Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  I won the next race and, unbelievably, the third of my rides for Mike. It was turning out to be one of those racing days that were usually only a jockey’s daydream.

  And I still had two further races booked. Both were for the trainer, Clive Unwin. As I came out with the rest of the jockeys for the three o’clock race, Clive waved me over to where he was waiting in the parade ring with the owner of Gunshot, an iron-grey gelding that was giving his stable lad a hard time. I could quite appreciate why: when they’d tacked him up, they’d thought it necessary to put a Chifney on him. Snatching his head up and down and trying to put in bucks, he was obviously very well, and I was in for a taxing ride – the other horses were being kept well clear by their own lads.

  I touched the peak of my cap to his owner, and Clive proceeded to give me instructions on how he wanted the race run. I listened dutifully and decided to make up my own mind once I was on board.

  ‘Full of beans, isn’t he?’ his doting owner said, smiling. ‘Or should I say full of oats?’

  I smiled and nodded and kept my own counsel. From what I could see of Gunshot, I might end the race thinking he should live up to his name and take a quick exit.

  He proved a battler from the off and set his jaw at an aggressive angle. With reins bridged, we proceeded down to the start with Gunshot cantering sideways, head to the rails, and me sawing at the reins to try to stop him from bolting. We were both in a lather of sweat by the time we joined the other horses circling for the start.

  As the tape went up, so did Gunshot, in an impressive rear, front hooves thrashing the air. With the horse all but vertical, I was left hanging on to his mane, trying desperately to keep my weight over his withers. If he went over backwards, he would take me with him and I’d most likely be crushed underneath. Crashing down on to all four plates, to my immense relief he took off after the other horses that were now several lengths in front.

  At seventeen hands, he was a massive horse and had the strength to match. Even wearing a Chifney bit, he was proving a major handful. The more I tried to settle him down, the more he wound himself up.

  Galloping at a manic pace, he closed the gap, swept past several of the horses at the back of the pack and proceeded to clear the hurdles with air to spare. At this stage, I was little more than a passenger, simply steering.

  There had been eight horses in front when he’d landed back on to all four racing plates. Now, only two remained in front. But with the amount of energy he’d already expended, the question was could his fiery spirit continue to propel him as far as the winning post? I’d thought the race was blown well before the halfway mark and was waiting for the ineluctable dropping back when his petrol gauge hit empty.

  We came upsides the next horse, Turnpike, ridden by Jamie Furlough. He jerked his head towards me.

  ‘On bloody rocket fuel?’ he yelled.

  I didn’t answer, just shook my head and waited for the inevitable.

  It didn’t happen. Whatever was stoking Gunshot’s boiler – rocket fuel or sheer guts – it saw him clear the last hurdle cleanly, if not with air to spare now, almost as though the horse himself knew what the gauge was reading. I’m damned if I did. It was a magnificent performance he was putting on.

  All that remained now was to see off Butterdrop, the one horse still in front. And Gunshot made it his mission in life. I hadn’t slapped, booted or even used my hands up to now. I hadn’t needed to – the big-hearted horse had done the lot. His will to win was infectious. I simply threw the reins forward and shouted encouragement.

  Butterdrop had now started to hang to the left – a sure sign of a tired horse – and I knew the race was Gunshot’s if he could keep up the pace. I yelled encouragement and flung the reins forward, and we came upsides. Two more strides with both horses straining for supremacy, and then Gunshot was in front. Stretching his neck forward, living up to his name, he shot across the finishing line.

  The applause rippling up from the stands and then from around the winners’ enclosure was very sweet. I’d thought he had no chance. But Gunshot had proved me wrong. Inside the winners’ enclosure in the number-one spot, I slid off his back and slapped his sweating neck, almost enveloped in the steam coming up off him. Other hands reached forward to take hold of his bridle, pat his neck, pull his ears. He tossed his head up and down proudly, well aware of his victory and accepting all the accolades.

  ‘Well done!’ Clive was smiling broadly. ‘What a race, Harry.’

