Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Haven’t a clue, mate. That colour box is common as muck. I mean …’ He flicked the back of his hand towards a sizeable gathering of boxes already parked up and the intermittent convoy on their way in.

  ‘Point taken. I’ll just hang around here in case I spot it.’

  Stan nodded, obviously anxious to be getting on with the job of unloading the horse. ‘Give you a lift back, yes?’

  ‘Thanks a lot, yes, please.’

  I stuck my crutches in place and hobbled away to find a better vantage spot to monitor the incoming ragged line of boxes bumping unevenly over the grass. A great many had their trainer’s name written across the back which could have proved a massive help except, in the seconds before the crash, the only sight I’d had of the box was sideways on. I wouldn’t know if it had a name printed across the rear or not.

  Thinking hard, I relived that pre-crash split-second. The side facing me had been the offside. I adjusted my position so that I could view the incoming boxes from that angle. It was unfortunate that the box was painted in the most commonly used colour. But as I considered that, it occurred to me it was no coincidence. The box had probably been selected for exactly that reason – anonymity. Although the Nissan had sustained damage, it had bounced off, rolled over, bounced again; the massive box had probably got away quite lightly. Even so, unless it had been immediately repaired and re-sprayed, it would still bear the evidence of impact.

  But there was no way I could hobble around checking all the boxes. For one thing, I stuck out as an oddity with my left leg plastered, and for another that very fact prevented my progress. It reduced my mobility to a maddening and frustrating degree. It wasn’t doing my recovery any favours and just lugging the weight around was exhausting.

  I looked across to the right of the box park. The stable lads’ canteen beckoned. It was an oasis providing sustenance for the ever-ravenous crew of lads. Even more importantly, for me, it was somewhere to sit down whilst I kept up surveillance for the damaged vehicle. And best of all, I didn’t need a racecourse pass to get in.

  I struggled my way across and opened the door. Directly in front was a service counter but I diverted right and found a vacant table by the window. After a few minutes, I was getting dispirited by the sheer amount of vehicles painted cream. Needles and haystacks came to mind.

  The canteen door opened and a man came in. He glanced around, noticed me – noticed me noticing him – and hesitated.

  ‘Carl,’ I said, ‘how’re you going on?’

  He walked over. ‘Harry.’

  ‘Sit down, take the weight off.’ I pushed a chair away from the table with the rubber ferrule of my crutch. It drew his gaze down from my face to the plastered leg.

  ‘Heard you’d copped it at the same fence.’

  ‘Yeah, came down on top of you, Carl.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, I was out cold – concussion and a dislocated collarbone.’

  ‘So how come you’re here, at a flat meeting?’

  ‘Helping out the guv’nor.’

  ‘Still with Fred Sampson, then?’

  He nodded. ‘And you? You’re not here helping anybody, not with that.’ He nodded towards my plastered leg.

  I made a quick decision and decided to risk it. Carl wasn’t a friend of mine. An acquaintance yes, a jump jockey I saw in weighing rooms and at racecourses, but not a friend. However, he was mobile and I wasn’t.

  ‘I’m looking for a specific horsebox, a cream one. One that I’m sure was deliberately planted to cause an accident to the car I was travelling in.’

  He stiffened. ‘You what?’

  ‘Hmm. Except I got away lightly. Unfortunately Darren, who was driving, got injured. He’s still in hospital.’

  ‘So what makes you think the box will be here, today?’

  ‘I don’t know that it will, just working on a hunch that it’s a local based one. Could be wrong …’

  ‘Did you see who it belonged to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, how’re you going to recognize it?’

  ‘I figure it will have a bit of damage down the offside.’

  ‘Could have been re-sprayed by now.’

  ‘Yes, it could, but somehow I don’t think so.’

  He shrugged and stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve not seen a box like that. I’m getting some grub.’

  ‘Do me a favour.’ I fished out a fiver from my wallet. ‘Could you get me some as well, maybe a mug of tea, too?’

