He hadn't received the huge wads of notes that Vincent seemed to hand over to Ned on a regular basis: that went to the snouts who snuffled for information. But just once, during the summer, when Matt had been desperate – and greedy – Ned had loaned him money. Ned knew how much he needed money. And Ned, with his bloody scumbag contacts, knew where Matt's money went. Knew exactly when it was time for his next fix.
When Ned had offered him five hundred pounds it had been like handing out lifebelts to the Titanic's orchestra. He'd grabbed it with both hands.
And he'd been suckered from that moment.
Reluctantly, Dragon Slayer slowed his canter as they approached the start. Twelve horses, twelve jockeys, all of whom he knew well. Not Charlie today, though. Thank God, not Charlie. He didn't want to face Charlie, with his good-natured grin and his bloody serendipity attitude to life. Charlie Somerset had it all – and would probably have even more. Birth – that's what did it, Matt knew. You were dealt a hand at birth. It simply wasn't fair that Charlie Somerset had got all the aces, while he was left with the jokers.
The circling horses were familiar; so, too, the routines of girth-tightening and checking the stirrup leathers. The usual banter, ribaldry, slanderous remarks. All the same. But he wasn't.
The starter had snapped out the roll-call, and finding everyone present, was calling them into line. Matt tried to swing Dragon Slayer round to face the front. This was the first part. He had to remember to draw no attention to himself. Be casual. So, no lining up on the inside. As far away from the public as possible. The invasive eye of the course camera was another matter. Still, he kicked Dragon Slayer gently, urging him towards the outer rail, so far – dead simple. No problems. Most jockeys preferred the inner at Worcester. No one was going to fight him for his starting position. He glanced round him and exhaled. None of the other jockeys seemed remotely interested in him.
Maybe, he thought, it wouldn't be too difficult. He had never worried too much about having a conscience. He had never needed to. He'd always played everything straight on the course. No one had ever tested his morality before. Now it was being pulled in all directions at once.
One of the rank outsiders was side-stepping and twirling like a liberty pony beside him as Matt held on to his position. Everyone was watching the side-show. Christ! Were they now wondering why he hadn't joined the jostle for the grandstand side of the track? Hell – he was already becoming paranoid. Get a grip!
The starter was barking sarcastically at the unfortunate jockey and his prancing horse at the starting gate. All eyes still seemed to be on him. Matt turned his head away, fiddling with his stirrups, and felt sick.
Then there was Jemima ... Poor Jemima, who was probably at this moment facing the wrath of the massed ranks of the Parish Biddies without him being there to back her. He had promised he'd get back to Milton St John as soon as he could. He'd told her not to worry about Bathsheba's meeting; that he'd lived in the village for long enough to know that these protests would soon be swept aside in favour of some further outrage. He'd had to show her some support, hadn't he? Especially now. He knew how concerned Jemima was about the damage Bathsheba Cox could cause to her livelihood. Jemima, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware of the damage he was probably about to cause to his own.
Dragon Slayer, as always tuned-in to his jockey, read the dilemma in Matt's mind and executed a neat circle, wedging his rump against the tape.
'Garside! Turn around! Round! Face the front jockeys!' The starter looked like he was about to have apoplexy.
Matt yanked at Dragon Slayer's head with uncharacteristic force. The horse, unused to this handling, gave a jolt of surprise and resentment but turned round. The few hardy racegoers who always clustered at the start, jeered derisively at Matt's cavalier treatment. The remaining eleven horses, spooked by the eruption of noise, all shimmied out of line again. The starter and his assistant gave synchronised groans.
Matt shortened Dragon Slayer's reins and kicked him gently towards the elasticated webbing stretched across the course. Calm down. It was okay. They were facing the right way, they weren't looking at him, and he'd still got the outside rails all to himself.
It was all too much to think about. Ned Filkins... He was sure, whatever Ned said, that bloody Maureen had seen them together at that pub on bank holiday Monday. She must have told Vincent she'd seen them – he'd blinked in disbelief at Vincent's car in the car park – and Vincent was Jemima's father, for God's sake. Would he have told Jemima that, on the day he was supposed to have been working, Matt had been spotted skulking in the backwoods with Ned Filkins?
