by T F Lince
“The leg’s fine, and yes please, champagne would be great.”
Jack saw there were no more glasses on the table.
“Should I get some glasses?”
“Yes please. Thanks, Jack,” said Sarah. Dean thought about picking her up on remembering Jack’s name while struggling with his, but thought better of it.
“Well, I was invited by a beautiful girl in a hospital about three months ago to see her horse run for the first time.” Dean had a drink from his recently charged flute.
“Oh. Who is she? Is she here?” She smiled at Dean. He loved the way she could twist the conversation to fall in her favour. He might have met his match.
“She is, and she promised me a dinner date if I found her.”
Their eyes locked together.
“I think you’ll find she said she would be there if you wanted to see her again, that’s all.” Sarah took a sip of champagne and added, “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to take her for dinner.”
In true mother style, Sarah’s mother intervened.
“Sarah, are you going to introduce me and your father to your friends?”
Sarah had been enjoying the verbal jousting with Dean and knew she was winning, but she thought she’d better give her mother her moment.
“Mum, Dad, this is Dean Harrison, and Jack…Jack…”
Jack sprang to life.
“Oh sorry, Sarah, I’m Jack Smith. Pleasure to meet you all.”
“We are pleased to meet you too. How do you know Sarah? She works so hard, we didn’t think she had any friends.”
Sarah gave her mother a playful nudge.
“I broke my leg and had the pleasure of your daughter fixing it for me, Mrs Summers. Well done with Baby Doctor. We backed her, didn’t we, Jack?”
Jack nodded. “We’ve won in every race but one, and I’m sure this next race will be no exception,” he said confidently as he looked out of the window to see that the jockeys, the colour draining from their silks in the impending dusk, were on their mounts, cantering towards the starting gates.
Sarah’s dad joined in the conversation. “So, what do you fancy in the next race, then, Dean?” There was only one thing Dean fancied at Windsor right then, and it did not have four legs. He was still looking at Sarah, and she was returning his stare with interest. She could not believe that a throwaway comment three months ago would have brought him here today. She hardly knew him, but he had gone up in her estimation. The spark had combusted and was turning into a flame.
“I’m not sure, Mr Summers. There are twenty-four runners and the favourite is 7–1, so it’s wide open. I might leave this race alone; don’t think my luck will hold out forever.”
“Well that’s no fun, Dean,” said Sarah. “I’ll tell you what: you back the winner of the next and I’ll take you up on that dinner date you’ve been talking about.”
Sarah’s mother had not seen her daughter like this before. “Oh go on, Dean, that will be fun,” she said. “We’ll be rooting for you, won’t we, George?”
Mr Summers agreed with a firm nod.
Dean looked at Jack for inspiration.
“You’re on your own on this one, Yorkie. The stakes are too high for me.”
“OK, let me clarify. If I back the winner in the last race, Sarah, you’ll let me take you for dinner next weekend?”
He paused, waiting for confirmation.
“Seems like a fair deal to me, Dean,” she said through a playful smile. She felt like her knight in shining armour was fighting for her hand; she felt special, and wanted him to win. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, Dean, I really mean it.”
Her mother looked on and gave her husband a nudge. “Ooooh, it’s so exciting,” she said.
The horses had reached the start. No pressure, then, Dean thought. Twenty-four horses to choose from and fewer than five minutes to the off. And for added pressure, Jack, Sarah and her parents were all looking at him as he studied what little he knew of the form.
He closed the race card. “OK, here goes, wish me luck.” Dean headed off to the tote at the back of the room, placed the bet, took his slip and folded it over a couple of times.
On returning to the table, he said to Mrs Summers, “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Theresa, Dean.”
Half the horses were already loaded in the stalls. Jack was putting his own bet on. Dean took out his slip and gave it to Theresa Summers.
“Theresa, can you look after this for me? You might bring me some luck. God knows, I need it.”
Theresa loved being involved. She felt like she was in a romantic novel.
“What did you back, Dean?” Sarah looked at all the horses on the big screen. Why on earth had she set this challenge? She would love to go for a meal with him, but there was no backing out now – she’d set the rules and would have to uphold them.
“Wait and see, Sarah. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”
Jack got back just as the horses were off. The commentator was struggling to call the race as the field split into two groups. Jack had backed The Dooser, which was getting a few mentions. Sarah’s eyes were locked on Dean’s, trying to gauge his reaction when the commentator reeled through the names.
The final furlong came; any one of ten horses could win.
“And it’s Fallen Angel, Harp Strings and The Dooser as they approach the final furlong, and coming from the back, Sharp Shoes and Jo Fandango, the big outsider. They are deep into the final furlong and it’s The Dooser and Jo Fandango neck and neck. And it’s…Jo…Fandango…who takes the lucky last at a massive price.”
Sarah did not follow the horses greatly, but she didn’t like the sound of the words ‘massive price’. Even she knew 50–1 was a long shot, and her chances of dinner with Dean were even longer after that result.
“Jack, did you have The Dooser each way?” The way Jack was jumping up and down, he must have done. Everyone gathered round to offer their congratulations, but after the roars and jeers had settled down, they were replaced by a massive sense of anticlimax.
