couple of times on the journey back but it had been switched off. Julia always turned it off when she was with a horse. Phil had an idea where she would be. He got back into the car and drove down the track to his dad’s farm.

  He found her sitting in the corner of Callisto’s stall, one light bulb spreading a dim glow on the scene.

  `What are you doing down here?’ he said.

  She remained where she was, her face a white smudge in the gloom. `Hello, Phil.’

  `Are you all right, Jules?’ She didn’t reply.

  `Come on, sweetheart, time to knock off. Not much you can do for old loppy legs at this time of night.’

  She got to her feet. `Don’t you dare call him that.’ The vehemence of her response took him by surprise.

  `It was just a joke. You�
��ve got to admit he is a bit lopsided these days. It’ll be a miracle if he ever runs in a straight line again.’

  She leaned out of the stall, her face an unrecognisable mask of fury as she hissed, `Don’t you ever talk like that in front of him again.’ `What are you on about? He doesn’t care - do you, boy?’ And he reached past her to pat Callisto’s neck.

  Julia smacked his hand away. `Just go, Phil. Go back to the house and leave us alone.’

  Phil stared at her. The full, kissable mouth was now set in a thin hard line, the small pointed chin thrust out in defiance. Her eyes bulged in anger. She looked nothing like the soft, pretty companion who graced his life.

  `I’m sorry,’ he said, aware now that she wasn’t joking and that something was terribly wrong. He put his hand gently on her upper arm. He could feel the tension in her body. `What’s the matter, Jules?’ `Just go up to the house. I’ll be back later.’

  She turned away abruptly, back into the shadows of the box, leaving Phil standing empty handed.

  He opened his mouth to say something but shut it again, fearful of making things worse. What the hell had got into her?

  The horse stared at him implacably, standing like a sentry at the

  entrance to the stall. Phil raised his hand automatically to scratch the animal’s ear, then thought better of it.

  He turned and walked back to the car.

  Keith’s hands shook as he read the headline on page five of the Racing Beacon. `Devious fails Newbury deadline - “All my fault,” says trainer.’

  He’d heard on the news the day before that the horse was out of the race, but this put a different slant on events. Keith had kept his eye on Devious all season and blue-inked him consistently. His antepost wager of ?50 was the first time he’d ventured into red ink and handed over real money. When the news broke of the horse’s injury it had pained him, but it was sod’s law and he’d simply cursed his luck. But now he saw that it had been nothing to do with luck after all.

  It still amazed him how naive he was. He’d actually believed that stuff about a bruised foot, but now the truth had come out - the trainer had simply forgotten to declare the runner in time. At least, that was what it said in the paper. So Keith’s bet had gone down, his and many others. The paper reckoned some ?50,000 of punters’ money had been lost in stakes never to be returned - one of the hazards of betting before the day of the race.

  The trainer, this Gerry Fowler, had apologised in the paper to all the punters who had lost money on his error - but that was just hot air. He hadn’t offered to pay them back, had he? Fowler had said he’d made an honest mistake, but Keith wasn’t so sure.

  Suppose a big bookmaker says to a trainer, there’s something in it for you if your horse doesn’t run? So the trainer makes a song and dance about how his horse is certain to walk off with a particular race - which pulls in a load of antepost bets. Then the trainer scratches his horse the day before the race and takes a backhander from the bookie for doing so.

  It was plain that fifty grand had been unfairly extracted from punters, and Keith had no doubt than Mr Gerry `I’m so sorry’ Fowler had been given a share of it.

  The trainer had made a mistake, though - he’d not let his owner in on the scam, and it turned out he was one of the losing betters. He was so furious he was thinking of quitting racing - he certainly wasn’t bothered about keeping a lid on things. So the truth about the horse’s

  non-existent injury had come out and Gerry Fowler’s bent behaviour had been exposed.

  The man was a con artist, a swindler. It shouldn’t fucking well be allowed.

  The paper cited similar instances in the past of fancied horses who’d not been declared `due to oversight’. `It’s happened before,’ the article concluded, `and it will happen again.’

  Why? Keith wondered. Why will it happen again?

  It was that kind of complacency which guaranteed that the rip-offs in racing would continue. No one, it seemed, had the will to do anything about them.

  `Except me,’ he said to himself.

  Chapter Five

  Gerry was first into the yard at 5.30, as he was every morning. Even on a Sunday there was still work to be done.

  Most mornings at this time of year he was reluctant to steal out while the household was still in bed. He’d take his wife, Anne, a cup of tea before venturing into the dark, grumbling under his breath. But today was different. The memory of last night’s quarrel still poisoned the atmosphere, and he quit the house without a backward glance. Bloody women.

