Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `Nasty,’ the doctor said simply as she removed the dirty lint covering. `How did you do this?

  He told the truth - in a manner of speaking. He was worried a bit of lead might have stuck in the wound.

  `I did it with a pencil.’

  `How on earth did you manage that?’ She sounded a lot more grown up than she looked.

  He shrugged. `I slipped when I was sharpening it.’

  She still looked quizzical so he added, `I was a bit pissed,’ which neatly cut off that line of enquiry.

  She cleaned the wound carefully and shone a light into his eye, finally announcing that no permanent damage had been done. He was out of the surgery in five minutes with a nice clean dressing on his injury and a prescription for an antibiotic in his pocket. While he was in the chemist’s he bought an eye patch which the girl behind the counter said would make him look like a pirate.

  He felt quite cheered that things had gone so smoothly and, though he should have gone straight back to the kennels, he ducked into the bookie’s by way of a celebration. There wasn’t much doing -just two meetings, Catterick and Leicester - but that suited him fine. He’d have a quick look at the runners and maybe watch a couple of races. After all, he could easily still be sitting in the doctor’s reception, surrounded by scabby children.

  He peered at the newspaper guides to form pinned up around the poky little room. As he glanced at the runners, one race immediately caught his eye - the 3.50 at Leicester.

  What the hell was Phil Nicholas doing on a horse trained by the Fowlers? And, what was more, riding against a Deanscroft horse like Wolf Patrol?

  Nicholas had won on Wolf Patrol at Folkestone just six weeks ago, so why had he switched?

  Keith read the form on Out Of Time, mostly based on last season’s performances, which were reasonable but not spectacular. The horse had been out of action since the autumn when he’d strained a ligament while winning at Chepstow. If all went well, today’s race was intended as a pipe-opener for Cheltenham.

  Keith considered the situation. Wolf Patrol was the short-priced favourite and the obvious choice. But why had Nicholas - the Deanscroft top jockey - turned him down for Out Of Time? There had to be a reason.

  He had ?45 in notes in his pocket and some loose change. He kept the change and slid the notes across the counter with his betting slip. It was against his rules to bet on impulse, but the signs were too good. Greenhills and Phil Nicholas-that had to mean something. It had to be an instant red-ink punt.

  As he fastened his good eye on the TV monitor, he realised that it was at moments like this that he did not care about the Beast.

  The runners were lining up and, for the moment, the Beast had ceased to exist.

  Phil was still seething over the row with Mark when the tapes went up for the three-mile chase. He rode by instinct, his body instantly in tune with his horse, his mind replaying the angry words in the dressing-room.

  How long had Mark felt that way about him? He’d thought the bloke was a friend. They’d changed side by side, shared lifts, worked out in the gym next to one another - put their necks on the line together, for God’s sake. And all the time, it seemed, Mark resented him and couldn’t wait for him to move over so he could take his position at Deanscroft.

  Jesus! Phil had accepted Louise’s ride so he could score points off Russell Dean, but now he was taking on Mark as well. If Mark wanted the number-one spot, he’d have to bloody well prove he was worthy of it.

  Though there were ten runners, it was evident that Wolf Patrol and Out Of Time were the class horses. Phil tracked Mark round for the first half of the race, his little horse matching the big, race-seasoned Wolf Patrol every inch of the way. By this time, the pair were six lengths clear and pulling away.

  Just as he had on the gallops the morning before, Out Of Time flowed easily over the fences, his footwork neat and economical. By contrast, Wolf Patrol was a powerhouse, putting in enormous leaps and conquering the obstacles by brute strength. Though his horse was matching Mark’s so far, Phil wondered if he’d be able to maintain the effort when things got tough. He well knew Wolf Patrol’s bottomless reserves of stamina.

  They were running into the dip on the far side of the course, already going at a fair gallop, when Mark gave his mount a smack and the big horse lengthened his stride.

  No you bloody don’t, thought Phil, asking his horse for more speed and getting an instant response.