Theresa was thinking that if this was a romantic novel, there’s no way it could end like this. But why would Dean have picked Jo Fandango? Its form was 0-0-0-0-0, so only an idiot would have picked it, and from what she had seen, Dean was no idiot.
Sarah’s mind was frantically trying to think of a get out clause. “Well, Dean, you win some, you lose some.” It hurt her even saying those words.
Dean smiled. “Sarah, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Dean.” She was hoping for a “Should we go out anyway?” but that would be too easy and not very romantic.
“You said if I backed the winner of this race, you would go to dinner with me next weekend, is that right?”
She looked at him.
“That’s right, Dean.”
“What number was Jo Fandango?”
“Erm, number seventeen.”
“OK, Theresa, did I back number seventeen?”
Theresa fumbled in her bag for the slip and slowly opened it. The whole room was now waiting for Sarah’s mother to answer.
Theresa’s face broke out into a smile which morphed into a laugh, and then she was in hysterics.
“Mum, what? Did he back it?”
“Yes, he backed it. Oh, you’re a clever boy, Dean,” Theresa announced, just about pulling herself together. “He’s a keeper, Sarah.”
Sarah looked at Dean. “It was 50–1, Dean, how the hell did you pick it out?”
“Because he backed every horse in the race.”
Sarah started to laugh. “Is that cheating?” she enquired.
“I’m hurt at that comment, Sarah. I would call it a technicality. You said I had to back the winner of the last race for dinner with the most beautiful girl in the world. I backed the winner, so is it a date?”
Sarah didn’t care if it was bending the rules.
“Of course it is, Dean.”
&nb
sp; Sarah’s dad shook Dean’s hand. “Well played. Not many get one over on our Sarah.”
Jack gave Dean a playful punch, then he got a hug from Theresa.
“You make sure you look after her, Dean, she’s very special. You’re a lucky boy, never forget that.”
Sarah was beaming as she gave Dean a hug and whispered into his ear, “You have gone from a walk to a trot, but you are a long way from a canter. You have my attention, Dean, make sure you keep it.” She wrote her number on the back of the sign reserving their table, then left with her parents.
“God knows how you do it, Yorkie, but I guess you could say that was a result. How did you pull that one off? She’s gorgeous – make sure you don’t screw this up.”
Dean patted Jack on the back.
“I have no intention of screwing it up, Jack, I’m going to marry her. I have never been in love before, but she makes me go weak at the knees. Anyway, let’s get a beer. Boy, do I need one.”
Dean woke up in his apartment. He had relived meeting Sarah in his dream as if he had been there again. He loved her so much. More than ever, he needed to get back to her. He felt like she was calling him.
He kissed the picture of Sarah and Jodie. “I’m going to come back, Sarah, I promise you.”
Part Four – Bring On The Clowns
Chapter 29 – The Test
It was the night before Dean’s next visit to Welnetham Hall, and he was still a bit annoyed that he was not getting his usual room. Room 119 had unlocked many of the answers he needed, and he was puzzled as to why Mrs McCauley would not let him have it, but it was what it was. He would not be getting back to Sarah and Jodie without paying the hotel another visit.
He packed his spare bag then headed to bed for his last sleep before seeking the final pieces to a jigsaw which was more or less complete. He was not out of the woods yet; the man with the stick, Death, The Grim Reaper – whoever he was – had had an uneasy look on his face after he’d saved Dean on the train. Dean’s life was still in the balance; Death had not decided which way the coin was going to fall. Dean had more tests to overcome and was fully aware it was going to be a bumpy ride.
He did not have to wait long to find out just how bumpy a ride it was going to be.
The lift to his apartment kicked in – someone was heading up to see him. But nobody had buzzed. His intercom was silent and he had not given permission for a visitor to come up, but still the lift kept coming.
Dean was no longer in the mood for running. He was ready to face his fears, which was just as well as his worst fears were on the other side of the lift cage.
It opened.
Death, complete with his cane, was in the lift. The clown was with him, dressed in the black and white harlequin outfit he had worn when he went to see Jodie. Dean did not flinch.
Death clicked his cane against the wooden floor as he stepped out of the lift and walked straight past Dean as if he wasn’t there. Moving into the living area, Death looked up at the flat screens and then out of the window at Old Father Thames.
The clown went to Dean’s side. “Are you ready, Dean?”
Dean responded immediately.
“Yes, I’m ready.” He didn’t know what he was ready for, but armed with information, he was ready for it anyway. He knew he was up against Death, but he also knew that if Death had wanted him dead, he would already be paying the Ferryman. He had to prove something; he did not know what, but Dean was ready for anything.
Death waved his hand and an ancient stone table appeared in the middle of the room. It had a checkerboard top with black and white squares. Two stone seats appeared on either side of it.
“Chess?” Dean said. The clown nodded as the pieces appeared and took their usual places on the board in two rows of eight, the pawn soldiers guarding their aristocratic wards either side of the chessboard.
