Warned Off (25 page)

4

I
watched the starter. His fingers tightened on the lever and as he opened his
mouth to call ‘Okay, jockeys!’ I kicked Cragrock hard in the belly. The tape
flew up, Cragrock’s ears pricked, Layton cursed and after the first six strides
we were four lengths clear of the rest.

Cragrock was confused. Used to his
jockey fighting to hold him back, his ears flicked as he tried to figure out
why he was being not only given his head but pushed along. He was still
thinking by the time we reached the first fence and he took off a stride and a
half too soon but we sailed over and landed just as far the other side,
balanced and running.

We went ten lengths clear.

Coming to the second, his blood was up.
Going too fast. No time for adjustment. He took off way too soon.
Jesus
!
His front hooves barely cleared it. His hind legs hit the fence smashing birth
twigs out like feathers from a shot pheasant. I sat back expecting him to pitch
forward but the effort of the leap and staying upright brought only a short
grunt from him as he sucked in air trying to regain full steam.

Before he could, I took a determined
hold of the reins and managed to break his stride. He accepted restraint and
slowed to the easier pace I wanted. We were beginning to get an understanding.

His initial exuberance gone, Cragrock settled
to a steady pattern, his fluid stride beating out that rhythmic thud on the
turf, all the more noticeable in the eerie silence afforded a front-runner.
Each leap brought a brief suspension of the hoof beats and another fix of the
exhilaration which had made an addict of me from the beginning.

As we approached the last in the back
straight, four from home, they came after us. It sounded like a group of three.
Ten strides from the fence Cragrock sensed them closing on him and suddenly his
rhythm altered and he guessed at the take-off. There was nothing I could do. At
full stretch I saw the birch coming up fast to meet us ...

We ploughed into the guts of the fence. Cragrock’s
shiny black front hooves were momentarily higher than his head as he stretched
trying to save himself then came that awful vacuum as his half-ton body hit the
tight packed birch ... The weird feeling of being in a snapshot, waiting for
the punch of the momentum to catch up ... As always, it did.

And it smashed Cragrock onwards and
downwards, thumping the air from his lungs in a long despairing rasp. A
fraction of a second before being catapulted forward I saw a blurred mesh of
bay, chestnut and grey horseflesh flash past in a graceful arc. Cragrock, still
doing everything to stop himself crashing into the ground, was trying
desperately to get a leg out and the effort caused his big frame to buckle then
straighten under me throwing my legs and backside higher than my head as my
face was forced into his mane. No brilliant recovery, I was on my way out over
his head when suddenly he found a foothold, got his undercarriage down, then
scampered along like a crab before raising his neck, belting me in the face
with his head and pushing me back into the saddle.

Stunned and bloody-nosed I tried to
collect my senses as the horse found his stride again and galloped on.

My head cleared. Three to jump. We lay
fourth twelve lengths off the leader. But Cragrock was getting his second wind,
running on again. He rallied as we rounded the bend into the straight. Ahead of
me three pairs of white breeches pumped in union.

Because of their crouch I couldn’t see
the colours but you get to know a rider’s style and build. One of those in
contention, Meese, I recognised by his weightlifter’s thighs.

Halfway round the home turn, Layton
ranged alongside me, his almost toothless grin telling me he still thought he
had plenty of horse under him. The running rail was on my left, Layton on my
right. He moved his horse, Machete, a big powerful grey, across to lean on us.
Cragrock hadn’t much fight left.

‘Layton! You bastard!’ I hissed.

He looked across, boring harder into us
now and spat at my face. The wind carried the gob and it splatted greasily on
my goggles as we were forced into the rails. The white plastic shattered
sending out a spray of shards. Cragrock broke stride and Layton, laughing,
eased his horse away and kicked on toward the third last fence.

I pulled my smeared goggles down and
hauled Cragrock off the rail. He came quickly back on an even keel as we
approached the fence and met it on a beautiful long stride, landing far out on
the other side, feeling as though he’d never left the ground. After going at
such a hectic pace maybe the enforced breathers had actually helped him.

I was closing though Meese was
travelling best of the four in front. Layton, seeing his friend creep through
on the rail approaching the second last fence, eased his horse right handed,
squeezing the chestnut in the middle onto Meese’s bay as they all took off.
Unbalanced, the bay scrambled over then disappeared for a moment before I saw
his hind legs come up as he somersaulted.

Cragrock soared over and I looked down
to see Meese lying under the rails as his horse slid on its side along the
grass.

Up ahead, Layton was working on his next
victim, intimidating the little chestnut alongside him.

We were three lengths off them, still
closing. With Layton still squeezing out his rival they were flat to the boards
and drifting right coming to the last, close together, leaving me more than
half the fence. Layton met it dead right. His challenger finally chickened out
putting in two short strides, losing his impetus.

Cragrock met it spot on, jumping with no
wasted effort,  and landed running at Machete’s quarters. Layton looked
over his left shoulder and he mouthed a curse as he saw me. I smiled.

