Dead Weight

by John Francome

  As he parked the car in the lane he was surprised to see another motor beside Julia’s little Fiesta. He knew who it belonged to - what was Mark doing here?

  There was the sound of hooves from the nearby paddock, and Phil looked over the gate. The big field was used for schooling, and Julia had laid it out with practice jumps of all shapes and sizes. Mark was on the far side on a horse Phil did not at first recognise. The pair were moving at a brisk clip towards a wooden barrier, and the horse seemed to flow over it before slowing. Only when the rider halted his mount at the opposite hedge and turned him in Phil’s direction did he see the white star on the animal’s forehead.

  Phil was amazed at Callisto’s progress. He watched in a daze as Julia rushed over to make a fuss of the horse. He couldn’t catch what she said but Mark’s laughter rang out loud and clear.

  The pair separated and horse and rider took off again, back towards the poles from the opposite direction. Phil had his hand on the gate. His impulse was to charge over and ask what was going on. But it was obvious. Julia had got fed up asking him to help out with Callisto and had turned elsewhere for help. If he were honest, he couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t say he liked it, though. Especially since Mark was doing such a good job. The old horse didn’t look so old now. The way he was moving into the jumps, it looked like he still had the talent. Abruptly Phil turned away.

  As Julia let Mark into Barley Cottage she could see he was in pain. The session with Callisto, which had gone so well, had ended on an unfortunate note. Mark had taken him over a final jump and the horse had stumbled on landing, pitching the jockey to the ground. It was just one of those things.

  Mark had sprung up, looking sheepish and holding his left arm. `That woke me up,’ he said, grinning. `He’s such a smooth ride, I must have gone to sleep.’

  Julia had been concerned but he’d brushed away her attentions and had insisted on helping her stable Callisto. As she’d finished giving the horse a rub-down, she noticed Mark flexing his arm and feeling his collar bone. Shed offered to take a look at it back at the cottage.

  She made him strip to the waist in the front room and raise his arm. His skin was milk white, like a young boy’s but for the fine black hairs on his chest - and the muscles. Men who steered tons of horse-flesh over jumps for a living had rare power in their arms and shoulders. `What’s the verdict, Doc?’ ‘I’m no doctor, silly.’

  `You’re pretty good with horses, though. It’s just flesh, blood and bone, isn’t it?’

  She laughed and put her hand flat on his skin. It was smooth and warm.

  `Have you broken that collar bone?’

  ‘Three times that side. It’s not bust this time, though, is it?’

  She pressed her fingers into him, looking deeply into his eyes. She saw discomfort there but not the involuntary contraction of the pupils that would indicate sharp pain.

  `You’re just a bit bruised, I think. I’ll get you an ice pack.’ `Not the all-over body massage then?’

  Lights danced in those sea-green eyes, and she realised with a stab of surprise that he was flirting with her.

  `No,’ she said, pushing the tip of her forefinger into the hard centre of his chest. `Put your shirt back on.’

  He held her gaze, smiling at her. Her finger was still pressing against

  his skin and she pulled it away, as if breaking an electrical contact. When she went into the kitchen and opened the freezer cabinet she realised her cheeks were burning. For Christ’s sake, she thought, I’m a happily married woman. She found what she was looking for and closed the freezer. At any rate, she corrected herself, I’m a married woman, and she pulled a bandage from the first-aid kit she kept in a cupboard.

  Mark was buttoning his shirt as she returned.

  `What’s that?’ he asked, indicating the white plastic object in her hand.

  `A chiropractic cold pack. The gel inside retains the temperature and moulds itself to the shape of your body. I can’t put it directly against your skin so I’m going to bandage it on over your shirt.’

  `I always use a packet of peas myself,’ he said with a grin. `Not that I’m complaining.’

  She was now acutely self-conscious as she set about fixing him up, wrapping the bandage round his chest to hold the compress in place. Their faces were agonisingly close, and the warm smell of him was in her nostrils - a lemony hint of aftershave mixed with a faint trace of sweat from the morning’s toil.

