Taking the Fall

by A. P. McCoy

  ‘Please put some clothes on,’ Duncan said, ‘or I’m going to have to do it all over again in five minutes’ time.’

  But she didn’t. She stepped over towards him, with a model’s slight sway of the hips, and kissed him passionately. When they broke off she said, ‘God, this sex. It could drive you to crime.’

  ‘Oh it could.’

  She made the coffee in a pot, and while it stood, she went upstairs, reappearing after a minute or two in a bathrobe. They were about to take the coffee back into the lounge when the phone rang.

  ‘Hi, darling!’ she chimed like a little bell. She put a finger to her lips in warning. ‘How are things in Saudi?’

  Duncan picked up his coffee, left the kitchen and went through to the lounge. He was still amazed at what a shrine to Sanderson the house seemed to be. There were his photos on the walls, his trophies on very available surface, a couple of books about him on the otherwise empty bookcase and a rack of cassettes next to the video, hand-labelled recordings of his various triumphs, presumably so that he could spend hours on the sofa watching indisputable proof of his own sporting prowess.

  He could hear Christie on the phone to him. She was utterly convincing. Casual, playful, sounding eager for him to come home. Duncan put down his coffee and found his coat, which had been flung to the floor shortly after his arrival. The cassette tape that Mandy Gleeson had given him was in his inside pocket. It was a pity he hadn’t got the time to label it like all the others; instead he switched on the video, ejected a tape from inside the machine and replaced it with his own. For good measure he fast-forwarded it a little way.

  He made his way through the hall to the bathroom. He could see Christie still chatting happily on the phone to Sanderson. On his way to the toilet, at the foot of the stairs but out of Christie’s sight, he noticed an extension telephone. He decided to pick it up and listen.

  Mostly Sanderson was just bragging. He was talking about Saudi princes and Saudi money and about how there were laws against drinking but you could get fine single malt whisky if you just knew who to ask and if you were important enough. Duncan decided that even if you were his closest friend, you would have to conclude that Sandy Sanderson was the most self-adoring crashing bore in all of racing. He was about to put the receiver down again when he was seized by a wicked impulse.

  He listened carefully to what was being said. Not to the words exactly, but to the rhythms of Sanderson’s speech. It was almost like he was talking to himself. He waited until Sanderson drew breath and Christie began to talk, and right then he spoke a single word into the mouthpiece. He said it very quietly. It was barely a whisper. Just loud enough so that it could be registered but not quite loud enough to convince you that you’d really heard it.

  What he said was: ‘Boom!’

  ‘What was that?’ he heard Sanderson say, as if the Champion Jockey had suddenly woken from boring himself.

  ‘What?’ Christie replied.

  ‘Did you just say something?’

  ‘I was about to tell you that Duke rang here yesterday.’

  ‘No, before that. Did you say something?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Okay. Must be at this end. Arab phones. What did Duke want?’

  The conversation was unimportant. Duncan listened in until they said their goodbyes, then put the receiver down at the same time that they did. Then he found his way to the bathroom.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked when he came back.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s had one glass of whisky since he’s been out there, if you believe him. But he’ll be whoring it.’

  ‘Likes women, does he?’

  ‘You could say that. He even liked me once upon a time.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone ever not liking you.’

  ‘He has his women. I put up with it. To be honest, it bores me to have him around all the time.’ She stood up and let her robe slip away from her. ‘As for you, I don’t know why you bothered to get dressed again. Because I’m not done with you yet.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Boots on or off?’

  ‘On. But this time I’m going to have to bend you over the table.’

  Duncan had arranged to spend an hour in the sauna with Kerry that evening. He was already running late when he got back to his apartment. There was a large cardboard box outside the door. It seemed to have been hand-delivered. His name and address had been scribbled on the box lid with a felt pen.

  The box was heavy. When he got the door open and the box inside, he found it contained a dozen bottles of champagne. There was a handwritten note inside, too. It just said: Here’s to a terrific new year, your pal, George Pleasance.