  The pair were flying now, going flat out downhill, still with some five furlongs to go. Watch it, you’re going to get hurt, said a voice in Phil’s head. So fucking what? said another voice - Phil’s own. Right now, he didn’t care.

  They cleared the last fence on the back straight neck and neck and careered round the bend to take the open ditch. As they landed on level terms, Phil looked across at Mark.

  `We’re going too fast,’ he yelled.

  Mark turned his head, his eyes flashing. `You’re fucking chicken,’ he screamed back, and hit Wolf Patrol with his stick.

  Mark might as well have hit Phil too, the effect of his words was the same. Chicken?

  Phil urged his horse on. He’d die rather than be beaten by Mark in this race.

  Wolf Patrol was half a length in front as they turned for home, but Out Of Time wasn’t giving up. He surged alongside his rival as they approached the first fence in the home straight.

  They were still a distance from the obstacle when Phil saw Mark launch his horse. That’s ridiculous, he thought, as Wolf Patrol took off. Then his own horse sprang forward, straining every sinew, his hooves up by his nostrils as he flew through the air. Phil scarcely registered the sound of snapping birch to his left.

  Phil was galloping hard towards the next - just two to go - uphill

  towards the stands and the winning post, when he realised he was out on his own.

  `Yes!’ muttered Keith under his breath as, on the betting-shop screen, Wolf Patrol ploughed into the fence. His front feet hit the take-off board and he flipped up into the air. He saw the jockey diving over the fence and the horse flying, upside down, the sinews of its neck bulging, its legs pumping.

  `Oh my Lord,’ said an old man in a threadbare overcoat next to Keith. `That’s a nasty one.’

  `Jockey needs his head testing,’ said a building worker in dusty overalls. `That’s if he’s still got a head.’

  Keith didn’t join in the general discussion. He didn’t give a monkey’s about Wolf Patrol or his jockey. His good eye was on the TV monitor as Out Of Time jumped the last two fences safely and crossed the finishing line with no other runner in sight.

  He’d got it right! Something funny had been going on and he’d sussed it out. That feeling of being right was almost as satisfying as the thought of the ?250 he was about to collect.

  `Shame about Wolf Patrol,’ he said to the old man. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he didn’t have a heart.

  A small crowd applauded Phil and Out Of Time as they turned in to the winner’s enclosure.

  Louise took the horse’s bridle, Hugh by her side. They congratulated him warmly, but Phil couldn’t return their smiles.

  `What happened to Mark?’

  `He got completely buried. The horse landed on top of him.’ `Did he get up?’

  `Not yet. They’ve got the screens round Wolf Patrol.’

  Phil knew what that meant. A vet was probably putting the horse down right now.

  Hugh had a hand on his arm. `What was going on out there, Phil? Both of you were riding like lunatics.’

  Phil didn’t know what to say now the red mist of battle had faded. `It’s a tough sport, Pim. You want to try it some time.’

  Behind the reporter Phil spotted the rest of the press pack heading his way.

  `Sorry, Hugh,’ he said, and stopped, his voice trapped in his throat. `Phil,’ called Arnie Johnson. `Can we have your reaction to Mark Shaw’s accident?’

  Phil shook his head. He couldn’t speak. He waved a hand in front of his face by way o
f apology and ran for the weighing-room, straight past the scales and into the changing-room.

  Keith pushed his betting slip under the grille. Perhaps he’d treat himself to a decent bottle of Scotch for once. None of that supermarket ownbrand gutrot. One of those fancy Scottish malts.

  `Can you wait a moment, sir? There’s been an objection.’ `What?’

  The bookie pointed to the screen. The commentator’s voice was announcing an objection by the Clerk of the Scale. The winning jockey had failed to weigh in and Out Of Time was certain to be disqualified.

  Keith didn’t listen to the rest of it. He stormed from the shop, angrily shoving other punters from his path.

  He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t fucking believe it.

