Taking the Fall

by A. P. McCoy

  ‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Have a word with Charlie about her. That’s what they’ve all said.’

  ‘Who? Who said?’

  Osborne tapped his nose. ‘Those who know.’

  Charlie sighed. ‘If she’s fading, you can’t always straighten ’em. Depends how she’s been treated. If she’s injured, that’s another thing.’

  The kettle boiled. Charlie made tea in two chipped mugs.

  ‘Milky and sweet, if you don’t mind,’ Osborne said. ‘Will you take her, Charlie? I’ll pay top dollar. That goes without saying.’

  Charlie handed over the mug of tea. ‘Of course I’ll bloody take her. I’ll be glad to.’

  ‘Good man! That’s what I was hoping to hear.’ He slurped the tea nosily. ‘Lovely.’

  They talked for a while about the season, and some of the successes both men had had. Osborne was very complimentary about the race run by Dieseltown Blues at the Grand National. He said it could win it next year. He wondered where Charlie was sourcing his stock.

  ‘I’ve been over to France a few times. Looking for something different, you know?’

  Osborne said he did know. He even suggested Charlie might keep an eye out for him on his next run across the Channel. He got near the bottom of his mug of tea before he said, ‘George McEwan’s on about pulling his six horses out of my place and bringing them down here.’

  Suddenly all the flattery fell away and Charlie saw right to the heart of this surprise visit. ‘Happen,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a lot of horses for me to lose right now, Charlie.’

  ‘It is that.’

  ‘Six horses. We’re near the end of the season. And me and you-know-who are neck and neck for the Champion Trainer.’

  ‘That you are.’

  Osborne laughed, a curious bark of a laugh. ‘He got a treble at Nottingham on Saturday while I had a bad day. You see it’s not just the six, Charlie; it’s that tongues wag and people lose confidence very easily. Then another follows him. They’re like bloody sheep, you know? Anyway, it’s a very bad time for me to lose any horses. Very bad. Worst possible timing, to be honest.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘The rate you’re coming through, Charlie, and all the great things you’re doing right now, you’re going to need some good mates around you. Believe me, it cuts up rough. Well, I’m just here to say that I’m very interested in being a friend to you. I can see how we both need each other.’

  ‘Well, to be honest,’ Charlie said, ‘I don’t really see how I need you.’

  ‘Ha! You say that now. You say that now. But – and no disrespect to you, because you’ve done a great job with this small set-up you’ve got here – you’ve never been in the thick of it at the top level. And that, Charlie, that is when you need friends. I’ll be honest with you – George is a fucking idiot. He’s the worst kind of owner. He wants to tell you what size hoof pick to use. He’s a fucking pain in the arse.’

  ‘But you want to keep him.’

  ‘At the moment. As I’ve explained to you, it’s very bad timing right now.’

  ‘Mr Osborne—’

  ‘Will, please, Charlie!’

  ‘Will. If you want to bring your filly down here, that’s up to you and I’ll be very pleased to try and straighten her out for you. And if George wants to bring one, two or six of his horses, I’ll be pleased to take them, too. I don’t mind telling you, I need the money. The building has already started on my new stables. It’s a done deal.’

  ‘That’s not what I want to hear, Charlie.’

  ‘We don’t always get what we want, Will.’

  Osborne sighed. ‘You don’t understand how things work in this business. You think you do, but you don’t.’

  ‘I’ve a fair idea.’

  ‘No. You don’t get it.’ He swilled the dregs of his tea around the bottom of his mug. Then he flung them across the concrete floor of the tack room, where they splashed dangerously near to Charlie’s boots. He stood up and walked to the door, where he turned before leaving. ‘I’ve come here trying to help you, and there it is. You think you’ve thrown a six, but you haven’t. You’ve thrown a big zero. You mind how you go, Charlie.’ Then he was gone.

  Later that evening, Charlie told Duncan about the whole thing. He tended not to keep things from his son.

  ‘What are you going to do then, Dad?’

  ‘What am I going to do? I’m going to do this.’ Charlie picked up the phone and carefully dialled a number. ‘Hello, is that George? It’s Charlie Claymore here. Yes, I’m good. I’ve just rung to tell you the new stable block will be completed over the weekend. You bring your six horses just as soon as you’re ready. You will? That’s grand. I’ll see you next week, then.’