  ‘The thing is,’ Duncan said in the sauna to Kerry, ‘he’s not my pal. I talked to him for maybe three or four minutes at that New Year’s Eve party.’

  ‘This is how it begins,’ Kerry said. ‘Watch your step.’

  ‘Should I send it back?’

  ‘Don’t be a fuckin’ idjit! We’ll drink it and send the empty bottles back.’

  ‘I mean, if I send it back it’s like saying fuck you, isn’t it? And if I keep it, he’ll come again.’

  ‘You can’t send it back. Neither does it come free. This gift will be followed by another one. And then another.’

  The sauna door opened and they both looked up. Kerry and Duncan often used the sauna to worry things out. They’d been doing it for years, to the point where if someone else came in, they resented it. A huge and flabby bald-headed chap stood at the door. He nodded briefly, then came and sat opposite them and opened his legs as if to advertise the dimensions of his wedding tackle.

  Kerry jumped up and turned the dial up another seven or eight degrees.

  ‘I say!’ protested the newcomer. ‘It’s already pretty toasty in here!’

  ‘No, no,’ Kerry said. ‘This is Cabin A, which is the hot sauna; the milder one is Cabin B.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything about Cabin A and Cabin B.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Very good for you, Cabin A. Stay in here with us. You’ll be fine.’

  The fat man harrumphed and sighed and wiped his brow with his towel. After a few minutes he went out.

  ‘What would your old man say?’ Kerry said.

  ‘Charlie’s a spirits man. He thinks champagne tastes like piss.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s one of those subjects that’s too near the knuckle, Kerry.’

  ‘Right. On the other hand, you could mention it to Mike.’

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘Sure. If what I hear is right, and he got sick of being asked to pull races, then he might have something to say.’

  ‘You know what?’ Duncan said. ‘It’s too hot in here. Let’s go and drink some of that champagne.’

  The next day Duncan was riding at Lingfield. He was up against Aaron Palmer, the jockey who had also signed up with Mike. It was a Class 3 handicap hurdle for four-year-olds and upwards, over three miles, and Duncan fancied his chances. It was one of those races where no one wanted to take the lead, and when the starter let go the tape, nobody moved for about four or five seconds. Eventually somebody made the running.

  There was little between Duncan’s horse and Aaron’s. They both hung back in third or fourth place until just before the last hurdle, when Duncan gave his horse the squeeze. But at the finish Aaron beat him into second place. Duncan knew experience and skill when he saw it raising the bar in front of him.

  In the Weighing Room after the race he congratulated Aaron.

  ‘You went two furlongs too early,’ Aaron said. ‘You’ll see it next time.’

  ‘Have a word in the bar after?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Mike had turned up to watch his two jockeys battle it out. He was waiting for them in the owners’ bar. ‘Fuckin’ good race, lads. Duncan, you went a furlong too early.’

  ‘Two,’ said Aaron.

  ‘What do you know about it?�
� Mike said.

  It was Mike who had suggested that Duncan speak privately with Aaron about the champagne. Mike had confessed that the main reason he himself had jacked in the racing to become an agent had been because he was sick of being instructed to pull up horses. He’d already admitted to Duncan that he was second rate, and that meant that in order to get rides he’d become the kind of jockey who had had to have no greater ambition than that given him by the trainer. It hurt him to talk about it. But he told Duncan that he should speak with Aaron. ‘Have a word with the Monk,’ he’d said.

  So in the owners’ bar that afternoon at Lingfield, Duncan took the opportunity. ‘Mike, will you give us a minute? I want to have a word with Aaron.’

  ‘Not leaving me already, are you?’ Mike said.

  They didn’t answer him. He bought the two jockeys drinks and left them at a table in the corner.

  ‘Pardon me if I take the chair with my back to the wall,’ Aaron said. ‘I like to have a good swim, see everything.’ He had a way of talking that was expressionless. If there was humour there you had to look hard into the criss-cross of lines in his leathery skin, and even then all you would see was two piercing blue eyes looking back at you. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Ever been given gifts by someone with an interest?’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Would I tell you if I had?’

