The Year of the Woman (28 page)

The horses lost. The Quintella went down, the horse she backed coming nowhere.

She hurried from one vantage point to another. This had to be some terrible mistake. Had she somehow got the wrong list? She looked down from the
photographer
’s perch, the TV commentators’ windows. No Santiago. She wanted to know what to do. The remains of her scheme had to be changed, and quickly. She had to claw back her money.

Another horse lost. Money gushed away, tens of thousands of dollars with each race.

Another horse failed, the fifth. One last race remained. Her mind spun. She wept, desperate, wanting to change the bet. But to what? Could she make a switch? If only she could find Santiago…He had the RHKJC tickets, even the dockets from the illegal
bookmakers
’ shops across the harbour. The girl KwayFay must have misled them in some evil plan.

The last horse came nowhere. No Santiago.

All around people were shouting, some cheering and jubilant, others cursing. She tried to think as the Happy Valley floodlights clicked off and the illumination in the
stands faded.

She glimpsed Santiago with a Chinese woman among the crowds drifting to the exits. He was offering the woman a cigarette from his gold case, making his
open-handed
gesture. It was not the image of a loser. In the throng Linda saw him tear two betting slips and discard the pieces.

She ran after, got close near the taxi ranks. She forced her way through and caught his arm. Departing punters saw her. Some laughed aloud at her evident misfortune. She must look haggard.

“Santiago! We …”

“Lost, Linda darling?” He flicked ash. “It happens! If you can’t lose, don’t choose.”

He strolled on in the mob, signalling for a taxi. The woman with him gave her a mischievous smile and went with him. Linda heard his patter begin, “Once, I was really lucky, got the Six-Up – just luck, no planning involved …”

She stood weeping as the crowd thinned. Trams clanged. Hawkers trundled barrows and pedalled their bikes, all selling done. She waved a taxi down, told him Princes Buildings in Central.

Her inner self had gone. She felt hollow, no mind to think with, nothing to gamble. No chance of new bets to restore her fortunes. Santiago was heartbreak, but the loss of gambling was more, much more.

The lights of Hong Kong glided past the taxi
windows
.

HC would be working still. He’d told her when he’d rung her cell phone earlier. Midnight, he had told her, come by the office as soon as the races end. There was
something he wanted to say. She’d replied, with such gaiety, “And I’ll have something to tell you!” Cruelly, she had taunted him by telling him where she was, at the races. She had intended to tell him how much she’d won, then say goodbye for ever.

Her bitterness focussed and held. How foolish she had been. Duped by that charlatan Santiago into
believing
she had sufficient money to perfect her gambling scheme! She saw quite clearly where she’d made the
crucial
mistake. If she’d gone it alone, she’d have won. Shortage of money had caused this. If only she’d had enough, the balance would come right.

There would be racing on Wednesday at Sha-Tin Heights. And Macao’s casinos functioned for ever. All it took was one small bet. By doubling, you could recoup enough to make a flying start for really big winnings. She’d been so close. If it hadn’t been for that
treacherous
girl who’d cheated her by telling Santiago the wrong horses…Or, cruellest thought, had Santiago concealed KwayFay’s revelations for himself, and deliberately
misled
her with false information? She moaned in pain.

The driver’s eyes stared knowingly in the rear-view mirror. She was his eighteenth loser this week. He
wondered
how long she would last before madness took over. He knew madness.

By the time they reached Central, Linda had gathered herself. Betting odds were what counted, not the motives. HC would surely have enough for her to make a new beginning. HC could always raise a loan. She would not ask much. Maybe a few hundred dollars. Okay, then, a couple of thousand, certainly not more. A new jockey was due in next week from England.
Rumour said he’d ridden winners at Ascot, Newmarket. She had to be there. It was essential. How else could she win enough to pay back the money-lenders? HC would see the plight she was in, and arrange what, three
thousand
, maybe four? Very well, a round figure, say five thousand, a decent starting bet.

“Police ahead,” the driver said. The taxi neared the end of Queensway.

Louts mugging tourists no doubt, Linda thought
irritably
. She told him to set her down by the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank corner and flung him her last few dollars. Quickly she crossed the road into Statue Square. Penniless. The quicker she reached HC, the quicker she could start afresh. Even for HC she knew she must look confident, a winner. Few gamblers knew how to turn losing into winning, but she did.

The prospect ahead was filled with golden
opportunities
. Any gambler could see that.

She approached the building. Police and ambulances were just arriving, quickly blocking off crowds. A large blue limousine parked opposite started up and pulled away. For one mad moment she imagined she saw KwayFay’s pale face in the rear window as the vehicle accelerated westwards, but that could only have been fancy. Linda resolved to have the bitch sacked.

She pushed to the front among the chattering
spectators
and stood staring at the scene, the scattered glass, the flashing police lights, the disordered corpse on the pavement, and looked up to identify the office from which the fool, doubtless another pathetic failure, had taken the final step of shame. What fools some people were, she thought.

J
ONATHAN
G
ASH
is the author of a number of crime novels. A qualified doctor specialising in tropical medicine, he is married with three daughters and four grandchildren. He lists his hobbies as antique collecting and his family.

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