'About sodding time!' The starter decided to go for it. He raised his flag.
The fear mounted. It wasn't fair. It wasn't bloody fair!
The tape sprang away and the twelve contenders catapulted forward. Worcester was a fairly flat and untaxing steeplechase course. Kath had chosen to send Dragon Slayer there for his first race of the season to test the muscles after the summer rest. Matt knew he'd win easily – everyone at Lancing Grange knew he'd win easily.
It was up to him to make sure he didn't.
Delighted at being back on a racecourse, Dragon Slayer was trying to leap away, to jump the hurdles he could have practically stepped over. Matt held him in check, his mind throbbing with possibilities. Maybe in the days of frequent racing skulduggery that the retired stable lads still cackled about, pulling a horse had been a simple matter. Then there had been fewer stewards, and no SIS, no invasive cameras, no video footage. Losing this race on Dragon Slayer was surely going to be a great deal more difficult than winning it.
Eighteen fences. Two circuits. They were halfway round for the first time now, Dragon Slayer soaring across the brushwood, eating up the ground with huge strides, head and shoulders ahead of the rest of the undistinguished pack. He was infinitely superior, far more talented, than the rest of the contenders. Oh, Christ. His reputation would slide even further down the scale. Matt Garside – couldn't win if you gave him a two-day start. He could hear it now ...
No point in doing anything right now, Matt thought, head down. Dragon Slayer was scrubbing easily along between fences, rocketing over the hurdles as they appeared, still a length ahead of the rest of the field. It could easily have been twenty. Several of the other horses were crashing through the fences and landing badly, but there had been no fallers.
Even if a fall, a peck, a stumble may have looked more authentic in front of the stands, Matt knew he couldn't do it. Dragon Slayer merited better than that. Intelligent and sensitive, he'd hate the humiliation as much as his jockey.
They were up and over the fence which would be the last next time round. The landing was inch-perfect. The grandstand crowd roared their approval. If he was going to get away with it, it would have to be on the back straight. The open ditch. Could he pull it off there? Most of Worcester's casualties were at that particular obstacle; it would have to be there or nowhere. Three more fences, then, he thought as they swept round the top turn, three more fences and he and Dragon Slayer would be out of the race.
Safely over the next. Two more to go. Short-term pain for long-term gain – wasn't that what he'd been told?
Over the next as well. He was jumping so well. Too well. Feet to spare. Next one ... Next one ... It made sense. It wasn't cheating. It wasn't – It was securing the future. Three more strides. Two. Screw it – now.
Dragon Slayer, in mid-flight, felt the reins tighten as Matt asked him for an extra stride. Matt, instantly aware of the shock shooting through the bunched muscles, tried to put things right. It was too late. Dragon Slayer knew the instructions were directly at odds with his instinct. That one second of confusion was all that was needed. Easy. So easy. Too bloody easy in fact.
Wrong-footed, Dragon Slayer splashed his hind-legs into the water on landing, stumbled, scrabbled frantically, then jerked himself upright. Half the field had passed them. The groan from the stands was audible. Dragon Slayer, brave and honest, was i
mmediately into his stride again, thundering forward, trying his hardest, wanting to catch up. He wanted to win. He didn't know that he couldn't.
Matt exhaled angrily. He couldn't do this again. Not for the rest of the season. Whatever the cost. He was willing to break Dragon Slayer's heart – but he wasn't going to break his spirit.
They caught most of the contenders on the run-in and finished sixth.
The home-going punters had almost disappeared by the time he emerged from the changing room. Slinging his holdall over one shoulder, he made his way across the paper-strewn pathway and into the car park. Kath was waiting for him.
'Get in.' She was wearing the trench coat, with the panama on the back of her head. 'Don't talk to me now. Just get in.'
Matt scrambled into the passenger seat. Guilt engulfed him in red-hot waves. She must know. Lighting a cigarette, steering with one hand, Kath had the BMW roaring away from the course in minutes. Matt wished he'd driven himself – even began to think longingly of being a passenger in Charlie's Aston Martin.