He knew he was in trouble. The shape of
the run-in at Haydock means jockeys need to quickly take a diagonal line left
after jumping the last, or risk running into a set of wooden gates dolling off
the no-entry section.

Layton, believing he was home free, had
left himself little time and space to get across. Now I was blocking him

As the gates loomed, Layton hauled violently
at his tired horse, Machete, trying to pull him left.

Machete was tired. So was Cragrock. Both
breathing hard, sides heaving, muscles straining, nostrils flaring as they
snorted huge lungfuls of air. I was running out of energy too, panting as I scrubbed
and pushed.

But Cragrock was running straight.
Machete, with Layton pulling hard on the left rein and desperately hitting him
down the neck and shoulder, was totally unbalanced.

And the black and white gates were
coming closer.

I was a neck off him which gave him a
few final seconds of hope before he realised he was trapped. They ran into the
first gate and by the sound of his curse and howl, Layton’s right leg had taken
the full impact. He hit the next three like skittles, only they didn’t fall down.

He stopped riding. I went a length up,
feeling a pang of sympathy for Layton’s brave horse but none for him. The race
was over. I eased Cragrock past the post becoming aware for the first time of
the roaring crowd.

Glancing round at Layton as we pulled up
I saw him slip his feet tenderly from the stirrups. His right boot was torn,
blood dripping from the toe, staining his horse’s foreleg.

I was elated. A couple of hours ago I’d
been almost suicidal, now I’d won one of the biggest races of the season and beaten
Layton at his own game.

Barber hobbled to meet us, showing a
mixture of relief and annoyance. He said, ‘What were you two silly bastards up
to?’

‘All down to Layton,’ I said. ‘He did me
on the home turn.’

Barber said, ‘And you tried to get your
own back! On the bloody run-in of all places!’

‘I held my line, Mister Barber, that’s
all.’

Still looking surly he said, ‘You
shouldn’t have retaliated.’

‘If I hadn’t you’d probably be leading
in the second.’

He nodded then looked up at me again. ‘Other
than that,’ he said, ‘you rode a bloody brilliant race!’

I smiled and shook his hand. ‘Thanks.’

We walked in to the winner’s enclosure
to loud applause.  I’d forgotten just how sweet it was. As I dismounted
the loudspeaker’s message of ‘stewards’ enquiry’ turned the welcoming cheers
into sighs.

Barber, seeing his stake money once more
in jeopardy, looked worried. ‘I don’t need this, Eddie. Don’t need it,’ he said
as we stopped in the winner’s berth. ‘I’ve had enough hassle for the day.’

I undid the girths and the saddle pad
squeaked keenly as it slid from the back of the sweating horse. Turning to
Barber I smiled confidently. ‘See you soon for the presentation,’ I said.

‘Let’s hope so.’

5

Con Layton sat smoking in the corner of
the changing room, his feet on the bench, drying blood crusting round the tear
in his boot. A valet said, ‘Better get that seen to, Con.’ Layton, smiling at
me, said to him, ‘That’s evidence in the enquiry. You wouldn’t be wanting me to
cover it up.’

I sat down across from him. My cold
stare met with a smug smile and a blown smoke-ring which broke up as it looped
and twirled like a tossed coin.

Between smoke-rings the smile stayed
fixed on his thin lips. ‘What’re you starin’ at, Malloy?’

‘I’m trying to work out why the little
arguments we had earlier make you think you’ve got the right to try to kill
me.’

He smiled. ‘Ah it’s a big bad world out
there, Malloy, where clever words are of no use to you. You must learn to be
tough.’

I leaned forward. ‘I think I’m tough
enough to handle an idiot who blows smoke-rings that are bigger than his
brain.’

The smile disappeared. ‘Malloy, you’ve
an awful smart mouth.’ Then he flicked the burning cigarette end straight at my
face.

I ducked then got quickly to my feet
ready to lunge at him. Layton was rising to meet me when a stern voice brought
us up short. ‘Malloy! Layton!’ We turned. One of the stewards’ secretaries
stood at the door.

‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘the stewards
will see you now.’

Like a frustrated child I considered
shouldering Layton aside and marching out first but I decided I’d rather have
the bastard in front than behind me.

He headed for the door. I followed and
said, ‘Listen, if you come near me in a race again I’ll break your legs.’

‘What was that, Malloy?’ asked the
stewards’ secretary.

‘Nothing, sir, I was just asking Mister
Layton if he was riding in the next.’

‘Neither of you will be riding in the
next if you keep the panel waiting much longer!’

The stewards’ secretary was a tall man,
maybe six three, and very thin. His shoulder blades swung at our eye level as
we followed him. His name was Claude Beckman. He stopped outside the stewards’
room and told us to wait.

Beckman knocked and took off his trilby
as he went in.

We stood in silent animosity. This was
my first stewards’ enquiry since coming back. Nothing would have changed.
Behind the door Beckman would be briefing the panel of stewards, re-running the
video, telling them where he thought the fault lay.

