Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  'Piss off!'

  'Sorry.' Matt's voice was staccato with effort. 'You told me to win. Everyone told me to win. Sorry, Charlie ...'

  And yanking Dragon Slayer's head round again, he barged into him.

  Bonnie staggered slightly, but didn't stop galloping. Another fence – he'd have to jump it with Dragon Slayer joined to him like a Siamese twin. Matt wanted to unseat him – he knew now. It was too crazy for words – the cameras would catch it all – wouldn't they?

  Up – oh, please God ... Bonnie, floundering, jumped. It wasn't close enough. The long chestnut legs were running in mid-air, scrambling. Charlie hung on and prayed.

  The thump of landing jarred his body. He bit his tongue and could taste the blood. His eyes were watering. He couldn't see. It didn't matter. It didn't bloody matter. They were still on their feet. Miraculously, so was Dragon Slayer – although they'd both lost a lot of ground. Jack's Joker was approaching the last.

  Matt charged against him again. The crowd, still unsuspecting, were roaring their excitement. Charlie could just hear them above the thundering of his own heart and the rasping gasps of Bonnie's breath.

  'Shit!' He tried to push Dragon Slayer away with his stirruped foot. No contest. Ten-and-a-half stone of knackered man against half-a-ton of race-fit horse. He spat blood. 'You're fucking mad!'

  'I've got to win!' Matt's face was ashen. 'I've got to fucking win! Not you! Me!'

  Jack's Joker had cleared the last and was rocking easily towards the elbow. Bonnie, still with nowhere to jump, lifted his head to place the fence, then took off. So did Dragon Slayer.

  They landed together. Almost colliding. Almost falling.

  Charlie could see the muddied turf, magnified, hurtling towards him, then, just as quickly, receding again. Bonne Nuit's head jerked up from the stumble and smacked him on the nose.

  Shit. More blood. More tears. But they were standing. And still moving. Now, Charlie thought. It's got to be now.

  He'd cleared all the fences in the National. He was lying second on the bravest, most brilliant horse in the world. If Matt had suddenly gone barking mad he'd have to worry about it later. With one regretful flick of his whip on Bonnie's shoulder, he managed to get a slight edge. They were no longer level.

  'Go on, baby. Go on ...'

  Bonnie, obviously indignant about the sharp reminder, tore round the elbow like a Walthamstow greyhound. Charlie could no longer see the black-and-white colours. He could only hear the rhythmic thud of the hooves inches behind him. Jack's Joker, still ahead, was labouring.

  He crouched low, hung on, and hands-and-heeled Bonnie forward. They were catching Jack's Joker! And Matt was catching them! The roar from the crowd was a living thing, organic, growing, pulsing. It picked him up and carried him.

  They were level with Jack's Joker. Matt was still only half a length away. The black-and-white colours were flicking into his vision again.

  Using only his knees and hands and prayer, flicking the whip in Bonnie's line of vision to keep him straight, they powered up the run-in. The big Irish horse seemed to be standing still. Then going backwards. They'd passed Jack's Joker! There were twenty yards left. Ten. Five.

  Matt was upside him again. No – not quite. Not quite.

  Where was the pole? Where the hell was the winning post? When would this race be over? Why were people screaming and cheering?

  Charlie blinked behind his goggles. There was nowhere left to go-

  Oh – holy God! He'd won the National!

  Charlie tugged Bonnie's ears in delight, then standing in the stirrups, he punched the air, unable to see anything because of the blood. He shoved his goggles away and wiped his eyes. Jesus! The crowd were roaring, running, pushing, calling his name: everywhere a sea of grinning faces.

  Wheeling Bonnie round, slowing through the throng, Charlie grinned back. Oily, Bonnie's lad, grabbed the reins, tears pouring down his cheeks. Charlie leaned down and hugged him. Hugged Drew, too. They were both crying.

  As if by magic, there was a uniformed escort, and television reporters, and still thousands of people crowding in on them. Everyone was shouting his name. Bonnie didn't flinch.

  'Incredible,' Drew managed to mutter. 'Bloody incredible. We've done it. We've really done it...'

  'Yeah –' Charlie's voice was barely audible. 'I think we have ...'