'I was wrong,' she said, settling at eighty on the A38. 'I should have listened to you. We should have had Dragon Slayer out earlier. Should have followed Drew's example and gone to Fontwell. It's something we're going to have to watch. He always used to spook at open ditches. My mistake. I'd forgotten. Not too disappointed, are you?'
'No – no ... Are you?'
'Fucking pissed off at the time, but it happens. He recovered well. He'd still got the beating of them. He should have won, of course. But at least this time I can't blame the jockey.'
Kath edged up a gear and overtook a convoy of coaches. Everyone on the back seats waved. Matt looked down into the footwell just in case they'd gambled everything on Dragon Slayer and recognised him.
Zigzagging back into the left lane, oblivious to the horn-blowing and light-flashing around her, Kath shrugged. 'Do you remember what he was like in the first couple of years we had him? Real bastard at the water. I thought he'd got over that. Still, it was a good exercise. So, apart from the balls-up, how did he feel?'
'Excellent.' Matt tried to sound normal. He'd got away with it. If he could fool Kath he could fool anyone, surely? 'I mean, really good. He'll win next time out, no problem.'
Kath turned her head and gave him one of her rare smiles. 'Yes, he will.'
Shit. He stretched his mouth into an answering grin. Now he wasn't sure. Did Kath suspect anything? Ever since he'd dismounted, he'd expected the stewards to haul him in. A well-beaten odds-on favourite – especially one of Dragon Slayer's stature – always aroused suspicions. He'd listened to the changing-room chatter without hearing a word. Each time the door had opened he'd expected someone to call his name.
But they hadn't. Everyone had seen Dragon Slayer shy away from the ditch. His fellow jockeys had been sympathetic and mickey-taking in equal measure. They all knew it happened. It had happened to all of them at some time. No one doubted that Dragon Slayer's stumble was anything other than an early-season faux pas.
After a further hair-raising hour, Kath screeched the BMW to a halt outside his house. 'See you for work tomorrow morning,' she said as he hauled the holdall from the back seat. 'I won't take you back to the yard. I don't think you'll be too popular. The lads will have put their wages on Dragon Slayer today. They'll blame you for buggering up their spending money.' She revved the engine and leaned from the window. 'It'll probably cost you a few pints tonight.'
It was going to cost him a hell of a lot more than that, Matt thought sadly.
Kath revved even harder, then, as the car jerked forward, she leaned from the window again. 'Oh, Matt! One thing you might give a bit of thought to. If Dragon Slayer hated the ditch so much, why did he jump it like a stag on the first circuit?'
Shit. Shit. Shit. With a sick churning in his stomach, Matt unlocked his front door and dropped the holdall in the hall. He should have known he couldn't fool Kath. Oh, God.
He stumbled across the cluttered living room towards the drinks tray on the sideboard. The light on the answerphone was flashing. He played both the messages as he shed his suit jacket and tie and poured a huge gin and slimline tonic.
Jemima, reminding him of the meeting – and asking him to meet her in the Cat and Fiddle if he got back in time. No mention of the race – but of course, there wouldn't be, would there? And Ned, sarcastically congratulating him on a blinding result, and suggesting that they met up for a pint and a chat pretty damn quick.
Christ. He poured a second gin and wiped the messages.
The Cat and Fiddle was bulging at the seams. The Ladies' League of Light meeting was obviously over, and the protagonists had spilled into the lounge bar. Matt veered away from the perms, sandals and cardigans all bobbing round the Vicar, and headed for the Spit and Sawdust. Several morose lads from Lancing Grange were clustered round the juke-box sharing a lemonade shandy. Matt, backing up, gave them a wide berth as he made his way to the Snug.
It was like walking into hell. Not only was Jemima sitting at a table with Maureen and Gillian, but Vincent and Ned were pressed chummily together on one of the benches, and Charlie Somerset was chatting to Kath. Dear God.
They all turned to look at him at the same time. He swept a smile round the room and made for the bar. It was going to take ages to get served. The longer the better as far as he was concerned, even though he was gagging for a top-up of gin.
'I'll get yours.' Charlie elbowed his way in beside him. 'I'm buying another for Ms Seaward and the girls. You can get the next round. Bad luck about today. Still, shit happens. Go and talk to Jemima, I'm sure she needs your support.'
