Outside Chance (23 page)

‘And how long do they stay on?'

‘Well, if the horse is running again within the week we leave them on, but otherwise, next time the farrier comes he takes them off.'

‘So what's the routine after the race?' Ben was genuinely interested, and he never knew when such information might come in useful on a future assignment.

‘They're unsaddled – in the winners enclosure if we're lucky – then offered a drink, hosed down, scraped, covered with a cooler – you know, like a string vest – and walked for half to three quarters of an hour. They need to be cooled down and settled before the journey home. It's always at least an hour after our last runner before we set off. Then, of course, they all have to be fed and checked over when they get home. If it's one of the northern tracks or an evening meeting it can sometimes be nearly midnight by the time we finish for the day, and we've been up since half-four. Plus, Rice still has all the coolers and sheets and jockeys' silks to wash. It's bloody hard work.'

‘But worth it when you get a winner.'

‘Oh, yes,' Fliss said warmly. ‘Always worth it, because of the horses.'

‘Do the lads get a bonus when their horse wins?'

‘Theoretically, but what we do is pool all the bonuses and split the money between all the lads at the end of the season. It's much fairer that way.'

‘So has Mikey really got a chance today?' Ben asked, as they joined the end of a slowly moving queue of cars on the approach to the racecourse entrance.

‘Yeah, he has, actually. As I said yesterday, Axesmith is a really strong contender. Rollo would have been riding him if he hadn't got himself suspended, but I don't see why Mikey shouldn't make as good a job of it. He seems to get on with the horse really well.'

Once they'd entered the racecourse itself, Fliss and Ben went their separate ways; Fliss to oversee the care of the Castle Ridge runners and Ben to wander with the crowds, place a token bet or two and enjoy the early spring sunshine.

As the first of the Castle Ridge horses was brought into the parade ring by its lad, Ben saw Fliss standing in the grassy centre area talking to the horse's owners. She'd changed before they set out. Gone were the trendy hipster jeans and branded sweatshirt that she'd worn at home, to be replaced by boots, a suede skirt and a sophisticated, tailored leather jacket worn over a cream jumper. The effect was perfect: she looked elegant, mature and far older than her twenty-two years. Judging by the look in the eyes of the middle-aged male owner to whom she was talking, he had no
complaints about her father's replacement either.

Mikey came out presently, his expression serious and a little shy, but a few words and a smile from Fliss won an answering smile, and by the time he was legged up into the tiny saddle he was looking far more relaxed.

As the runners left the paddock to make their way down to the start, Ben took advantage of the trainer's pass Fliss had given him and climbed the stairs to the stands in order to get a better view. Axesmith wasn't due to run until later in the afternoon and, according to the bookies, Mikey's current mount wasn't expected to do a lot; but as he rode out on to the turf, settling the horse into an easy canter, Ben was intensely proud of his young half-brother. The long, dispiriting struggle of his school years was behind him. On the back of a horse he was anyone's equal.

By the time the starter got them settled and running, Fliss had joined Ben and was following Mikey's progress on the big screen, muttering to herself all the while. To Ben's eyes, Mikey's horse seemed to be jumping neatly and holding its own for speed, and as the field rounded the final bend and moved into the home straight, Mikey was sitting fourth or fifth, not more than two lengths off the leader.

‘He's doing well,' he remarked to Fliss.

‘He's doing
very
well,' she replied, transferring her gaze from the screen to the track, and there was a strong undercurrent of excitement in her voice.

The eight horses on the track began to string
out as the pace increased and, as they settled against the rail, Ben and Fliss saw that Mikey had pulled up to third place. Two more hurdles came and went and suddenly the second-placed horse was falling back and the Castle Ridge runner was neck and neck with the leader.

Ben could sense Fliss's growing excitement.

‘Don't let him drift; don't let him drift. Keep him straight,' she urged the distant figure.

‘He's going to do it!' Ben exclaimed. ‘I think he's got him!'