  ‘Yes, you would.’

  ‘Why’s that now?’

  ‘I’ve looked at all the pros. I’ve looked at the way different ones talk. I go around with my eyes open. Jockeys like to have their circle of mates. You’re the most independent jockey I see. People respect you, but you’ve got no mates that I see; nor any hangers-on. That’s how I want to be.’

  Aaron took a sip of his white wine. He didn’t blink or take his attention from Duncan. His Adam’s apple worked hard in his throat to swallow the sip. ‘That Kerry’s a good mate of yours.’

  ‘Yes. But he’s not a hanger-on or a ligger.’

  ‘Who sends you gifts?’

  Duncan told him. ‘It’s just a crate of champagne.’

  ‘This is how it starts. More will come.’ The bar was filling up and the conversation level had grown. The older jockey carefully scanned the room as he spoke, as if looking for an eavesdropper. ‘Starts with a bottle of this or a crate of that. Small stuff. Box of cigars. Then it’s tickets to a big football match or a show. You think: I’ll have that, why not. Then it’s a night out at one of those discos in town, where the celebs hang out. Doesn’t cost you a penny. I’ll have that, why not? Then one night at those places there is a woman. High class. Kind of woman would make a bishop kick in a stained-glass window. She’s yours for the night, doesn’t cost a penny. I’ll have that, why not? Then there’s the golfing weekend in Spain with a lot of other lads, top footballers and the like. And then there’s a car in the driveway for you, just on loan, like. Friendly.

  ‘And then after all this, one day comes the question. And if you say no, they say, well what did you think it was all for? And what did you think it was for, for Christ’s sake? Now there’s a scratch on the car, you can’t give it back. That night you had with the beautiful whore, you can’t give it back.

  ‘Somebody’s got to take the fall for all that fun, Duncan. You or someone else. But you’re the one on the end of the line, so it’s going to be you.’

  When Aaron talked about taking the fall, both men knew he meant the business of stopping a horse from winning. You could force an error and make a bad jump. You could pull up. You could ease up. You could literally fall off if you were crazy enough. You could do anything you wanted so long as you didn’t win and the stewards couldn’t prove a thing.

  A horse owner Aaron had ridden for in the past came over and clapped him on the back and talked bullshit about the race. Aaron smiled and said little until the man was done. He moved away and left them alone.

  ‘But you can’t just send stuff back,’ Duncan said. ‘It’s like giving him the finger.’

  ‘Yes you can.’

  ‘Did you ever send stuff back?’

  ‘Did I agree to talk about me, or about the things I’ve done?’

  When Aaron fixed him with his brilliant blue-eyed heart-stopping stare, Duncan understood why some of the other jockeys called him the Monk. He also knew why they never said it to his face. He felt like the older jockey could see to the bottom of his soul.

  A weird intensity came over Aaron. He gripped Duncan by the wrist. ‘You come to me for advice. You know the answer already. But I’ll tell you this for nothing. I’m not a religious man. For me there’s only one religion and that’s the religion of getting over the jumps clean and true.’

  He took another modest sip from his glass and stared out of the window. For a moment he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, his own world. He looked burdened. ‘Take your father. Charlie is the sort of man who could have teamed up with any of those shady figures. He could easily have done those things he was accused of and got away with it because it would have suited them to protect him. But he didn’t. Why? Because he was a man who was clean on the inside as well as on the outside. All they could do was rub some of their own dirt on to him; they knew what would stick and the people who would help them to make it stick.

  ‘You see, people like Charlie are a big threat to them. You get one man brave enough to stay clean and the entire house of cards starts to fall in. I say thank God for men like Charlie.

