Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  The last thought I’d had as the boot connected with my face came rushing back. It was racing at Leicester tomorrow. I was booked to ride five horses. And it was important. The Jockeys’ Championship was slipping away from me. Holding on to that award signified total commitment; to retain it meant daily fasting, saunas, workouts, plus all the rides I could get, if weight – and age – weren’t to win instead. Not to mention all the other striving jump jockeys who were hungry for success.

  It was the spur I needed. Pushing my palms flat on the cold tiles, I heaved myself up on to my knees. And stared at the floor. No fresh drops of blood splattered down. At least one piece of my anatomy had decided enough, it was going to start healing. The rest would have to follow suit.

  Once I was vertical, I clung to the tabletop and listened for the better part of ten minutes. There wasn’t a squeak to be heard. I crawled very slowly upstairs to the bathroom. It took several heavily sweating – and swearing – minutes, but I made it.

  The corkscrew position beneath the washbasin was quite something in the agony stakes but, having checked, I collapsed on to the toilet seat, choking back relieved laughter. Laughing out loud was not something the ribs could take right now. The water outlet pipe sat there innocently, undiscovered and quite untouched. Whatever else might be wrecked or destroyed, they hadn’t found the dynamite. Well, thinking back, it wouldn’t have been both men who searched the cottage. One, to my certain knowledge, wouldn’t be walking at all without the assistance of crutches for some time.

  Fishing in the bathroom cabinet, I took out several powerful painkillers and knocked them back. Closing the cabinet door, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It would have graced any Hammer film: blood, bruises and black eye.

  I bent over the washbasin and swabbed away the caked blood. The basin filled with pretty pink-tinged water, but the worst of the gore was coming off. It revealed a sorry picture underneath. The bruises were purpling up very nicely and the bridge of my nose was twice as broad as it had been before the attack. The warmth had activated the affronted nerve endings. I pulled the plug and let the water run away.

  Filling the basin with cold water, I took a deep breath and plunged my entire face under water and held it there until my lungs rebelled. Surfacing, gasping and dripping, I held a towel to my face and simply let it dry by absorption. A vast improvement looked back at me from the mirror.

  Then, stripping off all my clothes, I turned on the bath taps and ran the water high and very hot, added a generous amount of foamy muscle relaxant and finally lowered my screeching, protesting body into the water. The pain soared up the Richter scale to an eye-watering level before very slowly reducing as the healing water got on with its job. I sat and half dozed, added hot water a couple of times, and eventually clambered out awkwardly, wrinkled as a walnut and bright scarlet, but basically back in charge.

  I tottered downstairs wrapped in a thick bath sheet – no point in getting dressed, it was so late – and surveyed the devastation. To be honest, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. My desk had been the main focus. All the drawers had been wrenched out and tossed aside. The contents had been thrown around all over the floor. It was going to take time to sort out the mess, but I was relieved the papers weren’t ripped or, worse, soaked in urine.

  The kitchen floor looked like a butcher’s shop, with a pool of blood congealing and splatters of red droplets sprayed around the front of the sink unit and the Rayburn. If I didn’t feel like cleaning up right now – and I most certainly didn’t – it wasn’t going away, and I would feel even less like it in the morning. Plus, left overnight, the blood would dry and be twice as hard to remove.

  I knuckled down to the skivvying and mopped and wiped until all traces had been obliterated. But a bath sheet left a lot to be desired in the keeping-warm stakes. If I got cold, the body would stiffen up in retaliation. With the Rayburn now pristine, I slid the kettle on to the hotplate, brewed up a mug of tea and filled a hot water bottle. Then, making sure the back door was securely locked, chained and bolted against any further unwelcome midnight callers, I took myself off to bed. Only one thing I needed now: sleep – nature’s great healer.

  ‘Caxton speaking.’ The solicitor answered, my call having been transferred from the receptionist. It was dead on nine o’clock.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe, Mr Caxton. You approached me yesterday at John Dunston’s funeral.’