  The uniformed escort led them on through a veritable ocean of people, all pressing, cheering, wanting to touch him and Bonne Nuit. Drew had to hang on to the bridle to keep up. Charlie leaned down and hugged him again. His face hurt from smiling, and his smile must have looked deranged as his mouth was caked with dried blood. And all the time he was looking for Jemima.

  He could see Tina, head and shoulders above everyone else, pushing her way towards them. And there was Gillian in her outrageous Fishnets outfit, waving as she barged through the throng. Perhaps Jemima would be with her. Hers was the only face he wanted to see now. Just let him get to the unsaddling enclosure – to that coveted winner's spot – and then he'd do a Frankie Dettori-style celebratory leap, and kiss Jemima. Everything was going to be all right ...

  The Tannoy crackled and hissed. The flash and staccato rattle of the camera shutters suddenly died away. The bristling grey OB mikes dropped out of sight, and the jostling sea of hacks was still.

  Had someone died?

  Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  Gillian reached them, and was kissing him when the tannoy's crackle bing-bonged into life.

  Charlie and Drew stopped smiling at the same moment.

  'Shit.' Drew's face was ashen. 'No!'

  'What?' Gillian was blinking wildly. 'What's happened?'

  Charlie knew. And he knew why. Oh, bloody, sodding hell. They couldn't do this – not now. The crowd knew, too. The roar of disappointment and disapproval swept across the course.

  They'd called a stewards' enquiry.

  Chapter Forty

  Drew had no time to find Maddy in the scrum. She'd have heard the announcement and would know what was happening, of course, but he still wanted to tell her himself. To have her squeeze his hand and wish him good luck. She'd always done it before when his runners had been the subject of an enquiry, and things had worked out fine. He needed Maddy as a talisman now more than ever. It was one of the drawbacks, he realised yet again, of being the product of two of the most superstitious races in the universe.

  'Find Maddy,' he hissed to Gillian. 'Stay with her until it's over. Don't worry.'

  'But why?' Gillian wailed. 'Why are they doing it? They can't take the race away from us, can they? Bonnie won!'

  'Just stay with Maddy. She'll explain. We've been through this sort of thing before. Look, I can't hang about. They've got Charlie and Matt in there now. They'll probably be hauling me in in a minute. Bastards.'

  Ignoring Gillian's further flutterings, Drew pushed his way towards the stewards' room. The bookies were already calling the odds on the outcome of the enquiry. Several hardened punters were reaching for their wallets, willing to gamble a fortune on Bonne Nuit losing the race. Vultures, Drew thought, angrily shouldering past. Picking off the flesh before the body's stopped twitching.

  He'd seen, like the whole of Aintree, the collision course with Dragon Slayer. He had been going to ask Charlie about it later. After the presentation and the interviews. It hadn't been Charlie's fault, he was sure of it. There had been nowhere for him to go. Dragon Slayer had taken Charlie's ground – but so what? It happened. And it hadn't affected the outcome of the race. Bonne Nuit had beaten Dragon Slayer fair and square.

  Bloody namby-pamby racecourse stewards! Any slight infringement of the rules and they hauled you up like miscreant schoolboys in front of the headmaster. Bloody hell!

  Drew barged onwards, brushing aside the thrusting microphones.

  'What d'you reckon'll happen, eh?'

  'We'll keep the race.'

  He said it a dozen times. A dozen times it was received with knowing smirks. God
help him, he'd hit someone in a minute.

  There was always a panel of stewards at racecourses, making sure that each race was run fairly, and Drew had considered them no more than a necessary evil. They kept racing on the straight and narrow. Or so he'd always thought. Maybe not now, though. Not if they robbed him of the race. Oh, God – they couldn't. Not when winning meant keeping Peapods.

  There'd be three of them sitting at the enquiry. One of them would definitely be the steward who had been appointed to watch the television screen. Had he seen something that everyone else had missed? Something that would take the race away, take Peapods away?

  Christ. He'd soon know.

  There was a further clump of hacks outside the stewards' office. They asked the same questions. Drew barked the same answer.

  'We'll keep the race.'

  His confidence was ebbing away as he pushed open the door. It was like being randomly breath-tested. Even if you hadn't had a drink for weeks, you immediately felt guilty.

