Jumping to Conclusions (60 page)

Halfway round the course. Exhaustion was setting in. Muscles were aching. He'd have to pace himself for the final two miles if he was going to have anything left for that tortuous run-in.

Coming up to the twenty-first now, and several of the greener horses ahead of him who had survived the first round, belted away across the Melling road and immediately came to grief. Charlie winced. Bonnie met the fence just right. Up and over. They were lying about ninth or tenth and cruising. It was a brilliant feeling. Jack's Joker, the big Irish horse, was still thundering on up front, leading as he had from the start. Charlie was sure that if Bonnie got round safely, he'd have the beating of him for speed on the run-in. Dragon Slayer must be behind – perhaps he'd fallen – perhaps he'd pulled up ...

Matt hadn't spoken to him. Charlie had asked cheerfully if he'd intended to chuck this race away too, and had been met with a snarl. He'd taken that as a no.

Concentrate. The end of the straight and Becher's Brook coming up for the second time. Nice position. Nice pace. Just right. Jump fast. Jump fast enough to clear the fence, clear the brook on the other side, be on course for the next two bends ... Bonnie was well tuned in to the telepathy. They were charging towards Becher's like a train. Now – and up ... Charlie felt the wind punching him, felt it whistling ... Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Bonnie landed just right, seeming to cope naturally with the huge drop. Charlie wanted to kiss him again, but had to concentrate on the twenty-third, and then, almost immediately, the problems thrown up by the Canal Turn. The twenty-third fence – the seventh first time round – was the jockeys' spectre. It was the only fence of the Grand National's thirty that wasn't higher on take-off than on landing, built as it was into a natural hollow.

If you'd got a horse that could pace and jump the seventh, they always said in the changing room, then you'd got a horse that could win the whole race.

Bonnie had managed it twice in copybook fashion.

Charlie exhaled and swept round the sharp left-hand bend on the Canal Turn. This horse was an angel. Pegasus wasn't in it. A dream come true. Jack's Joker was still rampaging away, almost stepping over the fences as if they were pony-club cross-poles. A couple of the horses ahead of him went at the Canal. Tangling their legs on take-off, trying to co-ordinate turning a bend at speed and immediately taking off, proved too much. Charlie and Bonnie, in their central position, managed to avoid the m£16e, and jumping crabwise, landed safely.

Shit. Valentine's next. Last year's undoing. His swan-song fence ... Still, he'd managed it once this afternoon – he could do it again. He almost laughed. He'd blown it last year because he'd been thinking of Tina. He hadn't been thinking of her this year. Maybe Matt had... He allowed himself one further brief delightful thought that Jemima was here, and watching him, and would be there to congratulate him afterwards....

Okay, fine. Now concentrate. No distractions. None.

Valentine's ... He could hear horses gaining on him, but couldn't see them yet. Still no problem. He kicked Bonnie onwards, almost holding his breath. Lightning striking twice and all that. . . The take-off was perfect; the soaring, lung-bruising leap absolutely immaculate. The adrenalin rush was stronger than ever.

'Oh, please God let him stay on his feet...

Bonnie slithered, pecked a little bit on landing, but regained his footing almost immediately and was racing again before Charlie had drawn breath. He lifted his head and looked. They'd kept their position.

Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.

Three fences left in the back straight and then the sweep on to Mildmay and the last two. Then a charge to the elbow and that gruelling, killing, nearly five-hundred-yard final run-in – and the winning post. He was going to do it. He knew he was.

Four horses left standing ahead of him, and Bonnie picked his way fastidiously round the not so lucky balled-up jockeys and the sprawling equine legs. Jack's Joker made a mistake and lost ground. Another faller. Three to pick off. No sweat. He wondered if Jemima was watching him on the screen.

Stop thinking about Jemima.

A monochromatic flash to his right caught his attention. Matt, in Tina's black-and-white colours, was upside him. Great. They could have a real duel now – and Matt was obviously going all out to win. Thank God for that. Charlie grinned across. Matt was staring straight ahead.

'Great ride.'

Matt said nothing. He didn't even look at him. Charlie saw him pull his whip through, watched him yank at Dragon Slayer's reins. It was all done so quickly that he thought he'd imagined it.

Shit – now what was he doing? Dragon Slayer's pumping muscular legs were dragging the huge black body sideways, coming ever closer.

'Keep him fucking straight!' Charlie yelled, pulling his own whip through to keep Bonnie on course, the words almost too much effort. His lungs and his throat were screaming, 'Keep him away from me!'

Matt didn't appear to hear. Dragon Slayer was on a diagonal collision course with Bonne Nuit, matching him stride for stride. Charlie tried to steer Bonnie towards the rails, trying to increase his speed, looking for a gap. It wasn't ideal: the ground had been badly cut up on the first circuit – but it was better than trying to battle it out.

'Fuck off!' he yelled again, as Matt pushed Dragon Slayer ever nearer. 'You'll have me over the rails!'

Jesus – the horses' shoulders were almost touching now. Charlie could sense Bonnie's bewilderment and there was a fence coming up. He had no choice. There was no time to set him at the jump. Instinctively he gathered Bonnie up, felt the muscles tighten, felt him leap.

Airborne at the same time as Dragon Slayer, his stirrups and Matt's could have entwined.

'Get him off my line!' The words thumped out of him as Bonnie thudded over the fence. No artistic merit on that one – but at least they were still on their feet. One of the three in front hadn't been so lucky, and another was tiring rapidly. That left Jack's Joker still ploughing on. Just Jack's Joker to beat on the run-in ... and Dragon Slayer.

There was no daylight left between Bonnie and the rails. If he'd looked down he'd have expected to see sparks. The crowd, unaware of any danger, were loving it – screaming their appreciation – and all the time Matt kept pressing Dragon Slayer even closer....

'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.

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!