  `You’ve got a fair pile of Valentines,’ he said, with a nod towards the table.

  The cards from Wednesday lay in a heap - she hadn’t got around to chucking them out yet.

  `They’re from Phil’s private pony club,’ she said with more acid in her voice than she intended.

  `Not all of them, surely?’ `Phil gave me one.’

  `That’s all? Don’t tell me you’ve not got your own admirers.’

  He was grinning at her, but there was something in his voice - what was he getting at? Surely he couldn’t know about that other one, the card with the horse? Unless …

  She fixed the bandage with a safety pin - not an easy thing to do with shaking fingers.

  `What about you?’ she said. `I bet you got loads.’ His smile faded. `Not the one I really wanted.’

  Oh, shit. She stepped smartly away from him. The sooner he was out of her house the better.

  Phil did not join in the regular changing-room banter at Sandown. He’d genuinely convinced himself that morning that he was getting his nerve back, but now he knew differently. The afternoon had been another of complete torture - a succession of rides in which his phobias had surfaced to undermine his confidence and defeat his best intentions at every turn. He was sure that people who’d watched him ride over the years would soon notice his problem. It was tormenting him more than any physical injury he had ever suffered.

  When the afternoon’s work was over, he avoided his fellow jockeys and headed for the car park with indecent haste. He was turning into someone so obsessed with himself that he seemed to be on his own, even in the middle of a crowded room. He’d never behaved like this before.

  But if cutting himself off from other people was what was going to get him through his bad patch then he had no choice. It seemed to him a natural consequence of his sessions with Simone. She’d made it plain that no quick fix was available to him.

  He’d finished his written version of the accident on May Queen to Simone’s satisfaction and, as instructed, had recorded it on an audio tape. Now he was supposed to listen to it over and over. The theory, as she had explained it, was that by exposing himself repeatedly to his worst fears, he would eventually become desensitised and no longer respond negatively.

  `You mean,’ he’d said to Simone, `that I’ll get so bored with hearing myself whinge on that I won’t care if I have another accident.’

  Shed liked that. `Phil, if your reaction to this trigger event were to be one of boredom then I think your troubles would be behind you.’ He’d played the tape only once so far, putting it on as he drove to the racecourse. As he heard himself describe the scene at Worcester last September, he’d begun to panic. He’d pulled into a lay-by and forced himself to listen. He was conscious of his heart beating faster and his breath coming in short gasps. He was there, on May Queen, in a pack of horses, heading for the open ditch, about to make that foolhardy leap. Only this time he knew the disastrous consequences of throwing a fast-moving, small-brained, half-ton animal who couldn’t jump at a four-foot fence.

  He turned the tape off and jabbed the button to lower the window. He

  gulped in fresh air as the terror slowly receded, and found himself staring at a middleaged man leaning on the bonnet of his car, clutching a mobile phone.

  `You all right, mate?’ said the man. `You look bloody awful.’

  Phil forced a smile on to his face. `Not half as bad as I feel,’ he said, and drove off slowly.

  `Thanks a bunch, Simone,’ he muttered to himself as he did so. But shed told him not
to play the tape in the car and, he realised, that was precisely why he had put it on. It had been a small act of rebellion against a woman who he saw partly as a friend but mostly as a pettyminded schoolmistress.

  `What makes you think you’re going to fall off your horse?’ she’d asked him at an early session.

  `Because jockeys come off all the time,’ he said.

  `But do you?’ she asked. `Do you keep a record of how often you fall?’

  Phil didn’t, though he knew plenty who did. He also knew someone who followed his career with the dedication of a schoolboy train-spotter. His dad would know how often he’d been unseated.

  `Apparently,’ he told Simone at his next appointment, `my average is a fall every eighteen rides.’

  She’d thought about this. `How many of those would be bad accidents?’

  ‘Not many. You get bashed around a bit, maybe break a small bone in your hand or get badly bruised, but until last year I’d never had a serious injury.’