  I nodded, too breathless to make conversation. It had been an incredible race. From certain disaster to overwhelming victory, the horse took all the credit.

  I undid the buckles and pulled the saddle off, allowing even more clouds of steam to rise, the smell of hot horseflesh like perfume to my nostrils. I was living my dream. It was all I’d ever wanted: to be a successful jockey. Not many people could say they were living their dream. I was a very lucky man. And I knew it, acknowledged it and offered up thanks and gratitude. It was something I did, almost like a mantra, after every win.

  And this win now made it four rides – four wins.

  However, Sod’s law wasn’t going to lie down and die. I ended the last of my five races second to last. I was sorry for the disgruntled owner of the horse, but losing didn’t diminish my pleasure. It had been a great day’s racing. And throughout the whole afternoon, I hadn’t given a single thought to yesterday’s beating. In the white-heat concentration of riding and winning, I hadn’t experienced any pain, barring the moment Samuel slapped me.

  But as I trotted across to the jockeys’ car park to collect my car, the body’s woes came back in full force. I unlocked the Mazda’s boot and stashed my saddle and gear, then slid into the driver’s seat and reached for a bottle of mineral water. Popping open the dash compartment, I took out three painkillers and washed them down gratefully. Pity I couldn’t simply drive home to a hot soothing bath and bed, but duty called and I had to face the drag of a drive up to York.

  I reached on to the back seat and dragged up a thick fleece. The car had sat here for hours and was well cold. Switching on the engine, I turned the heater to full. It wouldn’t do to get chilled, especially after the rigours of the afternoon that had seen me so hot I’d sweated pints. The last thing I wanted was for my bruised body to start stiffening up.

  I found myself thinking it was a pity I hadn’t got a hip flask of whisky to hand, like Mousey Brown, to warm me up and keep me going. But then again perhaps it wasn’t a pity but a blessing, because I would surely have downed some right now.

  I turned out of the racecourse car park and headed north up the A46 before branching off on to the A1. Despite the fleece and the car heater going full blast, it wasn’t until I took the A64 heading for York that I began to feel a bit warmer and more comfortable as the three painkillers kicked in and began to do their job. It was a good thing I’d packed them in the dash before leaving home. The pain level had zoomed up the scale after the afternoon’s exertion.

  But I didn’t regret a single moment.

  Winning four races was a very satisfactory tally and would send me further up the Championship stakes. Whether I stood any chance of retaining the title was an unknown.

  I’d lost so much time, so many race opportunities this year, it was a massive ask. But if I was stripped of the title in April, I couldn’t complain.

  I knew those things I’d done, had had to do, were the cause of losing my chance to have a fair crack at winning, but I would do them again, no question, to keep the people I loved safe from harm.

  Reaching the city of York, I found a multi-storey car park and then walked to the solicitor’s offices. It took me much longer than I’d estimated and it was well after five o’clock when I finally found the office, but there were still lights on in the impressive building. I went up the steps to the heavy wooden door and into the reception area.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe. I’m here to collect the parcel Mr Caxton has been holding for Mr John Dunston.’

  ‘Oh
, yes. Just one moment.’

  The receptionist reached into a drawer and handed me some paperwork to sign. ‘We were expecting you. It’s typed ready for your signature.’

  I signed it and gave it back to her.

  ‘This is the parcel. There’s only the one.’

  It was about the size of a small shoebox. Wrapped in brown paper and with about half a yard of sticky tape holding it firmly in place, John had obviously not wanted it to come undone before it reached me. On the top, in large black letters, he had written: PRIVATE. NOT TO BE UNDONE EXCEPT BY MR HARRY RADCLIFFE.

  SEVEN

  The car tyres crunched over the yielding gravel as I reached home. Parking near the cottage door, I heard the telephone ringing as I slid the key into the lock. Opening the back door, I was met by an unfriendly glare. Leo, looking like a ginger bolster – he was certainly too big to be described as a pillow – lay curled in his basket on the worktop above the Rayburn. One green eye was open the merest slit. The wall-mounted landline was sited a couple of feet above his head.