‘Come on, Mikey! Come on!' Fliss cried, jumping up and down as the two duelling thoroughbreds thundered down the last furlong. Her voice rose to a scream, ‘Yes! He's done it! He's bloody done it!' She turned to Ben, half laughing and half crying, and threw her arms round his neck. ‘He was brilliant! Dad's never going to believe this! That horse has been unplaced so many times we were thinking of renaming him Also Ran! Your brother's a magician.'

‘So much for your brother-in-law's prediction,' Ben observed, as they drew apart.

Fliss began to straighten her jacket and hair. ‘Ray's the kind of bloke who can't bear anyone else to get on. He didn't want Dad to take Mikey on in the first place. Listen, I must go down and walk him in. Are you coming?'

Visions of sidling, jostling thoroughbreds filled Ben's mind and he said with a smile, ‘No, it's your moment. You go on. I'll see Mikey later.'

Fliss fairly skipped down the stairs and Ben watched her make her way through the crowd, acknowledging the congratulations of her many
acquaintances. Suddenly, a familiar voice spoke close behind him.

‘I wouldn't get any ideas in that direction, if I were you.'

He turned to find Belinda Kepple standing close by. Considering her hostility when they had first met, Ben was a little surprised that she should initiate a conversation now.

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning that the last person who trifled with one of Eddie Truman's daughters without his approval found himself out of a job and out of the country.'

‘Oh? Who was that?'

‘Can't remember his name, it was some time ago. He was a jockey from Poland or Czechoslovakia or some such place. I believe Truman found him riding in South Africa and brought him over. He made a lot of noise about him; swore he'd be the next champion jockey. I think it was all a big publicity stunt. Though, as it turned out, he was good, exceptional even – but it didn't save his bacon when the crunch came. Got caught with his trousers down – literally, so I heard – and Eddie saw red. Threw him out the night before the Derby and made sure he never rode again.'

‘You don't mean . . . he kneecapped him?'

Belinda raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, you've heard about that then? No, not this time. I meant he never rode
here
again. The word was that Eddie got him deported, somehow; sent him back to wherever he came from. I don't know if that's true, but nothing would surprise me about that man.'

‘When was this?'

‘Oh, Lord – I don't know! Years ago, when Helen was about fifteen or sixteen. He wasn't the man Eddie wanted for her; he had big plans. Though I can't help thinking she'd have been better off with her foreigner than she is with that miserable bastard she's got now!'

‘I'd never realised there were so many foreigners in racing. Half the lads at Castle Ridge only speak pidgin English and the other half are Irish.'

Belinda nodded. ‘It's the same everywhere.'

‘Helen's jockey – the one that Eddie threw out – was that the year they won the Derby?'

‘Yes, that's right. With Massingham. Everybody felt so sorry for the boy, he was a likeable lad. But listen, all I'm saying is, just be wary around Eddie. He's not the man to get on the wrong side of.'

Ben was puzzled.

‘So why the warning? You don't pretend to like Eddie Truman and I didn't get the impression you were a particular fan of mine, either. What's it to you if he and I have a bust-up?'

Belinda pursed her lips.

‘I don't know. Perhaps it's because Fliss is a nice girl, and I wouldn't want to see her hurt; or perhaps it's because every time I look at you I see your father, and he and I go back quite a way.'

Ben looked at the secret smile lurking behind her eyes and was hit by a certainty.

‘You're lovers,' he said. ‘Good God!'

‘That's a long way from complimentary,' Belinda protested.

‘No, I'm sorry. It's just – you know, parents and all that.'

‘Life doesn't end at forty, you know,' she laughed.

‘So, are you still together?'

‘On and off. Your father doesn't like to be pinned down. I see him for a bit and then I don't. It's not what I'd choose but it's that or nothing. God, I don't know why I'm telling you this. It's absolutely none of your business.'

‘Mm. Did I tell you I've been offered a job as gossip columnist for
Racing Life
?' he asked, tongue-in-cheek.

‘Has anyone ever told you you're a obnoxious young man? Look, I've got horses to see to. Remember me to Johnnie, if you see him before I do.'

‘Yeah, likewise.'