  He put the phone down with a light click. Then he grinned at Duncan, showing his teeth, like a horse.

  Duncan had been gone from the hotel maybe two hours. When he let himself into the room, he thought Lorna had gone to sleep. She was still tied to the bed exactly as he had left her, spread-eagled with her pale bottom presented to him like the centrepiece at a banquet. There were slight chafe marks on her ankles and wrists where she’d struggled to break her restraints. She lifted her head and looked back at him and her hair fell across her eye. It was difficult to say whether she looked angry or submissive.

  He sat on the bed next to her and gently ran his ring finger along the length of her spine. She shuddered. The palm of his hand cupped her buttock and he trailed it across the swell of her bottom. Then he leaned across and nuzzled her neck, and traced the length of her spine with his lips. He kissed the backs of her legs, starting with the delicate folds at the backs of her knees.

  ‘There should be a word for the back of the knee,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a swine.’

  He moved up to kiss the back of her thighs.

  ‘While you were gone, a hotel waiter came and found me like this. He fucked me. It’s all your fault.’

  ‘Did you give him a good tip?’

  He put his fingers inside her. She was still wet.

  ‘I need a pee! I’m desperate. Duncan?’

  Duncan relented. He started to loosen the cord at her wrist.

  She stopped him. ‘No. I want you to fuck me again before you untie me.’

  Some time later, when they were both getting dressed, Lorna pouted and said, ‘Duncan, do you have any feelings for me at all?’

  ‘Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here with you now if I had no feelings for you.’

  ‘But you never show your feelings. I don’t even know if you like me!’

  ‘Come here.’ He kissed her. ‘I won’t lie to you: I’m not in love with you. I’m not going to mislead you. But I love being with you. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’

  ‘Get dressed. I’d better go and settle the bill.’

  ‘Just tell them “Oscar”.’

  ‘Oscar?’

  ‘Oscar.’

  Duncan went down to the hotel reception area and asked to pay the bill. He was relieved that Lorna had parted with the code word. He suspected he didn’t have enough in either his pocket or his bank account to cover lunch and a room at the Ritz. ‘It’s the Cadogan account.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ The receptionist took out a file, spread it before him and asked for a reference.

  ‘Oscar.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s all taken care of.’

  5

  At Ludlow, Duncan rode a second-placed novice called Billy Blake for Petie Quinn. There was an exciting level of fitness to Petie’s horses, whether they were being brought on or were the more finished article. It reminded him of Charlie’s training techniques. Petie went for a good broad chest and plenty of muscle in the back end. He was less concerned with how pretty or stylish the animal was in the gallop. He knew power when he saw it.

  They had the new silks designed by Petie’s daughter Roisin, a nervy, doe-eyed colleen in her mid-twenties, slim as a reed. The si
lks were sky blue with dark blue chevrons on the sleeve and a dark blue star on the body. These would be his colours every time he rode for Petie.

  At Exeter the next day he rode a winner and a third. He won the seller at Worcester, and that made Petie very happy. Three days before Christmas they were at Lingfield. Petie had him on a mount called Wellbeing in the second race, a Class 5 handicap hurdle for four-year-olds and upwards, but his big race of the day was the Abercombie Stakes, the fifth race on the card, a Class 1 chase for five-year-olds and above.

  Littlewoods the bookmakers owned the racetrack. They were working to pull in the punters and had organised a Christmas gala day. With a bit of wining and dining and a few free bets for the producers, they’d managed to bring in the TV cameras, too. The Weighing Room had an extra air of excitement, beyond the usual nerves and tension and banter.

  ‘Have you seen that tart they brought with them?’ one naked jockey was shouting, scratching at his balls. He seemed to be talking to the whole room. ‘Women sports commentators, can you believe it? What the hell next?’

  ‘Get her in here,’ shouted another naked jockey. ‘I’ll interview her.’

  Someone flicked a wet towel at his arse.

  It had been two years since the first female jockey had competed on equal terms in the Grand National, and the television company had responded by commissioning a former model – but one with a family background in racing – to co-anchor their racing programme. Her name was Mandy Gleeson. Duncan had seen her interviewing jockeys on the TV. She was no slouch. She knew her stuff all right.