Trying to organise his scattered wits, Matt blinked. 'I didn't know you and Kath were on speaking terms again. When did that happen?'
'What?' Charlie caught the barman's eye and rattled off his order. 'Oh, yeah. Well, a crowded bar makes for strange stablemates. We're not sitting together by choice. She still reckons I'm the pits – don't worry. Your job's safe. Look, Matt, don't misunderstand me, but I reckon you ought to sort out your priorities.'
Sweating with guilt, Matt found himself jostled by several villagers. He jerked away from them irritably. They laughed, making ribald comments about his failure to win. Frowning, he turned his back. 'Which priorities?'
'If you need to ask, then you've got a major problem.' Charlie collected the glasses together. 'Jemima, of course. Stop screwing about me and Kath ripping each other to shreds, and ask Jemima how the meeting went.'
'I did intend to.'
Charlie balanced his collection of gin, beer and assorted wines. 'Well, don't sodding intend – bloody do it.'
Matt did. Easing himself between Maureen's purple satin and Gillian's muted silk, he leaned across the table and kissed Jemima's forehead. He'd aimed for her cheek and hoped he might get her mouth. It was all too squashed to be accurate.
'How did it go? Bathsheba's meeting?'
'Well, as I was excluded – and Gillian swapped sides – I was in the middle of finding out.'
'I've been debriefed,' Gillian smiled radiantly across the table at Charlie. 'And I wish you'd all stop frowning at me. I didn't have a choice. I was strictly Mrs Vicar tonight. With Glen chairing the meeting, what else was I supposed to do?'
Matt didn't really care. He tried to reach for Jemima's hand and couldn't make it. 'So? You're still trading then? Bathsheba hasn't slapped on an embargo?'
'Damn well better not try, duck.' Maureen was displaying her usual generous amount of cleavage. 'No, the silly old bag is having a general public meeting at the end of the month. Village hall will have reopened then, see. She reckons she'll get a full house.'
Jemima appeared to drag her eyes away from Ned and Vincent. 'Tonight was highly undemocratic – all antis barred. Apparently she's stirring everyone up, ordering them not to set foot inside the shop if they want to protect the good name of the sisterhood – that sort of thing. I don't know how it will affect sales ...'
'Not at all,' Gillian and Maureen said t
ogether.
Matt shrugged. 'It could have been worse, then.' It could have been a million times worse. Jemima was only being bothered by maybes. His life was being pulled apart by definites.
She still looked unhappy. He wanted to tell her to smile and not worry but the words weren't there. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful – because she was. He wished that three months ago he hadn't been such a gentleman when she'd been shy and unsure of herself, and he hadn't wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability. Now he knew that he'd left it too late to develop their friendship into anything else. Or had he? He wished they could be alone together to find out. More than anything he wanted to invite Jemima back to his house and sit quietly in the dark and be comforted.
She was sipping her wine, looking distracted. Her eyes weren't on him. They had slipped back to Vincent and Ned in the corner. He wished she'd speak to him about racing.
'Matt –' Kath Seaward had left Charlie and was leaning over their table on her way out of the pub. 'After first lot, come to breakfast tomorrow. There are things I want to discuss. Okay?'
Panic prickled up from his toes. Calm down. 'Okay. Er – anything in particular?'
'Yes.' She swept her glance round the rest of the Snug. 'I've picked up one or two bits of gossip tonight that seem to throw some light on what happened today. I'd like to know what you think. 'Night.'
Christ. Exhausted as he was, there was no chance of sleeping tonight now. He'd toss and turn and the horrors would multiply in the dark, dead hours. He felt like a hunted animal.
Charlie had vanished through to the Spit and Sawdust. Ned and Vincent were draining the last dregs from their glasses. Gillian and Maureen were giggling together. Jemima, still opposite him, looked troubled. He thought about moving the chairs round so that they could at least be side by side. He couldn't be bothered. He didn't want to hear about the bloody bookshop. God, he thought, what a lot of fuss over nothing. Getting panicky over a lot of silly old blue-rinsed bags who objected to a couple of novels. She ought to try walking in his shoes. She ought to try having an entire race of demons riding on her shoulders.
Jumping to Conclusions Page 26