  'Fucking débâcle!' Kath Seaward was puffing furiously on a cigarette in the corridor outside the stewards' enquiry room. 'Don't know why they can't just leave things alone! This is the fucking National, for God's sake – not some seller at Chepstow! What the hell do they think they're doing?'

  Drew shrugged sympathetically. He was sure Kath had more to lose than he did. 'What's Matt said?'

  'Sod all. There wasn't time. I don't know what I'm supposed to say, either. What about you?'

  Drew shook his head. 'Much the same. I didn't even have time to speak to Charlie about it. It looked like a problem on the straight – but nothing that hampered either horse.'

  Kath snorted smoke down her nostrils and ground out the cigarette butt with her toe. 'Well, I certainly wasn't going to raise any objections, much as it galls me to have to admit it. Damn good race. Fight to the finish.' She scuffed the remainder of the grey ash into the liver-and-orange Wilton. 'We were lucky to snatch second. You did well.'

  Drew almost smiled. 'Thanks. Does that mean you'll be paying over the grand you owe me?'

  'Grand? What fucking grand?'

  'The wager we struck last year? Charlie and my hopeless animal, I think you said, against Matt and Dragon Slayer?'

  Kath fumbled for another cigarette. 'Yeah, I suppose so. I'll write the cheque later. Listen, off the record, and because I'll never admit it in front of the Vyella shirt brigade in there, I reckon you beat us hands down. I can't see them wanting to reverse the placings. I mean, I only saw what everyone else saw. No interference from your side. Bit of a coming together. Nothing more.'

  Reverse the placings? Jesus. Drew felt sick. Not now. Not after everything they'd been through.

  He stared at the oak-panelled walls and the collection of Stubbs and Munnings. The racing world's more recent stars were there, too: Desert Orchid; Red Rum ... There was a huge No Smoking sign between the priceless equine paintings, but Kath obviously didn't care. He didn't blame her. This was a bloody awful experience.

  The door swung open.

  'Mr Fitzgerald? Miss Seaward? If you'd like to come in now?'

  Kath ground out the half-finished cigarette beside its fellow on the carpet, and strode through the door ahead of Drew.

  Charlie and Matt, still in their breeches and jerseys, were sitting in front of the stewards on rather uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chairs. Matt was staring directly ahead, his back rigid. Charlie, his long legs stretched in front of him, looked slightly more relaxed. Neither of them looked up as Drew and Kath walked in.

  Three stewards sat behind the table, all wearing the extremely appropriate Tattersalls checks and yellow waistcoats. Drew felt very sick.

  The stewards' secretary smiled. 'If you'd like to take a seat. Just a few formalities. Won't keep you longer than is necessary.'

  Drew sat next to Charlie, saying nothing. Kath muttered under her breath.

  The oldest steward tapped a television screen. 'We've replayed the incident, and we've looked at the camera film from several different angles. Mr Somerset and Mr Garside have given their accounts. I wonder if either of you have anything to add?'

  'About what, exactly?' Drew exhaled. 'I can't see any point in this. Our horse won going away. There was no interference. No suggestion of impropriety.'

  'Interference in the straight.' The steward switched on the video machine. 'Maybe you'd like to watch ...'

  Drew watched. It didn't change his opinion. Charlie had the racing line. Matt seemed to have lost his way, and Dragon Slayer had strayed across.

  'A bit of bumping and barging – but this is the National, for God's sake. It happens.'

  Charlie turned his head then and looked at Drew. He didn't speak, merely raised his eyebrows.

  'So Kath leaned forward. 'What exactly is going on? What are we doing in here? My horse bumped Fitzgerald's horse. Fitzgerald's horse still won the race. Where's the problem?'

  Drew bit his lip. He knew how difficult it must be for Kath to utter a whole sentence without an expletive.

  'There doesn't appear to be one.' The younger steward shrugged. 'A bit of argy-bargy maybe ...'

  He was silenced by a frown from his more senior colleagues.

  'Who else is giving evidence?' Drew shifted in his chair. He was sure the Aintree crowd would turn into a lynch mob if they delayed any longer. 'I don't see that Ms Seaward can add anything. We merely saw what you saw. And if you've taken all the relevant information from the jockeys involved –'

  Again, Charlie raised his eyebrows. Drew shook his head.