  Duncan stayed out of the banter. His nerves only expressed themselves inwardly. He liked instead to get focused and descended in on himself. He didn’t like to talk much with anyone before a race.

  The weigh-in was sound – but only just, thanks to more pee pills. What with the big one at Kempton coming up on Boxing Day, there wasn’t going to be much of the turkey and pudding for him. Outside in the paddock, Petie was waiting. At 10–1 Wellbeing was not much fancied. He was on the small side, with legs that didn’t seem all that well constructed. He was also physically nondescript. He didn’t stand out, not in any sense, and the average punter trying to size him up would probably consider him physically average or below average.

  But Petie Quinn wasn’t your average punter, and Duncan too knew that this horse had reserves. In the parade ring Petie told him just to go for it and gave him a leg-up on to the horse. Duncan made his way to the start, where there was a white camera van ready to track the race from the rail. Something about it spooked Wellbeing, but Duncan walked him round a few times and the horse settled.

  Wellbeing got off to a strong start. Duncan knew that whatever he decided, the horse was going to take some holding. He was straining to get out there in front. Duncan felt that sudden and familiar knock of blood to the brain where the instincts took over. Petie had said to let him fly. Wellbeing didn’t need asking. Duncan let him go and the horse streamed out there in front. It was glorious. From that moment early in the race Duncan knew he’d got it won. The horse was like a flag in the wind and Duncan felt like he was doing nothing more than holding the pole. His own heartbeat and the pounding of hooves underfoot were inseparable.

  Wellbeing led the whole way round. Nothing else in the race had an answer. In fact Duncan eased up well before the post because he was afraid the margin of victory combined with the outside odds might have looked suspicious to the stewards. As it was, he had nothing to worry about.

  ‘Would you believe that?’ Petie said to him back in the paddock. ‘Would you believe that? We’ll be looking for a better class of race for this fella!’

  Duncan jumped down. He was still patting the horse when he saw a camera crew heading towards him across the winners’ enclosure. They were being led by Mandy Gleeson. She held a microphone with a furry windsock, like it was a torch lighting the way in front of her.

  ‘Here’s the press,’ Duncan said.

  Petie turned and looked startled. ‘Oh, fuck that,’ he said, and scuttled away, leaving Duncan to handle things.

  ‘Where you going?’ Duncan called after him. But Petie had already melted into the crowd.

  It was the first time Duncan had had a microphone stuffed under his nose like that. He was still holding Wellbeing by the rein. Mandy Gleeson was a tall, dark-haired beauty and she fixed him with intelligent eyes. A breeze blew her hair across her face and she smiled as she scraped it back with an elegant fingernail. ‘Just having a word now with the jockey, Duncan Claymore: Duncan you had it from the off.’

  ‘Sure enough, we knew what the horse was capable of, but even we were a bit surprised. I just steered him home.’

  ‘Modest, I’m sure. You’re having a good few days and let’s hope it continues for you. Perhaps we can have a word with the trainer when he gets here? Tell us a bit about him.’

  Duncan cast about to see where Petie had gone. The cameraman and the sound man circled. ‘Petie Quinn is a terrific trainer and you’ll be hearing a lot more about him. He’s not one for the cameras, if you know what I mean, but when it comes to the game, he’s right up there. He’s firm and he knows what he wants and he knows how to get the best out of both jockey and horse.’

  ‘And you’re riding again for him later today. We hope that goes well for you. If we can track down Petie Quinn we’ll have a word, but meanwhile we’ll hand you back to the studio.’ She was counted out by her director, and the cameraman and the sound man relaxed. Mandy smiled at Duncan. ‘You did good,’ she said.

  Duncan, not a great one for smiling, said, ‘You did good too.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean the race. Obviously you did well in the race. I meant the interview. It’s not every jockey who can do a good job for the cameras.’

  ‘I meant the interview too. It’s not every TV presenter who can do a good job for the cameras either.’

  She paused, wrinkling her brow. The wind blew her hair across her face again and she scraped it back a second time. ‘Are you taking the piss, by any chance?’