  Phil Nicholas had cheated him. Mr Nice Guy jockey, the bloke who’d held out the hand of friendship and offered to `speak for him’he’d robbed him.

  He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. And he wouldn’t. Keith knew there must be a way to make the jockey really suffer. He’d find it, and this time he’d think it out properly.

  Then he’d act - him and the Beast.

  Gloom hung over the changing-room like a pall of smoke. Jockeys changed into their silks for the next race - the afternoon business had to go on. The usual loudmouthed chat was banished for the moment, while they waited for news of Mark’s condition. All they had heard was that the ambulance was on its way to hospital.

  Phil sat motionless and dejected. It was like watching a movie for the second time and seeing things he’d missed. When he’d had his crash at Wincanton, it had been him in the ambulance, drifting in and out of consciousness, wondering how bad it was and how long he’d be out, replaying the split seconds before the world had turned upside down. He’d not felt much pain at the time - that had come later, after the operations and during the weeks of slow recuperation. Mark had all this to come. That was if he were still alive. Phil had watched the fall on close-circuit TV He’d never seen one worse.

  One of the other lads came over. Russell Dean wanted a word. The trainer was waiting for him outside.

  Russell didn’t comment on Mark’s fall or Wolf Patrol’s death. `I need a jockey for the next.’

  Phil couldn’t resist. `So my mind problem doesn’t bother you any more?’

  Russell glared at him. `Will you do it - yes or no?’ `Yes.’

  The trainer’s face relaxed. `As a matter of fact, Phil, I don’t think you’ve got a mind problem at all. You’re the same tough bugger you’ve always been.’

  Phil supposed he meant it as a compliment.

  He changed quickly into a new set of silks. He’d try his damnedest to win the next for Mark.

  Phil found Louise after the next race. He’d not won after all. He’d finished well down the field on a horse who’d faded at the death, having given his all. He hoped it wasn’t bad omen for his injured colleague.

  Louise was fussing over Out Of Time as he was loaded into the horse-box for the journey home.

  The horse stuck his head into Phil’s face and snorted.

  `He likes you,’ she said. `Even if you did frighten him out of his skin. He’s never run so fast in his life.’

  Phil looked at her and held out a piece of paper. `I’m sorry about the disqualification. Really sorry.’

  `What’s that?’

  `A cheque. You and the owner ought not to miss out just because of me.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  `Go on, take it,’ he said. `It’ll make me feel better.’

  `Why didn’t you weigh in?’ she asked. `Did you just forget?’

  Why hadn’t he? He still wasn’t sure. Unless it was the feeling that Mark’s fall had been his fault somehow. That he’d goaded him into that reckless leap. That, after what had happened to him at Wincanton, he at least should have known better.

  `Yes,’ he said. `I wasn’t thinking.’

  She looked like she was going to argue the point, then evidently thought better of it. Phil noticed the deep shadows under her eyes - here was someone else who was getting through the dark days as best she could.

  Louise took the cheque and stuffed it in her back pocket without looking at it. It had not been an expensive race - first prize was fifteen hundred quid. He didn’t know what he would have done if it had been the Gold Cup. Some principles were more affordable than others.

  Hugh navigated as Phil drove the busy network of unfamiliar roads. Leicester General Hospital wasn’t that easy to find. Word was that Mark had suffered a broken hip. He probably wouldn’t be in a fit state to be seen but Phil intended to stay until he was. Mark’s family in Ireland had been informed but it would be a while before any of them could get over. Phil knew how important it was to have someone you knew near by when you woke up in a hospital bed. Even if Mark now hated his guts, at least he’d be a familiar face.

  `So what’s with you and Louise?’ he asked the journalist. She’d protested when Hugh had said he had to get back to London and that he’d ride into Leicester with Phil to catch the train.

  Hugh sighed heavily. `Don’t you start. The press boys have been giving me an earful all day. Beauty and the Beast and all that.’

  Phil laughed. `Goes with the territory, mate. It’s envy. You’ve got a fantastic woman and they haven’t.’

