Pulse

by Felix Francis

  ‘Thanks, doc,’ he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  I wondered if he was in more pain than he was letting on. Jockeys were supreme experts at avoiding being stood down even for quite serious injuries when lesser mortals would have gladly taken weeks off work. For a jockey, not riding meant not earning, and there was no sick pay for the self-employed.

  ‘Don’t forget to report to the jockeys’ medical room to get clearance before you can ride again.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, not opening his eyes. ‘No problem.’

  All fallen riders had to ‘pass the doctor’ even if there was no apparent injury. In particular we were looking for any signs of concussion. They had to answer seven specific questions known as the ‘Turner Questions’ to test their memory function – the name or number of the horse they had just been riding, the trainer’s name, the type and length of the race, the name of the racecourse, the name of the current champion jockey, the winning horse or jockey of the previous Grand National or Cheltenham Gold Cup, and the names of two other jockeys riding at the course on that day. The aim was to test both short- and long-term memory.

  They also had to do the Tandem Stance Test where they were required to stand with their feet in line one behind the other, hands on hips and eyes closed for twenty seconds without losing balance.

  Any rider with suspected concussion would be fully medically assessed, immediately stood down and not permitted to ride again until cleared by the Chief Medical Adviser (CMA) of the horseracing authority. They are also not left alone or allowed to drive and may well be sent directly to hospital for a brain scan.

  The driver dropped us off as close as possible to the enclosures. We hurried together across the track and up the horse-walk where the horses come out onto the course from the paddock.

  The huge-screen TVs next to the parade ring flashed up the photo of the dead man with the bold DEAD-MAN caption underneath asking if anyone recognised him.

  The jockey beside me stopped abruptly. He was staring up at the screen.

  ‘Do you know that man?’ I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I asked again, this time more forcefully while tugging on the arm of his silks.

  ‘Er, no,’ he said, turning towards me. ‘Never seen him before.’

  He started moving forward again, briskly pushing his way through the crowd towards the weighing room. I stood and watched him go.

  He had clearly been lying.

  I took the racecard out of my coat pocket and turned to check the details of the first race. Yellow-and-blue diamonds, yellow cap – the horse was called Fast Broadband and had been ridden by one Richard McGee – Dick McGee.

  He was one of the top twenty or so jump jockeys presently riding.

  I made my way back to the weighing room but more sedately. I needed to register the details of the faller on the computerised Riders Injury Management System, known as RIMANI, even though there was no real injury to speak of. Every patient encounter, however brief, had to be recorded.

  ‘Hi, Chris,’ said Adrian Kings as he saw me enter the medical room. ‘All well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Just filing my report.’

  I sat at the computer terminal and typed in the information.

  ‘I see from this that you have already cleared Dick McGee to ride,’ I said, spinning the chair round to face Adrian.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was in here a second ago.’ He suddenly looked concerned. ‘Is there a reason why I shouldn’t have?’

  ‘No reason,’ I said. ‘I just wondered how you found him.’

  Adrian shrugged his shoulders. ‘Much like any other bruised jockey who is trying to convince me it doesn’t hurt when he’s actually in agony. These boys could give our footballers a lesson or two.’

  ‘But you still passed him fit to ride?’ I asked.

  ‘No medical reason why I shouldn’t. Bruises may be sore but they are not normally dangerous, not unless they’re of the brain, of course.’

  What I had really meant was more to do with the jockey’s demeanour. Had he been unduly agitated? Or overly concerned?

  I was certain Dick McGee had recognised the dead man and I intended finding out why he had denied it.

  The second race was event-free as far as the medical team was concerned.

  The doctors rotated their positions on the course for each race and this time I was down at the start as the twelve runners circled while having their girths tightened by the assistant starters. I stood by the rail watching Dick McGee go round and round. He was now wearing red-and-black silks aboard the favourite, a six-year-old grey called Oystercard.

  He saw me looking at him but, if that worried him, he didn’t openly show it.

  I climbed into the Land Rover as the starter called the jockeys into line and then the chase was on once more.

  Ten of the twelve horses finished the race and the other two pulled up without incident when tailed-off coming down the hill towards the third-last fence.

  Oystercard won.

  In the distance I could see the figure in red and black standing tall in the stirrups and saluting the vast crowd, which roared back its approval as he passed by the winning post, in front by two lengths.

  The lows and highs of jump racing, I thought – a kick in the nuts and a mouthful of grass in the first, victory and acclaim in the second.

  However, the third race, a three-mile handicap steeplechase over two complete circuits of the course with twenty fences to negotiate, was more challenging for the medical team.

  Twenty-four runners went to post but only fourteen of them were to get to the finish. Of the remaining ten, four pulled up, four fell and the other two were brought down by tripping over another horse that had already fallen, both at the same fence, the second open ditch at the far end of the course on the first circuit.

  Being ‘brought down’ was always the worst way to fall. Not only was it no fault of the horse in question, but there was little or no warning for the jockey, who could easily be catapulted directly head-first into the turf.