  'I don't think we need any further witnesses.' The senior steward pushed back his chair. 'We've reached our conclusion, haven't we, gentlemen? There certainly doesn't seem to be anything untoward. Both horses have been drugs-tested – with negative results. We shan't be sending any other samples away for analysis. Tack has been inspected for tampering. All clear on that score. I think we should just take the evidence of our eyes, the cameras, and Garside, here. Evidence which, I must say, was corroborated by Somerset's story.'

  Jesus Christ. Drew wiped his sweating palms on his knees. For God's sake get on with it.

  'So, unless either of you wish to add anything?'

  Kath shook her head violently. Drew sighed. 'No. Nothing.'

  The stewards all looked at each other, nodded, and started shuffling papers.

  'Get a fucking move on,' Kath hissed under her breath.

  The stewards' secretary cleared his throat. 'The finding of this enquiry is that the placings should remain unaltered.'

  The media was waiting in force outside the door. The crowd already knew the result. The tannoy had announced it immediately, and the cheers were still ringing across Liverpool. Drew wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and hugged Charlie.

  'You doing the press conference?'

  Charlie shook his head. 'I haven't got enough strength to even lift the bloody trophy.'

  'And you will tell me what happened in there?'

  Charlie grinned. 'I haven't got a clue. I think Matt's the only one who knows the truth. Oh, shit – here come the hacks.'

  Drew, who only wanted to find Maddy, put on his widest smile for the BBC.

  'Congratulations Drew. Charlie. Bit of a scare there towards the end, eh?'

  Charlie was beaming but remained silent. Bugger, Drew thought, he was going to have to go in blind. 'No, not really. We knew we'd keep the race.'

  'Never happened before in the National, has it? A stewards' enquiry?'

  'I haven't got a clue.' Drew stretched his smile. 'I'll have to check when I get home.'

  The BBC weren't giving up on their viewers that easily. 'It looked as though Dragon Slayer lost his way a bit. Looked as though you were hampered.'

  'Just a bit –'

  'So, what did Charlie tell them in there?'

  'You'll have to ask him,' Drew floundered. 'But not now. Sorry to cut you short, but we do have a presentation to get to. We'll both do a full interview later.'

 
The media were not going to be thwarted that easily. They started to jog alongside. Drew who by now was becoming seriously irritated. Calm down, he told himself, you've won the bloody National. Peapods will be okay. Everything will be okay.

  Several statuesque blondes with corporate costumes and corkscrew curls had appeared from nowhere, and were leading them through the thousands of well-wishers. The noise was deafening. Charlie, Drew noticed with some concern, was completely ignoring the willowy blondes. Had he suffered some sort of catatonic shock? This was prime Somerset territory. Strange, he thought, that there wasn't the slightest flicker of interest.

  'Clear a path! Keep clear!' The mounted policemen had now taken control. 'Stand well back!'

  Drew, followed by Charlie, the curly girls, and the world's press, all crowded through the human tunnel. Maddy emerged from about six people deep and hurtled towards him.

  Oh, brilliant. He caught her and hugged her. 'I love you. And we've done it. And everything is going to be all right –'

  'Everything always was.' She snuggled against him. 'I'm dead proud of you, Drew. And Gillian is practically pawing the ground to get at the trophy. And Bonnie has been stuffed full of Polos.'

  She glanced over Drew's shoulder and winked at Charlie. 'And he'll, no doubt, get his rewards later.'

  'From Tina?' Drew found himself hoisted towards the podium. The clapping and cheering reached Richter-scale proportions.

  Maddy, disappearing into the sea again, was smiling and shaking her head.

  After the presentation, when the jubilation had died down a little, and all the hard-luck stories had been told a dozen times, and everyone had started to drift away to place their delayed bets for the remaining races, Drew and Charlie were buttonholed by the BBC.

  They had already decided that Charlie should answer the questions about the enquiry. Drew had eulogised over Bonnie's training schedule, expectations, future plans, and general brilliance. It had been fine. He'd known what he was talking about. The clash with Dragon Slayer was definitely Charlie's territory.

  Two dozen microphones were thrust towards them. Another two dozen spiral-bound notepads were unfurled.