  He took the note. ‘I’m having a grilled bacon sandwich – you want the same?’

  ‘Sure, that’ll be fine.’

  Over at the counter they were doing a brisk trade. Carl attached himself to the queue and I resumed my checking through the window. There were plenty of boxes to check, an endless line driving past, but none fitted. I was getting more disheartened with every box that rolled by.

  Carl came back to the table with mugs of tea and mammoth sandwiches that gave off a gorgeous aroma of cooked bacon. The smell alone was enough to make you feel hungry and raise flagging spirits.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, raising the welcome mug to my lips. ‘What runners have you got, then?’

  ‘Princess Delilah, in the three thirty.’

  ‘That’s our race, too.’

  ‘So which is it?’

  ‘Scarlet Salvia.’

  He buried his face in his mug. ‘No chance.’

  ‘Come on, she’s favourite. I mean, four to seven, nailed on I’d say.’

  ‘Well, you’d be wrong. Hope you haven’t put Harlequin Cottage on it.’

  ‘No,’ I laughed, ‘no bets on, except the lads have.’

  He snorted. ‘Tough. Ours’ll walk it.’

  I didn’t want to argue with him. I bit into the sumptuous sarnie and decided my last meal on this earth, if I got the chance, would have to be one of these. Pure heaven.

  Whilst I slowly savoured the sandwich, Carl wolfed his hungrily, rapidly disposing of the food, washing it down with gulps of hot tea.

  ‘Got to go.’ He pushed up from the table. ‘Have to help with the buckets and cooler.’

  I nodded. ‘See you around. Might even ride in the same race.’

  He shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t think so, not with your injury. Need a miracle.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Carl.’

  ‘S’true though, ain’t it?’ He set down his empty mug and walked out of the canteen.

  I took another bite of my lunch but somehow it didn’t taste quite the same. I pushed my plate to one side and settled for the tea.

  The television high on the wall showed the runners for the three thirty. Scarlet Salvia was dancing her way round the parade ring giving Pete a hard time. She looked the very epitome of how a racehorse should be, coat gleaming, neck arched, up on her toes. She’d obviously attracted a following; her SP was now backed down to two to five. If she won, there was going to be an awful lot of happy punters – especially if they’d taken an earlier price – and some woeful bookies.

  Princess Delilah, in contrast, was sweating heavily, white patches spreading under her flanks making her appear almost skewbald. Her nervous energy loss must be excessive.

  Out from the weighing room came the tiny, brightly clad jockeys, their silks a vivid contrast to the emerald green of the turf. The familiar summons ‘Jockeys please mount’ rang across the racecourse. In seconds, they’d been legged up into the saddles.

  The crowd packed in around the parade ring eager to see their selection at close quarters. And probably not a single person actually longed to swap places and be sitting astride one of the horses – except me. If I didn’t get a tough grip on my emotions, I was in danger of some serious self-pity. That was unacceptable; it was enervating and totally pointless. Mentally, I shook myself.

  The bell rang and the horses streamed from the parade ring and out on to the course.

  Princess Delilah took off, jaw angled and set, with the jockey sawing left and right trying to hold her. She had no intention of settli
ng and covered half the distance down to the start bucking, lunging and running sideways, pulling the jockey’s arms out.

  Meanwhile, Scarlet Salvia was cantering smooth as cream, totally calm and with ears pricked, enjoying herself hugely. All the other horses were going down to the starting stalls in a collected fashion and, if I’d had to give an opinion, I’d have said Princess Delilah would end up as back marker. Why Carl had been so sure his horse would take the race was a mystery. The energy she’d expended before she’d even reached the start must have completely negated any chance she might have had.

  I watched them all going into the stalls. Carl’s horse, predictably, was still playing up and had to be blindfolded and it took the efforts of four stall-handlers to get her loaded.

  There were just eight horses in the race and they left the stalls as one, lunging forward eager to be doing the job they’d been born for – racing. And racing to win.