  His tail flicked in annoyance.

  ‘Shame,’ I said, ruffling the fur between his ears. ‘Dreaming of lady cats, were you?’ I reached for the offending phone. He glowered at me before burrowing deeper into his basket. The eye closed and a ‘do not disturb sign’ was put firmly in place. Fair enough; he had been out all the previous night entertaining the local queens.

  With my free hand – the other one was clutching Dunston’s box – I lifted the receiver to my ear. Before I could answer, I heard Annabel’s voice. Her tone was high-pitched, taut. Something was wrong.

  ‘Annabel, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, Harry, thank goodness. I’ve been wanting to ring for hours but I knew you were racing.’ Her words were tumbling over themselves.

  ‘Steady, girl, just tell me what’s happened. Is it Jeffrey?’

  Although Annabel was still officially married to me, we had been living apart for nearly three years. Sir Jeffrey was the partner she had chosen to spend her life with when she left me. Leo’s green eyes had nothing on mine – I was extremely jealous of Jeffrey. I wasn’t jealous because of his title or his considerable wealth and position, but simply because Annabel was no longer in my life – she was in his. Yes, I was jealous, or had been, until his accident. How could you remain jealous of a man who was now bound to a wheelchair?

  ‘No. No, it’s not Jeffrey. Well, he hasn’t been taken ill. But I am very concerned for him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh God, Harry, he’s been threatened. He doesn’t know. I’ve kept it from him, but I need your help. I … I don’t know what to do …’

  I felt a cold clutch at my guts. I’d been on the receiving end of threats several times in the last year, but that was one thing – Annabel receiving threats was a different ball game. And to threaten a man who, for the most part, was paralysed and helpless, was beyond comprehension.

  My feelings towards Jeffrey were ambiguous. On one level, I wished him anywhere but sharing Annabel’s bed, and yet the irony of it was that I liked Jeffrey. He was an extremely likeable chap with a dry humour and, despite the bizarre situation, we had become friends. We were both united in our love for Annabel and the wish to look after her.

  And since his horrific accident – indeed, after he’d come round from the anaesthetic following his operation – he’d made me promise to look after her until he could. Even as I stood beside his hospital bed and assured him he could rely on me, we both knew he would, in all probability, never get better.

  The reason Annabel had left me wasn’t because she’d stopped loving me, it was because of my obsession. No way to get round it: racing was an obsession. Plus my flat refusal to give up riding and get a safe job. Not one where every eight or ten rides I would get pitched off half a ton of straining horseflesh at around thirty miles an hour, with the accompanying risk of getting kicked by the other horses coming from behind. It was rare to find my body bruise-free; mostly it didn’t happen. To me, it was the price I willingly paid to be a jump jockey.

  But I could see how it affected her. If it had simply been bruises, I dare say Annabel could have gone along with my lifestyle, but the days came, with frightening regularity, when I didn’t get to walk back down the racecourse and was taken off by ambulance to hospital. Danger was always present; it was really a question of accepting the degree on each day. That was what had driven Annabel away – she simply couldn’t bear seeing me suffer.

  And I was damned if I was going to allow anybody to make her suffer. Although she was with Jeffrey, I still felt protective of her – always would.

  ‘Can you come over?’

  There was fear in her voice and my anger began a slow burn against whoever was putting pressure on her.

  ‘I’m on my way. You stay with Jeffrey and I’ll see you both in about twenty minutes, OK?’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ The relief was obvious. Whether I could sort it out and maintain that relief when I saw her, however, was an unknown.

  I put the phone down and realized that I was still clutching the cardboard box. No time now to start undoing the wrapping to discover what John Dunston had entrusted to me. Nor could I leave it unguarded. The letter had cast-iron security up in the bathroom, but where should I hide this new unexploded bomb?

  Briefly, I toyed with the idea of burying it in the garden – surely the safest place. But there was no time for such activities with Jeffrey under threat. Eventually, I decided it would be safer, temporarily, in one of the brick outbuildings rather than in the cottage itself.