Belinda turned away and then turned back briefly. ‘Oh, and by the way, tell that brother of yours if he ever wants a change of scenery, he can come and ride for me.'

‘Thanks,' Ben said, surprised. ‘I'll tell him.'

For a minute or two he stood leaning on the rail and watching the endlessly shifting crowds, his mind occupied with what he had just learned. Had she really thought there was something developing between Fliss and himself? Did Fliss think so? He hoped not; he'd certainly done nothing to convey that message. Attractive as she undoubtedly was, she was too young; besides, he was very happy with Lisa. Wasn't he?

He remembered the warm contentment of that morning.

Yes, he was happy.

Why, then, did he constantly shy away from
thoughts of permanency? Was it a hereditary thing? Belinda Kepple's description of her relationship with his father had struck an uncomfortable chord. But then his father had more excuse than Ben did. He had two broken marriages behind him; twice he'd been left. And the hell of it was, Ben firmly believed, that if it hadn't been for the accident that killed his brother, his parents would have stayed together to this day. Now, even after all these years, a shadow of guilt passed over him. One simple, stupid suggestion had started off the tragic chain of events on that morning nearly twenty years ago; one simple suggestion – and
he
had made it.

Giving himself a mental shaking, Ben moved away from the railings and descended the stairs to ground level. Suddenly the people and the noise grated on him, and he decided to walk up the course to the starting point for the next race, using the exercise and the cold wind to clear his mind. There was a stone building beside which he could shelter and watch them jump off.

There were fifteen runners in the next race, and they began to pass him when he was still some fifty or sixty yards from the start; tall leggy thoroughbreds, sleek coated and handsome, blowing ephemeral plumes of steam into the cold air, their jockeys not much more than dabs of colour on their backs.

Mikey was the last but one to go by, calmly cantering past on board a light-framed chestnut gelding. He didn't appear to notice Ben's trudging figure, and Ben did nothing to try and
attract his attention, aware that any undue movement might cause the highly-strung animal to shy.

Looking back down the course Ben could see a dark bay approaching, almost broadside on, tossing and diving its head in an effort to loosen its rider's grip. Even as he watched, the animal appeared to stumble and then, in one continuous movement, leapt into the air, twisting its body like a corkscrew.

The jockey had no chance. Hopelessly off-balance, his precarious hold was shaken loose as soon as the horse's feet hit the ground again and he pitched sideways in a flash of blue and yellow silks, the reins still clutched firmly in his hand.

At this point, the horse returned its attention to fulfilling its original ambition – that of reaching his companions as fast as he could – but the jockey had other ideas. Rolling over and coming swiftly to his feet, he tried to dig his heels into the turf and bring the horse to a standstill, but the bay was having none of it and, after a few stumbling steps, its rider tripped and measured his length on the grass.

‘Let go of the reins,' Ben urged under his breath. ‘Let go!'

Maybe the jockey was an apprentice, like Mikey, to whom every chance to race was precious, or maybe he was just naturally tenacious; whatever the reason he hung on grimly, bumping and sliding across the ground as the horse, alarmed now, broke into a shambling trot, peering sideways at the horror beside it.

‘Oh, let go, you stupid idiot!' Ben pleaded,
looking desperately up and down the course in the hope of seeing someone running to the jockey's aid.

The nearest possible hope was still some forty yards distant.

There was no one but Ben.

As if to force his hand the horse, still moving sideways, but faster now, was veering in Ben's direction; without conscious decision he ducked under the white plastic rail and walked calmly out on to the track.

In most cases, it would probably have been a vain attempt. The horse would have seen him coming, swerved around him and continued on its merry way, but this one was preoccupied with the trauma of having something dragging behind it, and didn't seem to notice Ben at all.

With a strange feeling of detachment, Ben reached out for the horse's offside rein. The moment his fingers closed round the leather the bay threw up its head and ran backwards but, with the combined weight of the two men, it wasn't going anywhere. It stopped, dropping gobs of white foam from its open mouth and staring down at Ben with white-rimmed eyes.