  ‘Ah … yes. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You gave me a letter from Mr Dunston.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He wasn’t going to make this easy. ‘It wasn’t the only thing Mr Dunston left with you, was it? I understand there’s a parcel awaiting my collection.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Could I ask you to post it to me, please?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m afraid that’s not possible. We’re bound by legal restraints and require a signature before relinquishing the … er … article.’

  ‘I rather thought that might be the case. Do you know what it is?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Mr Dunston didn’t disclose any details whatsoever.’

  I thought quickly. My last race was at three thirty. Caxton’s offices were in York. It was going to be tight.

  ‘What time do you close this evening?’

  ‘Five thirty.’

  ‘If I call around five, could I sign and pick up the parcel then, please?’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll ask my PA to have everything ready for you.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I’ll see you this afternoon.’

  I put the phone down and swore forcibly. Bloody red tape. Now I was facing a long journey to and from York after a full day’s racing. In normal circumstances, it wouldn’t bother me, but I was most definitely feeling the effects of yesterday’s beating, and driving up north after punching out five races wasn’t going to encourage swift healing.

  I made a strong coffee and took it up to the bathroom and repeated last night’s hot soak.

  I arrived at Mike’s stable yard just before ten o’clock.

  His eyes widened. ‘What does the other guy look like?’

  ‘Two actually. One’s OK. The other is going to need crutches to get to the bogs.’

  ‘Unwelcome callers late at night, I take it?’

  ‘You take it right.’

  ‘What were they after?’

  ‘The letter John Dunston instructed his solicitor to pass on to me at the funeral.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You mentioned it was … volatile?’

  ‘Too right. John’s death wasn’t prompted by grief or depression; he was murdered.’

  ‘Good God!’ Mike’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Hmm, and he stated that Frank’s death in prison was also murder. According to John, his son was killed by a nail piercing the eyeball, and that little gem wasn’t given out by the authorities, so it’s not common knowledge.’

  ‘And the other man that died – what happened to him?’

  ‘Seems he sustained a head injury that saw him carted off to hospital and he passed away there.’

  He rubbed a hand over his mouth. ‘Open to any amount of interpretation.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did the two callers have time to find the letter, after working you over?’

  I gave a sideways grin; it hurt too much to laugh properly. ‘No. Foxed them there. And if I die before I tell anybody where it is, chances are it won’t ever be found.’

  ‘You devious sod.’

  ‘Thanks. I love you, too.’

  ‘So? Give. Where have you hidden it?’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘Safer if I don’t, Mike.’

  ‘They’re unlikely to come after me.’

  ‘It’s not the only hot property. Afraid I’ve got to shoot off straight after the last race this afternoon. Got to go and see John’s solicitor up in York. Bloody nuisance, but nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘You’re driving yourself to the races, then?’

  ‘Yes. That way
when I’ve collected whatever it is, I can drive straight home.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘Let’s get started. I’ll take my car as well, seeing we’ve got three runners consec.’

  I was riding in the one o’clock, one thirty and two o’clock, and apart from the travelling head lad who’d be driving the horsebox, two other stable lads were needed. There wouldn’t be room in the horsebox for Mike.

  Fifteen minutes later, we all left in convoy, Mike leading the way down the A46 and the horsebox following my car.

  Reaching Leicester racecourse, I pulled into the jockeys’ car park and took the Mazda round and parked conveniently close to the exit. Getting stuck in the crush at the end of racing would seriously foul up the job I had to do in York.

  After dropping off my gear in the weighing room, I wandered through the high-spirited racegoers in search of a sugarless black coffee in the bar. No calories to ingest there. The air was rich not only with the eager, expectant atmosphere of the racecourse, but also with the vying aromas of hot dogs, fried onions, fish and chips, curry and jacket potatoes … I indulged to the extent of lifting my nose, breathing in the tantalizing smells, and blessed the fact I could enjoy them without taking in a single calorie.

  ‘Hello, Bisto Kid.’