  I picked up a torch and pair of scissors and took the box into the store shed. It was half full of the usual paraphernalia that tends to accumulate: lawnmower, wheelbarrow, a wall hung with garden implements and yard brushes – and a big new bag of cat litter.

  I tugged the bag into the middle of the floor, slit the top of the plastic and thrust the box down nearly to the bottom. The absorbent granules shifted and settled around the box. I folded down the top of the bag and forced it out of sight under the workbench. It was the best I could do. I doubted anybody would find it there tonight. In the morning, I’d find a suitable spot in the garden and bury it deep.

  After I’d opened it and seen just what it contained.

  A full moon lit up the Leicestershire countryside as I drove fast along narrow country lanes, silver frost glistening on each blade of grass and leaf. Passing one five-barred gate, a fox shot across in front of the Mazda, escaping being flattened by a fraction of a second. His white-tipped brush whisked away to safety into the dyke on the far side. The frosty night was probably increasing his gnawing hunger and forcing him out hunting. I wished him well and was glad I’d not smashed into his russet body. Life was an ongoing battle – and a gamble – for every living thing on this earth.

  Twenty minutes saw me approaching the entrance gates that heralded the start of the long tree-lined drive leading to Annabel’s home. A magnificent listed mansion, complete with scrambling Virginia creeper and tall chimneys, I had been a visitor here on quite a few occasions.

  The last time was as a recovering patient just discharged from the Queen’s Hospital in Nottingham. The three of us had had dinner – Jeffrey, Annabel and me. Annabel herself had just been discharged from the same hospital, albeit, in her case, from the maternity unit. We had been considerably fortunate to escape with our lives at the hand of a knife-wielding killer. Jeffrey had, solicitously, waited on us, and was overwhelmingly grateful and relieved that we were alive and able to enjoy a meal together. He’d played a significant part in our rescue. It was situations such as this that had bonded the three of us as an unlikely triumvirate.

  Thinking about his toss-away quip about if there was a third case that had had us all laughing as I was taking my leave that night, I was swamped with pity for him as he was now. Humour would be hard won right at this moment. But he wouldn’t want pity. I forced the feeling down. It would be bloody selfish of me to show any sig
n of it in front of him. He had the battle of his life on right now, and pity was lowering – he could do without it.

  I swung the car around in a tight circle in front of the house. Lights blazed out into the night from a great many windows. Annabel’s defiance against whoever, whatever, might be circling outside? Out here in the sticks, north of Melton Mowbray, there were no streetlights to pollute and the blackness was absolute.

  She had been watching for my arrival and came rushing out down the steps to meet me, tugging open the driver’s door.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Harry.’

  I stepped out of the car and her arms were around me, holding on tightly. I hugged her back.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m here. If I can help, I will.’

  ‘I’m scared, really scared. Jeffrey’s so vulnerable, so helpless. He’s only been home just over a week. I think he feels … fragile, you know? While he was in hospital, all he could talk about was coming home – he couldn’t wait. Now,’ she spread her hand, adding, ‘it would have felt very safe in hospital. Doctors and nurses on tap twenty-four hours a day in case anything went wrong. Whereas, here at home …’

  ‘Here at home Jeffrey has you, Annabel. That’s enough to reassure him, surely.’

  ‘I’m not a doctor, Harry.’

  ‘If he needed the constant attention of a doctor, they wouldn’t have sent him home.’

  ‘No, no, I suppose not.’

  ‘Anyway, let’s get inside; it’s too cold to stand out here.’

  ‘Wait.’ She grabbed my arm. ‘I have to tell you about the threat. It was a phone call, made to the landline.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon, around three o’clock. I’ve written down as much of what he said as I can remember.’

  I nodded. ‘Show me.’

  She took me into the kitchen and pulled out the cutlery drawer. ‘Jeffrey wouldn’t find it in here.’ She passed me a small sheet of paper torn from a pad. Running fingers through her long blonde hair in agitation, she waited while I read the short message.