Death consulted his book. With a wave from his cane over the board, all the chess pieces obediently re-ordered themselves into a familiar starting position. The clown gave Dean as much of a clue as he was allowed.
“Remember this board?”
Dean nodded.
“It’s my and Jodie’s game, isn’t it?”
“I hope you can win from your position, Dean. Your life depends on it.”
“You’re joking, right? She was hammering me that night – why do you think I told her to go to sleep?”
The clown bowed his head. He had no smiley face today; he had a white face with no expression, a single tear painted on his cheek. He looked serious, because the situation was serious.
“Can you think of anyone you would want to give you a hand right now, Dean?”
“Only Jodie – is she here?”
The clown stood, looking at Death who had moved back to the window. Death turned and waved at the clown with his stick twice as if to say, “OK, but hurry up.”
“Wait there, Dean, and look at that board. You need the biggest plan you’ve ever made. I’ll be back in a minute.” The clown walked into the bedroom.
Death gestured to offer Dean a seat on the white side of the board. Dean checked his pocket for the danake and took it out. Molly had told him to keep the coin safe. If this game went badly, he would need it to pay the Ferryman. After looking at it, he placed it back into his pocket.
Jodie awoke and looked at the clock. It was midnight, but she sensed that she was not alone. She turned over to see Benjie the clown at the end of her bed.
“Are you ready, Jodie? Your dad needs you now.”
Jodie was not scared. She had always known that there was a reason for her chess game with Kyle, and she had been expecting a visit.
“Come with me, Jodie. You can only speak to your dad for one minute then he’s on his own. Are you scared?”
Jodie looked at Benjie. “No, I’m fine. I’m ready.”
Benjie took her by the hand and they went through the door. Jodie was not expecting to see the landing beyond it like she normally did, and she was right. Benjie’s leg disappeared as he stepped through the door, followed by his body.
Jodie stopped.
“Wait, wait there, I need something.” She turned and ran to the corner of her room to pick up her rucksack. Benjie’s arm and hand were still in her room, hanging from what looked like nothing. “OK, now I’m ready.” She took his hand and they left through the door.
They appeared in the bedroom of Dean’s apartment. Most of Benjie was already there, patiently waiting for the arm which was attached to Jodie to catch up.
Dean was making his way to the chair as instructed.
“Dad!” Dean turned round to see his daughter, in her white patterned pyjamas, holding hands with the clown, her rucksack over her back. Although he wanted to run to Jodie, he waited for permission from Death; he know everything he did would be on Death’s terms and any wrong move now could be fatal. He had to show respect.
He received permission by way of a bony finger pointing at him and then on to Jodie.
Dean ran over to his daughter. “Jodie, I have missed you so much.” He picked her up and hugged her, smothering her forehead with kisses.
Death made a sign to Benjie who pulled them apart. “Right, Jodie,” he said, “you have one minute. Use it wisely.”
Jodie was calmer than her dad, who was a mess right now. She whispered out of earshot of Dean’s opponent, “Dad, listen, I worked out how to win from your position months ago.”
Her dad stopped her. “Months? We only played a month ago, Jodie.”
Jodie looked at him, confused.
“Dad, it’s over four months since…” She paused. “Well, it was about five months ago.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to look confused. “Thirty seconds, Jodie,” said Benjie, timing them on his oversized clown watch.
“Dad, listen, I have won playing as white. It’s possible, but you have to trust me. It’s about time and pressure.” She got the clock out of her rucksack. “Right, put him on the clock. You have to give all your pieces a
way. Play to lose to distract him, but keep your bishop and creep your pawn forward in column D. When he’s cleared the way, move your bishop to the side of the board and mate him with the pawn. You got that?” She looked at him. “Dad, have you got that? It’s important.”
“Jodie, that’s madness, giving all your pieces away. How many times have you tried?”
“About two hundred.”
“How many times have you won?”
“Does that matter?”
“How many times, Jodie?”
“Once, Dad, only once. But there is always a way, Dad, you told me that.”
Dean gave her a hug.
“You get that bossiness from your mother, not me…”
“OK, time’s up,” Benjie announced. The time had actually been up twenty seconds ago. “It’s a clown watch,” Benjie said to Death. “It’s not always working properly.”
The skeletal figure stood up and walked over to them, took out his book and waved his hand across the page. Reading the highlights of what Jodie’s life had in store for her, he smiled. Placing his hand on her head to get a deeper look, he closed his eyes. Jodie was not scared. Death looked kind, not evil. He could see she was going to be a doctor just like her mum, but more importantly, the life Death was seeing for Jodie was with Dean still alive. If Dean died, her future could be drastically altered.
Death pulled Jodie’s head into his chest and lightly kissed it. He then said some soft words in the language that Dean had heard by the river, but this time without anger. These were not harsh words, but comforting words.
Death took Jodie’s hand and placed it in Benjie’s, then drew an imaginary line on the floor with his stick. They both understood that was a sign for them to stay there and not interfere. He pointed at Dean and then the chessboard. Jodie had set the clock to two minutes and thirty seconds, the same time that she’d set when she’d beaten Kyle.
“Two minutes thirty, Jodie? That’s madness,” said her dad.