  I spun round. Smiling at me was a lady trainer I’d not seen since the last party Mike had given. Her hair caught back in the nape of her neck by a tortoiseshell slide, and dressed to kill in a striking red, black and cream, checked winter coat topped off by scarlet beret set at a pert angle, was Tal Hunter.

  ‘Hi.’ I laughed. ‘Yes, sniffing the air – you know how it is.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said with feeling, ‘I know how it was.’

  We both laughed.

  Tally had been an extremely talented and successful jump jockey in her youth. Not old now, she was around forty, I suppose. It was so difficult to tell with women. Especially when they’d been careful not to put on weight. Her figure now – what I could make out beneath the snow-busting coat – seemed exactly the same as it always had been: reed slender.

  ‘See you’re running Dark Delight in the two thirty. She’s looking on her toes.’

  ‘Hmm, want to get a race in. If the forecast is right for next week, racing will be called off.’

  ‘Must say you’re also looking well-turned-out.’

  ‘Oh, my coat, you mean?’

  ‘Hmm, very smart.’

  ‘I bought it last winter to go to Switzerland. Now there’s a place that’s cold, my word.’

  ‘Go on holiday?’

  ‘No, no, I went with two or three other trainers who had horses running. I’d just got the one – this one that’s running today.’

  ‘I bet it proved interesting.’

  ‘You bet! A marvellous experience. I took Gerard Faulkes as jockey. He really rated it. We didn’t come in the frame, just midfield, but it was wonderful to watch.’

  ‘Racing on snow, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘And not only on horseback either. Gerard has some guts. Even had a go at the skijoring.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s involved, but from the little I have heard, it sounds pretty scary. Wearing skis and being pulled along by horses.’

  ‘Yes. I think the word for it would be “exhilarating”. Gerard was high as a kite when he finished the race. Didn’t win, of course, but it’s really some experience.’

  ‘Did you try it?’

  ‘Me?’ Her eyes widened in mock shock. ‘Good God, no. I’m much too much of a coward.’

  ‘Give over,’ I said. ‘Your nerves are made of tungsten – probably titanium.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ She patted my shoulder. ‘Must go, Harry, racing calls.’

  ‘True enough. Take care, Tally.’

  ‘I’d say the same to you but seems I’m too late.’ She raised an index finger in the direction of my swollen, purple nose. ‘Doing a Philip Marlow again?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I agreed ruefully. ‘Bye, Tally.’

  She went off towards the racing stables. I followed my nose through the delightful smells, went into the bar and settled for a caffeine boost of black coffee.

  SIX

  Dressed in green-and-purple silks, Samuel Simpson’s racing colours, I crossed to the parade ring with the ten other jockeys. I spotted Mike, together with Samuel and Chloe, standing beside White Lace in the centre of the ring.

  The welcoming smile on Chloe’s face faded rapidly as she saw the state of my face. ‘Harry! What happened to you?’

  I flicked a glance at Samuel, who read it correctly.

  ‘Not now, my dear,’ he said to his daughter. ‘Harry’s got to ride. He needs to be fully fit.’

  ‘Oh.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘Yes, of course, I see.’

  ‘I am fully fit; don’t worry about it.’

  Her beautiful smile reasserted itself. ‘And are we going to come first?’

  ‘Certainly give it my best.’

  ‘I know that, lad. The day you don’t try will be the day they nail down the coffin, eh?’

  ‘You could have phrased it differently, Samuel, but thanks again for the confidence.’

  ‘We’re definitely going home with the prize money.’ Mike rubbed his hands together and beamed jovially.

  The familiar ‘Jockeys please mount’ was called and he flipped me up into the saddle. White Lace swung her quarters round, tossing her head. I could feel the keenness to race running through her body and took both feet out of the irons and rode long a couple of times round the parade ring. She had a real eagerness to run which was very much a plus factor in her temperament, but I needed to settle her down so that she didn’t use up precious nervous energy before the start of the race. Darren, the stable lad leading her round, looked up at me and grinned.