  ‘Why would I need to do that? I just won a race.’

  Mandy turned to her crew. ‘Let’s leave Mr Claymore to enjoy his victory.’ They turned and left as a group. The stable lad who’d been hanging back came to lead Wellbeing away. Duncan watched Mandy go. He saw her look back, briefly, over her shoulder at him.

  Duncan weighed in after the race result was announced so that the betting punters could collect. He got a few slaps on the back from his fellow jockeys, and it felt good. But amid the hearty congratulations he felt a stir in the Weighing Room. Another jockey had come in, a seasoned campaigner. His gaunt face and pinched features, along with his slightly crouched manner of walking, made him instantly recognisable.

  He’d been the country’s Champion Jockey for the last nine seasons. It was Sandy Sanderson.

  There was a chorus of ‘All right, Sandy!’ and ‘Good to see you, Sandy!’ and ‘Surprised to have you here today, Sandy!’ Sanderson lapped it up without so much as a bit of eye contact with the jockeys greeting him. If it wasn’t for the fact that the junior jockeys stepped aside for him, it looked like he was prepared to muscle his way through. He was a little man who took up a great deal of space. He said something brief and dismissive to his valet. He looked like he was doing everyone a favour by showing up.

  Duncan turned to one of the jockeys he’d just beaten in the last race. ‘What the fuck is he doing here?’

  ‘Last-minute change,’ the jockey said under his breath. ‘If you ask me, the racetrack wanted him here for the cameras. Hey – you’ll be up against him in the fifth.’

  Sanderson was very popular with the public. He knew how to work the media and he always made out he was on the punters’ side against the bookies. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. But while Joe Public adored him, Sanderson was less popular with some of the jockeys, despite the apparent adulation from the Weighing Room. He’d cut you up in a race, or box you in. There were stories, from untele
vised meetings, of him using his whip across the face of a neck-and-neck competitor.

  Duncan had no problem believing the stories. Along with Osborne and Cadogan, Sanderson had been there conspiring to destroy his father. He was the third man on his list.

  Perhaps Sanderson caught Duncan staring at him; or maybe Duncan made the mistake of thinking Sanderson didn’t know who he was. Why would he? He was way out of Duncan’s league. But he’d underestimated the man. The Champion Jockey seemed to sweep past him, but at the last moment he turned. Sanderson had a habit of speaking through almost gritted teeth. ‘Claymore, isn’t it? Soaking up the sellers and the bumpers, is it?’

  Duncan recovered quickly. ‘Just like you did early in your career. You’re a role model.’

  Sanderson sucked his teeth and moved on through the Weighing Room.

  Sellers, yes, he took selling rides, and bumpers too. Sanderson knew that was where he got some of his winners. But the comment had been enough to let Duncan know that he posed – at least somewhere in the Champion Jockey’s mind – a threat to Sanderson. Duncan couldn’t wait to challenge him in the fifth race.

  The Abercombie Stakes was the main race of the day and the cameras made a lot of the parade ring and the betting patterns. The excitement level swelled, but Duncan felt very little of it. He was gone into the zone. He didn’t want to talk to anyone or be spoken to by anyone. The noise, the banter, the weighing routine, it was all debris on his way to the green grass. He was riding a beautiful six-year-old liver chestnut gelding with a star called The Buckler, and he couldn’t wait.

  Unlike the heroic but funny-looking Wellbeing, The Buckler looked the part. He had terrific balance and symmetry of build and a lovely, fluid stride.

  Petie was there in the ring. The Buckler was on his toes, ears pricked forward, already hungry for it. He circled and Petie led him round. ‘You’ve to ride him covered up. Keep back. You’ll know when to go,’ said Petie. Duncan heard him but said nothing.

  He took a steady canter down to the starting gate. Sanderson was already there on his chestnut, along with the favourite, a grey called Owner’s Consent, and one or two other horses circling. The Buckler was a bit flighty and excited by the crowd, so Duncan took him round in a wide circle. The horse wanted to go; so did the jockey. Sanderson stopped his horse, stretching, standing in the stirrups for a moment, and looked across at Duncan. It was a mean look. Duncan wondered if Sanderson knew that he was Charlie’s son.