  So it was with some trepidation that I ran across the track to a motionless form, while a second doctor plus one of the ambulance crews tended to the other two fallen riders.

  To compound the problem, one of the horses was still lying on the ground nearby, its forelegs thrashing about violently. I feared at the time that it might have been fatally injured.

  Taking care to avoid the flailing hooves, I reached my allocated jockey who was lying on the grass curled up in a ball, gently moaning.

  I took that to be a good sign. At least he was conscious.

  I went down on my knees next to his back and gently touched him.

  ‘Dr Rankin here,’ I said. ‘Don’t try and move. Let me assess you first.’

  ‘It’s my left shoulder, doc,’ he said, panting slightly with the pain.

  ‘Dislocated?’ I asked. Many jockeys knew from prior experience what the excruciating pain of a dislocated shoulder was like and, if you’d felt it once, it was difficult then to forget.

  ‘Collarbone, I think,’ he said. ‘I’ve done it before.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Dave,’ he said. ‘Dave Leigh.’

  I pulled up his racing silks and ran my hand down his spine inside his body protector. ‘Any pain here, Dave?’

  ‘None.’

  Next I felt round his neck. ‘Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you remember if you banged your head?’ I asked.

  ‘I know I didn’t,’ he said with certainty. ‘I instinctively put my bloody hand out to break the impact. Stupid idiot. I landed on that.’

  The classic method of fracturing a collarbone.

  ‘Wiggle your toes for me.’

  He did so. I could see them moving inside his wafer-thin riding boots.

  ‘Can you sit up?’ I asked.

  I steadied him as he rolled towards m
e until he was sitting upright on the damp grass. He supported his left wrist in his right hand. I had a gentle feel around the joint. As far as I could tell, the head of the humerus was correctly located into the glenoid fossa, the shallow shoulder socket, so it didn’t appear to be a dislocation, but the left arm hung down slightly lower in a manner expected with a broken collarbone. However, only an X-ray could confirm if that was truly the case.

  My doctor colleague came over to join us, his fallen rider having hurt nothing more than his pride.

  ‘Dave Leigh,’ I said. ‘Suspected fractured clavicle. Hospital job.’

  ‘Can he be moved?’

  I looked around. The other two riders had already got up and gone and, much to my relief, even the horse was now on his feet and being led away, but the fence attendants were hovering nearby, getting ready to doll off the fence for the remaining runners to bypass on the second circuit.

  Our primary concern was always the welfare of the jockey and my decision had to be in his interests first but I would not be thanked if I didn’t make every effort to clear the course if it was safe to do so.

  ‘Come on, Dave, let’s get you up,’ I said. ‘But tell me immediately if anything else hurts.’

  The other doctor and I helped the jockey to his feet and, together, we walked him off the track towards the waiting ambulance, and just before those horses still running in the race arrived back at the fence.

  I turned and watched them again jump the open ditch, this time without incident, and, with the injured jockey now safely installed in an ambulance ready for the journey to hospital, I jogged back to the Land Rover to continue the pursuit, smiling broadly.

  Boy, it felt good to be doctoring again.

  11

  The fourth race was the big event of the day, the Champion Hurdle Challenge Trophy – not that any of the races at the Festival were small. But this was the one that made racing history. As its name suggested, this race determined the year’s champion hurdler and the name of the winner would be painted on the racecourse honours boards to be viewed in perpetuity.

  The rotation of the doctors had me on foot on this occasion. I was to remain in the parade ring until the last horse departed, follow it down to the track and then stand close to the final flight of hurdles for the race.

  Statistically, more horses fall at the final obstacle than at any other and that is not just due to tiredness. At the last, jockeys are urging their mounts forward for a final effort to the finish and are infinitely more likely to ask them for a large stride than to take a pull on the reins and put in an extra small one – that could be the difference between winning and losing and, in horseracing, winning is everything.

  In many a jockey’s mind, falling while trying to win was far preferable to being safe and finishing second, and to hell with the bruises. That’s what separated the greats from the also-rans. It was also why a doctor was positioned close by to pick up the pieces.

  I watched as the riders were tossed up onto the horses, the atmosphere almost crackling from the excited static of owners and trainers as they hoped and prayed that, this time, it would be they who would be hailed the champion. Even the usually ultra-calm Peter Hammond looked nervous as he gave last-minute instructions to his two jockeys, one of whom I noticed was Dick McGee, this time wearing green-and-yellow-striped silks.

  Indeed, the calmest individuals were the horses themselves, who behaved impeccably by not throwing a rider, nor giving the doctor anything else to do.

  I stood near the exit watching the horses file out of the parade ring before following them down the horse-walk towards the track. As he passed by, Dick McGee looked down at me from his lofty position, no emotion readable on his face.

  I know he knows who the dead man is, I thought, and, what’s more, he knows I know he knows.

  I stood by the final hurdle watching the race unfold on the big-screen TV in the centre of the course.