  She made a note on her pad. `I thought, from what you’d been telling me, that it was more dangerous than that.’

  He shrugged. `I’ve been lucky.’

  `In more ways than one, I imagine. Apart from these bad experiences in races, do you still enjoy working with horses?’

  That took him by surprise. `Of course. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

  `Do you earn a decent wage?’ `I’m not complaining.’

  `And there must be other good things in your situation.’

  He thought for a moment. `I meet plenty of interesting people. And get invited to all sorts of events.’

  `So-‘ She put her pen down. `Do you see what I’m getting at?’ He shook his head.

  `I’m pointing out the benefits of your situation - you’re doing what you want to do, you’re successful at it and you make a good living. You may feel that these positives outweigh the risk of a minor fall every eighteen rides.’

  Phil considered this. It was all true.

  But so was the conviction, every time he galloped towards a steeplechase fence, that he was about to break his neck.

  Simone must have read it in his face. `It’s OK, Phil,’ she said softly, all trace of the schoolmistress now gone, `it might take time but you’re going to be all right.’

  He wished he shared her confidence.

  Julia had not intended to go to Ascot on the Saturday afternoon. As a rule she preferred spending time with horses to watching them run, and she could catch the racing on television.

  Phil had already left for the course when she received a phone-call from Mark.

  `Hi,’ he’d said in that now-familiar Irish purr. `I’ve got a free afternoon.’ `Oh.’ Her mind filled with the image of him standing stripped to the waist in the front room, laughing into her eyes, as she studied his firm, pale body.

  `I was wondering if you wanted me.’

  Jesus, was he being deliberately ambiguous? `To help with Callisto,’ he went on.

  She panicked. She didn’t dare spend the afternoon alone with him. `That’s kind of you,’ she said. `But I’m going to Ascot.’

  `How about tomorrow morning, then?’

  Oh, God, what should she say? `Yes - OK.’ She regretted it instantly, but knew she would have felt worse if she’d said no. `Look, I’ve got to leave now,’ she blurted, and put the phone down, barely managing a polite goodbye.

  She called Ted at once. `Do you and Margaret want to come to Ascot with me? I’ve decided to surprise Phil.’

  Her father-in-law hadn’t taken much persuading, though Margaret declined. What was more, Ted insisted on taking his car so Julia could drive back with her husband.

  All in all, Julia thought as they set off, things had worked out for the best. She pushed Mark firmly to the back of her mind.

  The 2.25 at Ascot, a two-and-a-half-mile chase, commanded a prize purse of around ?40,000 and attracted some of the best steeplechasers in Europe. The Irish favourite, Never Too Late, had already been heavily backed for the Gold Cup at Cheltenham in March; so too the French challenger, Cresson. Most of the press speculation surrounded the outcome of a head-to-head between this pair. Army Blue, Phil’s horse, had also received some positive attention and was tipped in some quarters to upset the apple-cart.

  Phil’s column that morning had increased the speculation. `The competition may be tough but Army Blue’s a talented individual who doesn’t hide on the gallops at Deanscroft. After his impressive win at Wetherby at the end of last year, here’s a chance for him to measure himself against the best.’

  The Wetherby performance had indeed been impressive - the horse had jumped like a stag and burnt off the field, winning as he liked. Mark had been on his back that day, and Phil was well aware his stablemate had coaxed a career-best performance out of the horse. The least he must do was to equal it.

  Russell underlined the point as he gave Phil a leg-up into the saddle. `You know what to do with this character. Get hold of him right at the start and set him alight.’

  `Right, boss,’ Phil said - he already knew the plan.

  Army Blue was a good horse to sit on, with nice wide shoulders and plenty of neck in front of the rider. You felt safe the moment you were astride him. As they walked around at the start Phil remembered what he’d promised himself the day before. This would be the ride that put his career back on course.

  But as the tapes rose and the runners thrust forward towards the first, Phil could only go through the motions. His riding had no conviction and, while he might be fooling most of the people in the stands, he wasn’t fooling himself - and he certainly wasn’t fooling Army Blue. The horse took his time at every fence, and after they had gone a mile he was too far back to ever be competitive.