  `I haven’t “got” Louise at all. I just stayed over the weekend because she needed a friend.’

  `Right.’

  `And that’s all we are. Friends.’ `OK.’

  `For crying out loud, Phil, I’ve got five stone and ten years on her. Why would she ever get involved with me?’

  Phil just concentrated on the road ahead and tried to keep a straight face. At least he had something to smile about.

  Hugh kept Phil company at the hospital for a couple of hours while a medical team worked on Mark. When he finally left in a taxi for the station, Phil was relieved. He’d rather not have a witness to his meeting with the injured jockey.

  At around eleven a cadaverous Australian doctor led him to Mark’s bedside. He looked small in the big hospital bed, propped up on a mound of pillows and surrounded by drips and monitors. His face, always pale, was tinged with blue. He stared at Phil in surprise.

  `Oh, it’s you.’

  `Yeah, bad luck. Your mum’s on her way. And Russell was here earlier but he had to get back.’

  Mark stared at him without comprehension. Phil wondered how aware he was of what had taken place.

  `I can move my toes,’ he said suddenly. `On both feet. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  `Bloody marvellous,’ Phil said. `You’ll be back before long.’ `Not before Cheltenham and Aintree, though.’

  `Next year, mate.’

  Mark nodded and they lapsed into silence.

  Then, out of the blue, Mark apologised to him. Said he’d told Russell about Phil’s shrink.

  Phil was shocked. `How the hell did you know about that?’ `It’s all my fault, Phil. Don’t blame her.’

  Her. There was only one her it could be. `Julia told you?’

  `Only because she thought I was your mate. She told me in confidence.’

  Which you didn’t keep.

  Phil said nothing. He didn’t know what the hell to think.

  Keith was wary of using the computer for any incriminating activity. He could have communicated with the Racing Beacon by e-mail but that would have been like putting his address at the top of a letter. Naturally he had copied the letters on-screen for the purpose of printing them off. But he’d not saved them and had deleted the text as soon as it had printed. He was pretty sure that was all right.

  The internet was another matter. He’d read about perverts who’d stored child pornography on their computers. Some of them had erased the images and still been found out. Obviously the police used smart technicians who could discover just about anything you did with your PC. Which was a nuisance because he had a feeling the information he needed was available right there, a mouse click away. Only, if he logged
on to the pages he had in mind, one day in the future some four-eyed adolescent would discover what he’d been up to. It might be that one extra detail in a court case that would turn a jury against him.

  He pondered his predicament.

  Then he realised that he had already damned himself. He’d probably left the computer fingerprint he was anxious to avoid. Months ago, in the course of his night-time surfing, he’d visited this particular website, just as he’d visited every racing page he could find. In which case, why shouldn’t he revisit it right now? It was too late to worry.

  He logged on and began searching. It didn’t take long to get the home page he wanted on-screen. There’d been a bit of a fuss about it in the press when Deanscroft had launched its own website. Being one of the most progressive training facilities in the country, it had naturally come up with some well-designed and user-friendly pages. When Keith had examined it before, he’d focused on the content listed under `Horses’. Now he clicked the icon for `People’.

  There were a lot of staff employed at Deanscroft. Some of them merited photographs and lengthy CVs -jockeys like Phil Nicholas and Mark Shaw. Others were listed as associates or consultants - vets and blacksmiths, for example. Some were in the market for freelance work - they listed e-mail addresses and contact numbers.

  He made a note of the one he was looking for. He was in business again.

  Phil didn’t know what to say to Julia about Mark’s confession. He’d thought he could count on her, that he’d been wrong to conceal his visits to Simone and that speaking frankly was what marriage was all about. Now it turned out he’d been right in the first place. The moment he’d confided in her, she’d rushed off and told someone else.

  In other circumstances she could have killed his career stone dead. To say he was disappointed in her was an understatement, but he didn’t trust himself to have it out with her. He’d only lose his rag and make it worse.