  As one might expect from the best two-mile hurdlers around, the contest was run at lightning pace, all ten of the runners remaining tightly bunched as they passed the grandstands for the first time.

  Cheltenham is an undulating track and the field spread out somewhat as they climbed to the highest point of the course, farthest from the finish line. Then they swung sharply left-handed and raced back down the hill with just three flights left to jump.

  From the head-on camera angle, Dick McGee’s green-and-yellow silks were clearly visible as the horse beneath him hit the top of the hurdle with its forelegs and went down on its knees. At that speed the animal had no chance to recover and, almost as if in slow motion, it keeled over onto its right side and went all the way to the floor, slithering along the wet grass and ejecting its pilot from the saddle as it did so.

  ‘Faller third last,’ said the spotter into my radio earpiece, followed shortly thereafter by the reassuring words, ‘Horse and jockey both up.’

  The remainder of the field, unaffected by the loss of one of their number, clattered over the second-last hurdle and ran on into the finishing straight.

  The four leading horses jumped the last flight in line abreast, the jockeys working hard with their hands, heels and whips to encourage them up the hill to the winning post and everlasting glory.

  In fact, all the remaining runners jumped the obstacle without mishap, leaving me free to turn back to the big screen to watch the race climax.

  ‘Photograph, photograph,’ called the judge over the public address as two horses flashed past the post with hardly a cigarette paper between them.

  As the crowd hushed, waiting for the result to be announced, I turned and looked down the track the other way where I could see a figure in green and yellow trudging slowly towards me. Dick McGee. He was still a couple of hundred yards away so I hurried back up the horse-walk to ensure I made it back to the weighing room before he did.

  ‘First, number six,’ came the announcement from the judge to a huge cheer, ‘second, number two, third, number three. Distances were a nose and two lengths. The fourth horse was number eight.’

  A ‘nose’ was the shortest official winning margin and could be anything from only a few millimetres up to about six centimetres. On such small margins great reputations were made, and others lost.

  I removed the photograph of the dead man from the notice board in the weighing room and took it with me into the jockeys’ medical area. Dick McGee would have to report there before he could be cleared to ride again and I would be waiting for him.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know him.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘When you saw this image before, you stopped as if you’d been shot. You do recognise him, don’t you?’

  Dick McGee was standing in front of me in the medical room, still wearing his green-and-yellow stripes, and he was holding the man’s picture, which I’d just handed to him.

  ‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’ he whined, looking round at the two nurses as if he expected them to help him. ‘Just ask me the standard questions and let me get back to riding.’

  Adrian Kings, the senior medic, came into the room and Dick immediately turned to him to try and get himself out of his current predicament. ‘Doc, will you check me out and clear me?’

  Adrian raised his eyebrows in my direction.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I was just asking Dick here some questions.’

  ‘Well,’ Adrian said, completely misunderstanding what questions I’d been asking, ‘if he can’t answer them correctly, you’ll have to stand him down and make a Red Entry on RIMANI. He will then need clearance from the CMA before he can ride again. Seven days, minimum.’

  Dick McGee looked horrified.

  ‘Have you done the Tandem Stance Test?’ Adrian asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Dick said. ‘I do recognise him but I don’t know his name.’

  Adrian looked confused, and with good reason.

>   ‘Where do you recognise him from?’ I asked, wanting to get some more answers before the confusion was cleared up.

  ‘I saw him with JC at the Open.’

  The Open Meeting had been back in November, the same meeting at which the nameless man had been found in the Gents.

  ‘Where?’ I asked, waving Adrian away as he tried to interrupt.

  ‘In the jockeys’ car park before racing. They were having an argument.’

  ‘Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?’ Adrian said loudly.

  Dick looked at him. ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘I only saw them arguing. I didn’t even know he was dead until I saw this.’ He held up the man’s photo with the words DEAD MAN underneath.

  ‘Who is JC?’ I asked, ignoring Adrian, who was shaking his head in frustration. ‘Not Jesus Christ, obviously.’

  ‘Jason Conway,’ Dick said. ‘And Mike Sheraton was with him too. They were both talking to the man.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ I asked.

  ‘There may have been. I can’t remember.’

  I was worried that Adrian was about to explode.

  ‘What were they arguing about?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dick implored, ‘but it must have been important. They were shouting like bloody blue murder at each other but they stopped suddenly when they saw me listening.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Adrian Kings said, finally stepping between us and facing me. ‘Is Dick McGee concussed or not?’

  ‘Not,’ I said. ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with his memory or his mental function.’

  ‘So can I go now?’ Dick asked.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘Does the name Rahul mean anything to you?’

  ‘Isn’t there an Indian cricketer called Rahul something?’ he said. ‘Apart from that, nothing.’ He thrust the photo back into my hands and was still shaking his head as he disappeared into the jockeys’ changing room.

  I wasn’t sure I totally believed him but, short of injecting a truth serum, I’d be unlikely to get anything further from him at the moment, and sodium thiopental was sadly not included in the approved medical kits.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Adrian said.