  ‘Keen, ain’t she?’

  ‘Sure is. Have you had a bit on?’

  He nodded. ‘Reckon most of the lads have.’

  ‘Have to see what I can do, then.’

  ‘You’ll win,’ he said decisively and patted the grey mare’s neck, reinforcing his words. I remembered Mike had said Chloe had put her entire wardrobe on as well. I’d most definitely have to win.

  Darren led us through out on to the course and I eased White Lace into a collected canter down to the far-distant starter with his tape. We all circled round, getting into line, only to have one or two break away again. But finally, although somewhat raggedly, the starter was satisfied with the placing and the tape flew up.

  It was a two-mile race over hurdles and I held the mare back in second-to-last place. Predictably, Port Wine took the lead in a flat-out gallop. He was a noted front runner, but I knew he couldn’t maintain that blistering pace and was certain to fall back at some point. Three other horses were hugging his heels, but the rest of the field was strung out by the time we’d finished the first circuit of the course. I began to urge White Lace on and we moved up into midfield. Port Wine was losing ground now as his jockey gave him a breather, but how much he’d got left in the tank was debatable. I knew my mare had plenty in hand and I continued to urge her to make up ground. We passed another five, her ground-covering strides fluid and her jumping judged to perfection. It was a real pleasure to ride her.

  Three hurdles from home, the three horses in front jumped as one, but Port Wine misjudged his landing, pecked badly, couldn’t recover in time and came crashing down heavily, sending his jockey, Dickie Flynn, flying over his head. It was a bad fall and I doubted Dickie would be walking back to the weighing room. It had all the hallmarks of an ambulance job. The other two horses were thrown off course as they tried to avoid the flailing hooves of the fallen horse and both lost ground.

  I booted White Lace on. She sailed over the hurdle with lengths to spare and we went smoothly into the lead. Her ears pricked with anticipation, she stretched for home and I gave her all the encouragement she needed. A swift look back told me we were about five lengths’ clear of the rest of the pack. But Mailbox was puttin
g in a challenge now, his jockey working hard, pushing the head off him. I judged the moment and gave White Lace just one smack of the whip and she found another gear. We flew past the post, a clear winner by two lengths.

  Chloe’s wardrobe was safe, the stable lads’ wages enhanced nicely.

  I eased the mare down to a walk, leaned forward and told her what a great girl she was, pulled her ear and slapped her steaming neck. She was a beautiful ride and I was very satisfied with her performance.

  Darren led us into the number-one spot in the winners’ enclosure where a euphoric Chloe was waiting. Her smile was as wide as the Trent. Mike took hold of the bridle.

  ‘Told you it would be a walkover.’ His smile matched Chloe’s.

  ‘By God, lad. Don’t even think about retiring,’ Samuel said. ‘Can’t do without you.’

  Then he slapped me hard on the back by way of thanks and encouragement. Unfortunately, his hand caught the side of my ribs and I had to clamp my jaws together to avoid yelping aloud in pain. The need to prevent advertising my true state of health was paramount.

  Mike, realizing, instantly bent towards me, blocking everyone’s line of vision, and motioned me to undo the girths. I did, but it was less about doing what was necessary and more about leaning against White Lace’s body while the wave of pain subsided.

  And I couldn’t spare more than a few seconds’ respite; I had to take the saddle to the weighing room to weigh in and get ready for the next race that was due off in about fifteen minutes. It was most definitely a case of being professional and overriding my feelings and just getting on with the job. I simply couldn’t afford to show any vulnerability. But I’d just won the first of my five races – that was a very good feeling. I concentrated on that fact, knowing it wasn’t only me who would benefit from the win.

  In racing, it was never a case of ‘I’ve won’. Behind all the successful jockeys was a loyal, grafting team of workers who made success possible. Judging by the pinkness of Darren’s ears, as he sought to suppress his exultation, he – and no doubt all the other stable lads – had benefited considerably. And I was very pleased for them.