The stewards were unpaid local
volunteers, mostly from society’s more fortunate end, lovers of racing but many
of them not as well versed in race-riding techniques as they should have been
considering our livelihoods often depended on their decisions.

Beckman was a paid official. Stewards’
secretaries were appointed because of their in-depth knowledge of racing. Many
had race-riding experience as amateur jockeys. Their job was to help the
stewards reach a fair decision. Many secretaries were from military
backgrounds. Far too few were ex-professional jockeys, who did the best job of
all. But the stewards tended not to trust the ex-pros and preferred the
principle that a new brooms sweep clean. Though old ones, I thought, glancing
at Layton, knew where the dirt was.

They called us in. Layton went first,
limping theatrically. Beckman, impatient, nodded at us to move quicker. The
room was almost square; high roof, tatty decoration, poor lighting and bad
ventilation judging by the musty smell.

Two men and a woman sat behind a long
table. I knew them: Lord Cumbernauld, John Carnduff and the Honourable Clarissa
Cover who bred and raced jumpers with some success.

Sitting off to Miss Cover’s right,
fingers poised over a grey machine, was the stenographer, Lisa Ffrench. I
watched her from the corner of my eye. She didn’t look up.

Beckman was looking down at us now. He
was fortyish and totally bald though it added to his imposing look which
bordered on fierce. He spoke. ‘We are here to enquire into careless riding in
the last race. You will both answer the stewards’ questions truthfully and
without the usual tiresome embellishments.’

Video evidence during enquiries often
pin-pointed the main culprit but when guilt wasn’t clear it tended to be the
more articulate jockey, the best salesman, who won through. Embellishment was
understating it, often it was pure fiction. But it was part of the trade,
something you tried to learn along with the other skills.

Lord Cumbernauld cleared his throat and
asked us to explain our actions. Layton got in first, bowing and scraping,
lying. He blamed the problems on his horse hanging badly.

I disputed it and told them it was
deliberate. Layton, who’d been chummily calling me Eddie, acted horrified at
this claim.

‘May I suggest we see the film, sir?’ I
said. Every race is filmed from a camera patrol and from a head-on view in the
straight. It wasn’t often that film evidence was badly interpreted and I was
confident the panel would find in my favour.

The Chairman glanced up at Claude Beckman
who reddened slightly as he said to me, ‘It is not a jockey’s place to decide
when a film should be viewed, that decision rests with the stewards.
Unfortunately, in this instance, we’ve had a technical problem which means the
film will not be available. This case will be decided on the evidence of our
own eyes and the testimony of those involved.’

Pompous bastard.

I noticed that Lisa Ffrench’s fingers
went silent on her keyboard before Beckman finished speaking. I glanced at her.
She looked bewildered for a second as she stared at Beckman before tapping in
his last few words.

They listened as we put our cases: I as
quietly and sensibly as I could and Layton increasingly dramatically as he felt
the verdict slipping away (at one point he asked if he could sit down on as his
injured foot was killing him).

They sent us out while they made their
final decision. I’d been confident going in that the video evidence would clear
me. I knew the main thing in my favour now was Layton’s reputation. Many of the
stewards believed he was crooked, they just couldn’t prove it.

Five minutes later we were still
waiting. Jockeys were weighing out for the next. The officials were anxious to
present the prize for the Greenalls. People were getting worried. I was one of
them.

The door opened and Beckman motioned us
in. He didn’t look pleased. I stood in front of the panel trying to guess from
their faces. Deadpan.

Lord Cumbernauld spoke. ‘Without video
corroboration we’ve had to take both your stories with a large pinch of salt and
have made our decision on our own’ – he glanced, rather coldly I thought, at
Beckman – ‘and Mr Beckman’s recollection of the race. There is no doubt,
Malloy, that you made the best of the situation after the last and that you had
no intention of allowing Layton a clear run. However, you did keep a straight
course and we’ve decided that Mister Layton’s problems were of his own making.
The result stands.’

Layton breathed sharply through his
nostrils. I smiled at the panel and said, ‘Thank you.’ The chairman nodded and
as we turned to leave said, ‘And Layton, since your injured foot is causing you
so much pain we’ve also decided that you must pass the doctor before riding
again.’

Layton cursed. I managed to suppress my
laughter till I got outside where Layton went through his full repertoire of
bad language leaving me in no doubt I had an enemy for life.

Pulsing with energy, feeling great, I
changed into the black and red colours of my next mount pausing only to shake
hands and accept congratulations from the lads, especially the little team in
my own corner. If there was hope for one of us there was hope for all.

Amid the laughter and horseplay and
leg-pulling I felt as good as I had for five years. Gradually, over ten seconds
or so, I was aware of the room becoming steadily quiet. From near the entrance
down to where we were the noise just sort of dried up like taps being turned
off.

Along with everyone else I looked up
toward the main door. Bob Carter, the senior valet, a big imposing man, stood
there white-faced, mouth open looking at us. When there was complete silence
Bob said, ‘The police just found Tommy Gilmour’s body. He’s been murdered.’