  ‘You know what I see when I go out there? A ray of golden light along the green turf, unbroken, between the starting tape and the finishing line. That’s a jockey’s life, that ray of light, and you’re not riding the horse, you’re riding that ray. Have you done your level best to win each and every race? Somebody comes to you and asks you, and so you pull up a horse, well, that ray of light is broken. It only has to be broken once, and you can win as many races afterwards as you like, but it’s broken for ever. You can’t put it back together. You’ve taken the fall; and after that, you’re falling, always falling, for the rest of your jockey’s life.’

  Aaron let go of Duncan’s wrist. Then he drained his glass, got up and left the table, leaving Duncan alone, wondering whether the old jockey was a loony or was truly inspired. After a moment Mike came and joined him.

  ‘Heavy bloke, isn’t he?’ Mike said. ‘But I do love the guy.’

  ‘I need another drink,’ Duncan said, ‘and a fuckin’ prayer book.’

  12

  The honeymoon between Duncan and Petie Quinn wobbled a little one morning in January. They were preparing a seven-year-old gelding called Round Robin as a possible for the Cheltenham Festival. Round Robin was lined up for the testing two-mile Queen Mabb’s Championship Chase, a test of athleticism and speed with no margin for error.

  Duncan arrived at the stables to find Petie in a tetchy mood, tearing a strip off one of the young stable lads. It wasn’t anything Duncan hadn’t experienced himself at six thirty in the morning from Tommy back at Penderton in the good old days. But even by Tommy’s standards Petie was laying it on a bit thick. The red-faced kid who’d fastened a girth too tight or too loose or whatever was close to tears.

  Duncan knew better than to interfere. He was going on the gallops with Roisin so he slipped away to get himself ready, but not before he saw Petie aim a good hard kick at the lad. Luckily the boy was quick and danced out of the way of the boot before disappearing like a rat across the yard. It was the first time Duncan had seen Petie lash out physically.

  By the time Duncan had kitted up, he’d learned that one of the senior stable lads – a different lad – had had enough and had walked out that morning, leaving them short-handed. Then he heard the throaty exhaust of Kerry’s clapped-out Hillman Avenger arriving. From behind the stables Duncan heard Kerry’s car door open and close, followed by a loud exchange of words.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

  Kerry said, ‘Couldn’t get the damn thing started, Petie
. Bloody car needs an axe taking to it, you know?’

  ‘If you can’t be here on time, I don’t want you here at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me well enough.’

  ‘Jaysus! What’s eatin’ you today?’

  ‘Have you come to do any work? Or just to jaw at me?’

  Then Petie must have crossed the yard, because Duncan heard him roaring at someone else.

  Roisin came by. She already had her riding helmet on. Maybe because of the mood her father was in.

  ‘What gives?’ Duncan said.

  ‘Don’t try to figure it out. He just goes into one now and again. It’ll blow over.’

  The plan had been for Roisin and Duncan to take Round Robin and another horse and gallop them up together, while Kerry and the rest of the gang went elsewhere. Petie had a change of plan. He wanted to work them, along with Kerry and Roisin and four or five other horses.

  ‘The ground is soft and I want to see what that will do,’ he said.

  ‘It won’t be as soft come March,’ Duncan said, ‘now will it?’

  ‘I think it will be. We’re in for a very wet spring.’

  ‘How do you know that? Is this some kind of yokel farmer wisdom?’ Duncan said, trying to make Roisin giggle. ‘Did a swallow fly out of your boiled egg when you broke it open this morning?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Did you find a sprig of green oak up the cow’s arse?’

  Petie glowered at him. Then he said, ‘I want you to jump out in front today, and stay there.’

  ‘This isn’t the horse for that,’ Duncan said.

  ‘That’s how you’ll ride him,’ Petie said.

  By now, three or four of the stable hands and riders had gathered round. Maybe Duncan should have shut his mouth. ‘This isn’t how we’ve been working him, Petie.’

  ‘No, we’re changing that.’

  ‘But we’re only a few weeks away.’

  ‘And it’ll be soft and this horse has an engine and it will tire the competition early. That’s it.’