  I glanced at the lads lounging around and seated at other tables. Like myself, they appeared to think the race was sown up and would go to the favourite with Princess Delilah tailing off.

  We were wrong. The race, all two minutes or so of it, was dominated by Delilah. She pulled away from the other seven runners and only in the last furlong did she begin to tire. Scarlet Salvia was leading the rest of the pack and, scenting the leader weakening, made a supreme effort and drew level upsides, but with the post coming up fast, Princess Delilah held on and won by a short head. A loud collective groan rang out around the canteen. It was clear that a good deal of the lads’ weekly pay had been wagered on the favourite.

  Princess Delilah would almost certainly find herself in the dope testing box but I doubted they would find anything. The horse had phenomenal stamina, of that there was no doubt.

  But Elspeth was not going to be amused. She’d expected her horse to win easily – coming second was not good enough. Like the first man on the moon, everybody remembered him. But as to the second man, how many could even name him? No, Elspeth wasn’t going to be pleased. I was quite relieved the interview had been held this morning and not later after the racing. I could drop off at the cottage and let Stan and Pete make the journey back to Unicorn Stables and face Her Ladyship without me.

  I unlocked the cottage door, walked in and let the backpack slide from my shoulders. The peace of the cottage wrapped itself around me. Nobody had attempted to break in nor violate my home during my absence, thank God.

  I made a mug of tea, checked on Leo – still sleeping – collected up my mail and backpack and went through to the office. There was just one message on the answer phone. Uncle George had telephoned whilst I was out playing silly buggers chasing a non-existent horsebox. I downed half the tea and then called him back.

  ‘Hi, Uncle George. Just found your message.’

  He seemed pleased to hear from me. ‘It was good to see you the other day. How’re you going on?’

  ‘Fine, and yourself?’

  ‘I’m OK, when I put my earplugs in.’ He chuckled. ‘Just kidding. It’s not bad really, when she’s got the lead short and tight and she can see me.’

  ‘So, where do we meet when the lead’s loose?’

  ‘How about a halfway pub?’

  ‘No can do, can’t drive, well, not till after next week.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Hopefully the plaster comes off.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, of course, stupid of me. So how about I drive over, pick you up and we go to your local?’

  ‘Sounds fine. When?’

  ‘It’ll have to be Friday. Rachel has her hair done on Fridays, after she’s had lunch with her sister.’

  I thought quickly. Annabel had offered to take me over to see Silvie at the care home on Friday.

  ‘I was going over to see Silvie this coming Friday, Uncle George. How about you join me?’ The phone was silent. ‘Uncle George?’

  ‘I heard you, Harry. I’m sorry, son, but no, I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Come on, Uncle George. You were asking after her well-being at the Dirty Duck.’

  ‘Yes, well, that was because she’s Elizabeth’s child and I wanted to know.’

  It was my turn to say nothing. The silence stretched. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you and I should meet up. Have a beer and a chat, face to face.’ His voice hardened. ‘But not over a telephone, OK?’

  ‘Right.’ I found my fingers were gripping the phone harder than they needed to. ‘But not this Friday. I must go and see Silvie.’

  ‘Can’t you put it off, this visit?’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly, irritated. ‘No way.’

  ‘Give me a ring next week then, eh? We’ll fix a time for me to pick you up.’

  ‘Will do. Bye, Uncle George.’

  I replaced the phone and stood staring at it. The conversation bothered me. Not so much what he had said but rather what he hadn’t. Maybe it would all become clear next week. And maybe I wasn’t going to like what I heard.

  I drank the rest of my tea in one gulp. It had gone cold.

  THIRTEEN

  On Friday a discreet double toot of a car horn outside on the drive had me glancing out of the cottage window. A powerful cream Jaguar had just drawn up. I didn’t recognize the car but I knew the driver intimately – Annabel.

  I’d hobbled down to the gate earlier and hooked it back so that she could drive straight in without having to get out. She’d thoughtfully driven up over the gravel as close as possible to the cottage. I went out, locked the door behind me and clambered in.