  Get him stoked up, shouted a voice inside Phil’s head, show the lazy bastard who’s boss!

  Phil waved his whip, smacking Army Blue on the quarters without conviction. There was no change in the horse’s pace. Unless you took Army Blue by the scruff of the neck, as Mark had done last time out, he never showed his true colours.

  Phil couldn’t bring himself to knock the horse into the action. He knew that Russell would be watching and cursing, analysing his performance, wondering why the horse wasn’t doing his job - and probably wishing he’d given Mark the ride.

  Get a grip! Phil screamed to himself. For the first time ever in a race he was conscious of his own body - of the thumping in his chest and the sweat on the back of his neck. He was in a blind panic.

  Hugh got a message in the press room that Louise was looking for him and immediately stopped filing his race report to step outside. He’d spotted her earlier and wanted to talk to her, but hadn’t been sure of his likely reception.

  She was standing on the balcony overlooking the entrance, her curls bundled under a black felt hat. The dark smudges under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights, but she grinned quickly as she spotted Hugh.

  `I wanted to say thank you for the photo.’

  Hugh had ordered a blow-up of the print used in the Beacon and sent it to her.

  `Dad’s put it by his bedside,’ she said. `How is he?’

  ‘Mending slowly. He spends all day shouting at the nurses. And your name’s still mud.’

  Hugh could believe it.

  `How long will he be in hospital?’

  She shrugged. `He’ll be in for a few weeks yet, I imagine. To be honest, I’d rather he stayed where he was. He needs twenty-four-hour care.’

  `Are you sure that’s the real reason?’ She looked at him quizzically.

  `I mean,’ he went on, `with Gerry away you’re in charge, aren’t you?’ `So?’

  `I think you rather like it.’ He enjoyed teasing her.

  `I suppose I do, but I’ll feel much better when Dad’s back.’ She

  looked at him suspiciously. `You’re not going to write this in your paper, are you?’

  He shook his head. `I promise.’

  She put her arm through his. `If you buy me a coffee I’ll tell you
all about the problems of being a trainer.’

  As Army Blue plodded on in his own time, carefully watching where he put each foot, Phil’s fear gradually eased. There were no horses close enough to him to do him any harm, even if he did happen to fall off. He was six lengths behind the horse in front and some twenty from the leaders.

  Finally, as they came out of Swinley Bottom, he hit Army Blue a meaningful blow. The effect was immediate. The horse quickened his pace and his jumping. He cruised past the labouring animal ahead and lengthened his stride.

  But it was too late now for Phil and Army Blue to make an impression on the race. Though they began to pick off the tiring backmarkers, the leaders were uncatchable. As they jumped the last, the cheers were for Cresson, who, with a magnificent final burst, was overtaking the Irish horse on the line. Army Blue finished fourth, but Phil knew they had never threatened and he was acutely conscious there was still plenty of petrol left in the horse’s tank.

  Russell greeted Army Blue with warmth but said nothing to Phil. And even the unexpected sight of Julia and his father did nothing to lighten the cloud of dejection that settled on him. He nodded to his wife and made smartly for the weighing-room.

  As Hugh sipped his almost-cold coffee and listened to Louise, he struggled with his conscience - not a familiar experience in his professional life.

  She was telling him about an owner who, despite public statements of support for Greenhills, was on the brink of removing two horses. News like that wouldn’t help her dad’s recovery. She stopped in midflow.

  `I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Telling you too much.’

  `Look, Louise, there’s something I should tell you.’ He looked around the bar, passing over several familiar faces. `But not in here.’

  They walked outside, away from the crowd. She took his arm again.

  He wondered whether shell feel quite so friendly when he’d finished. Then he told her about the letters. The shadows under her eyes grew darker as she listened.

  `So there really is a connection between the attack on Adrian Moore and my dad?’

  `Yes.’

  `And you knew about this maniac before you wrote that stuff about him not declaring Devious?’