  He knew he’d been out of order last night, shouting at the pair of them. It wasn’t like him - but a man was entitled to lose it once in a while. Especially when he’d been made to look a fool in public for something that wasn’t his fault. The evening phone-call from Crispin Rose hadn’t helped. No wonder he’d lost his rag with Louise - the entire fiasco was down to her. He was quite entitled to refuse her the loan of the Peugeot for the foreseeable future.

  Anne had thought he was being spiteful. After all, the girl shouldn’t have been in the office in the first place - she was only helping him out. Well, if she’s so bloody mature, he’d replied, why was she out on the piss the night before with that little madam Rebecca?

  And so it had gone on, with Louise running off to bed in tears - ‘Very mature,’ he’d shouted after her - and he and Anne saying things to each other that, he knew from past experience, would fester in the memory. Nobody, it turned out, had behaved in a mature fashion last night.

  He took the gravel path around the big square lawn at the back of the house. It would have been quicker to cut across the grass but it was boggy from the rain. He passed through the gate in the hedge that served as a boundary between the house and the yard and walked towards the stables. It was as black as night with no lightening of a sky banked with cloud. Flecks of rain whipped into his face.

  How he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Guilt lodged in the pit of his stomach like an indigestible meal. Louise was a good kid - loyal, hard working, conscientious. She’d slipped up, but it had been his responsibility and he shouldn’t have taken it out on her. Why hadn’t he been able to be as noble in private as he had in public?

  Now, in the gloom of the morning, he blamed Rose. That phone-call had done the damage. The impresario had decided not to abandon racing after all but he was abandoning Gerry. He was moving his horses out next week, bringing a ten-year relationship to an end. That hurt.

  The trainer reached the American barn, a building which housed both horses and office space. As he put his hand in his pocket for the keys, coarse material suddenly descended over his face, like a shutter cutting him off from the world.

  He was too shocked to shout or struggle and, by the time he did, the material - it felt like sacking - had been pulled down to his waist, as the weight of a man slammed him against the door. The cry in his throat was cut off as the breath was expelled from his body. His feet were kicked from under him and he sprawled on the wet flagstones of the yard. He felt something tighten around his chest, pinning his arms to his side.

  The first blow landed in his ribs. It felt like a kick, a thunderbolt from a boot of steel that propelled his body across the stones. There were more kicks as Gerry tried vainly to get to his feet and run. He felt a lance of fire in his chest as something gave way inside him.

  `Help me!’ he yelled, but the cry was feeble, lost in the foul, filthy sacking.

  The kicking continued, the boot crashing into his head. Gerry tried to curl up and protect himself but his arms were caught up in the material and the blows were too precise. That was the one thing that stuck in his mind as he lay on the wet stones and took the punishment. This was not a wild, frenzied, heat-of-the-moment attack. This was a calculated assault. Intended to maim and cause maximum pain. Maybe to murder. He was terrified.

  `Please!’ he moaned. A pathetic appeal.

  The blows stopped.

  Thank God, he thought. I’m still alive.

  Then the
hammer fell again, exploding against his skull, and blackness claimed him.

  Julia put together a tray of breakfast things - orange juice, toast, a single boiled egg, a cup of black coffee - to take upstairs to Phil. She’d left him in bed playing that infuriating game on his personal organiser. Since she’d discovered the entry about Simone she’d conceived a hatred for the little machine. She wished now shell never given it to him.

  They usually had a lie-in together on Sunday mornings. They’d make love, eat breakfast, then maybe fool around again, pawing each other with buttery fingers, toast-crumbed sheets tickling their naked bodies. But that had been before things started to go wrong. There’d be no fooling around today. Julia had already dressed and the tray was laid for one. She intended to be out of the house within ten minutes - she had a rendezvous with Callisto.

  She entered the bedroom holding the breakfast tray. She expected Phil to be surprised to see her dressed, but he appeared not to notice. He was listening intently to the radio, his face drawn.

  `Gerry Fowler’s in hospital,’ he said. `He got beaten up.’ The news shocked her. She knew Gerry - everyone did. The newsreader’s voice echoed around the bedroom.

  `Mr Fowler’s condition is described as serious but not life threatening. He has yet to regain consciousness and his wife and daughter are waiting by his bedside.’

  Julia sank on to the bed, the tray on her lap, and listened to the remainder of the bulletin.

  `The trainer has recently been involved in controversy following his failure to enter a fancied runner for yesterday’s Tote Gold Trophy at Newbury. This is the second time that a member of the horseracing fraternity has been attacked and hospitalised. Just over a fortnight ago, jockey Adrian Moore was assaulted while taking his dog for a walk. A police spokesman said it was too early to tell whether these events are connected.’

  `Poor old Gerry’ said Phil, shutting off the radio as the next item came on.

  A single thought petrified Julia. `You will be careful, won’t you?’