  ‘Morning, Harry. Glorious day.’

  ‘Definitely. What’s with the car?’

  ‘I thought Jeffrey’s Jag would be easier for you to get into.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks for opening the gate. That was very considerate.’ As she spoke she slid into reverse gear and backed out.

  ‘I appreciate the lift.’ I patted the dashboard. ‘Some car, eh? What does Jeffrey think to you nicking it to tote me around?’

  ‘Doesn’t know,’ she said cheerfully. ‘He’s away in Brussels. Anyway, he doesn’t need transport – you do.’

  ‘Simple as.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She flashed me one of her Julia Roberts eat-your-heart-out smiles. ‘So, how’s my gorgeous boy?’

  I frowned, pretending I didn’t know who she was talking about. ‘Are you referring to me?’

  ‘You’re not my gorgeous boy.’

  I sighed. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘He is all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’ve taken out an overdraft to pay for all the first-class food he’s guzzling and he’s sleeping for England. Satisfied?’

  She smirked. ‘Great.’

  I suddenly twigged. ‘Have you been sending Leo absent healing?’

  She nodded, swung the Jag on to the A46 and barrelled along towards Newark. ‘Morning and night.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s working.’

  ‘Oh, I know it does.’

  A thought crossed my mind. ‘Have you ever tried it on racehorses?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘But you could?’ I persisted.

  ‘Yes. Anything alive benefits – humans, animals, plants.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Not really, we’re all made up of energy, the scientists have proved it, and that’s what spiritual healing is, loving healing energy.’

  ‘I’m glad you studied and qualified. It kind of suits you, complements your caring nature.’

  ‘Oh, give over.’

  ‘Do you send me absent healing?’

  She smiled gently. ‘But of course—’

  We finished the sentence together: ‘Morning and night.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Jeffrey? No, he doesn’t. He’s a generous man. He allows me all the personal space I need.’

  ‘Did I?’

  She gave me a quick glance. ‘When we were married, do you mean?’

  I twisted in my seat within the confines of my seat belt an
d plaster and looked directly at her. ‘We’re still married, Annabel.’

  She gave a soft sigh. ‘We are, aren’t we.’ It wasn’t a question but a stated fact.

  ‘Annabel—’

  ‘No, Harry, don’t. Don’t say any more, please. I need to concentrate on driving.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I eased back into my seat. The care home was only minutes in front and I needed to steel myself for the visit. Silvie would never know the pain I felt every time I saw her. Hopefully, she would only see a smiling face, feel a loving embrace from someone who cared about her. She was my kid sister, not a person to be scared of. But God help me, I was. Scared that one day my steel shield would slip and she’d see all the shameful pent-up revulsion and grief, the rage at the injustice and, perhaps worst of all, she might see me feeling sorry for her. That would be my undoing, mine and hers. It would bring home to her something she was blissfully unaware of – that she was an object of pity.

  ‘Harry?’ Annabel was looking at me with concern. ‘Is something wrong? You’re covered in sweat and you’ve gone terribly pale.’

  I let down the window and took deep, ragged breaths. ‘I’m OK, really. Just my demons kicking in.’

  ‘I could stop.’

  ‘No, we’re practically there now.’

  And we were. The tall iron gates flanking the entrance to the residential home were visible at the end of the road. ‘Drive on, Annabel. I’ll take a pull before we go inside.’

  She said nothing, simply drove the last furlong through the open gates and down the short tree-lined drive right up to the front door. On cue, it opened and one of the nurses came out on to the steps. I could have done with a couple of minutes to gather my thoughts but she was already smiling and greeting us.

  ‘Hello Mr and Mrs Radcliffe, how nice to see you.’

  My already shaky hold over my emotions shook some more.

  ‘We’re looking forward to seeing Silvie.’ Annabel tactfully took the lead. ‘Is it convenient?’

  ‘Of course, she’d love to have a visit. If you wouldn’t mind signing the visitors’ book, I’ll take you to her.’