A Chancer (9 page)

•••

Once he had washed and shaved he put on the fresh shirt and his old suit. Taking the jacket off again he began peeling a couple of potatoes but stopped, he went into the front
room and put on the television and lay down on the settee with his head on an arm of it. Mrs Brady lived in the room and kitchen on the landing directly above. Tammas had known her most of his
life; she had been acquainted with his mother and friends with his grandmother. She rarely left the house; she would be sitting watching television, or reading maybe. Margaret did her shopping
quite a lot; and Tammas too, on occasion – even collecting her pension a couple of times last winter.

Going into the lobby he opened the outside door but closed it immediately and went ben the kitchen. The potatoes lying on the draining board at the sink. His cigarettes lay on the floor next to
the settee in the living room. Three of them remained. He smoked part of one then nipped it and shoved it back in the packet, and walked to the front door. He left the door on the latch before
going upstairs. When Mrs Brady answered his flapping of the letter box he said: Eh Mrs Brady I was wondering if you had a ten pence bit by any chance – the electricity’s away and that .
. . He sniffed.

She nodded. I think so, wait a wee minute. Then she closed over the door. Back she came with her purse and she opened it in such a way that he could look inside also. I’ve got a couple,
she said, and she took them out and gave them to him. Here’s another yin as well Tammas.

Probably one would be enough, he said. He made to return the other two.

Are you sure? Take them, just in case.

Well okay. Thanks. I’ll hand them back in tomorrow.

Och there’s no rush: she shook her head. As soon as you like, it doesnt matter.

Well . . . thanks.

Mrs Brady smiled: And where is it the night?

He shrugged.

The dancing?

Maybe, maybe. He grinned, turned away, about to go downstairs.

And how’s your grannie?

O fine, fine.

You tell her I was asking for her. I would go up and see her if I could.

Okay Mrs Brady.

Mind and tell her now.

I will.

•••

The conductor was standing waiting for the money. Tammas passed it to him and was returned half. The conductor nodded very slightly, not looking at him, not giving him a ticket,
before moving on down the aisle. Tammas stared out the window, keeping the money enclosed in the palm of his hand. The night could yet turn into something although in another way he would have
preferred the actual ticket. Having this extra bit of dough was a bit of a nuisance. It left him twopence short of the minimum tote bet. Better to have had nothing but the sixty quid he was giving
himself. He stuck the change into his trouser pocket. Out of this sixty he was keeping forty for his nap. The dog in question was running in the fourth and it was out of Trap 1. It was a good dog,
a fast dog, and he fancied it very strongly. The other twenty quid was just for playing about with on forecasts and small single bets.

The bus was crowded; it had been standing room only downstairs. On arrival at Shawfield Stadium he sat on until everybody else had left; he strode down to the rearmost seat and from there back
to the front, peering down into the corners of the floor but nothing at all was lying except a few empty beer cans and other assorted litter. The conductor was reaching to change the destination
screen while listening to something the driver was saying; they both glanced at him as he came down the stairs.

He walked on past the vendors of the
Greyhound Adviser
, on up to the entrance where an elderly woman was sitting on a wooden stool, selling pens and pencils. He paid his money at the
turnstile and was returned a programme.

Out on the track the handlers were walking the dogs for the first race. Numbers flickered slowly on the totalisator board, few bets ever being struck in earnest for this race; it usually
consisted of dogs new to the track or dogs returning after injury. Form rarely existed on it. Tammas leaned on a stanchion studying the programme. Of the twenty quid he was allowing five on this
race; he decided to stick it onto Trap 3. The handlers began leading the dogs into the traps and he was aware of the loose change in his pocket. An additional twopence and he had an actual bet. The
hooter sounded. The hare trundled off round the rail. Some cheers from the punters. Dog 3 got beat. While the handlers were out capturing them after the finish he wandered off, his gaze to the
ground. He reached the wall dividing the track from the enclosure and stared about. The busfare home was not essential. It was not a bad evening, mild. The busfare would give him a bet. Coupled
with the cash returned him by the conductor he had enough for a twenty pence bet on the tote, twice the minimum. He could stick the whole lot on a dog. Or split it two way, 10 on the 2nd race and
10 on the 3rd. Or keep the 20 pence for the nap he had chosen; it would be racing in the 4th. Or a forecast, a 10 pence reverse forecast. Or even a place-only bet of 20 pence. No need even to dig
out a winner, just one to finish in the first two. It was a safety first bet, that was the thing about it. And if it came up and he had the same sort of bet on the 3rd, then he might end up with
something for the 4th, to stick down on his nap. The place-only bet was correct, it was the correct thing to do. And so what if the dog actually won the race instead of just running second, it
would not matter, the point was to get a return, to keep getting returns. It made no difference whether it won or was second, just so long as it was placed and he could go up to the pay-out window
and be given a return for his money.

He was standing amongst the small crowd directly beneath the row of bookies, checking the form for the race, studying times and weights and distances. Yet it would not matter. The dog he decided
on would either be placed or not. Which dog did not make any difference. He glanced at the list again. Nothing striking about the names of the five runners. More punters had arrived and he watched
them busying about the line, trying to pick off the best price about their selections. And the vet was now on the track checking the dogs. He gazed back at the punters and the bookies but there was
nothing catching the interest, nothing of note. He turned and strode off towards the tote windows and joined one of the queues. There was a woman in front of him, smoking rapidly and continually
glancing behind to see if the dogs were about to start racing.

He was going to back Trap 4. The dog coming out of Trap 4, this was the one. The woman left the window clutching her tote receipts.

Tammas sniffed. Trap 4 twenty pence a place, he said to the girl. She stamped out the numbers, took his money and gave him the receipt.

Trap 4.

On examining the form he saw that this dog out of the fourth trap had a good chance after all. He was glad he had gone for it. According to the form notes it had been off the course injured for
some time but was now back and expected to do okay. He remembered he still had £15 out of the £20 playing about with money and decided to stick it all on. In fact he felt like sticking
the other £40 he was keeping for the nap down on it as well. But no, that was wrong, that was the wrong way. The forty had to be for the nap. The quick route to going skint usually lay in
changing your mind at the last minute.

The hooter. Tammas thrust the programme into his back pocket and pulled the half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, he struck a match to light it, was exhaling smoke when the traps crashed
open.

He kept silent throughout the race but began nodding as the favourite came wide round the last bend to run on past dog 4 up the home straight, with this dog 4 just managing to hang on for second
place from the fast finishing Trap 1.

In the large queue at the pay-out window he listened to the folk who had backed the winning forecast. He could have backed the forecast. Easy. The favourite to win from dog 4. He could have dug
out that forecast no bother. The fact that he went for dog 4 a place proved it. Yet this was nothing to do with anything. What he had done was back the dog to get placed and it had got placed and
he was getting a return for his money, and this was the point.

Once he had the money he went into the bar and bought a carton of bovril, carrying it to a shelf at the side of the area. Including everything he now had 57 pence. This 57 pence was good.
Another 3 would see him with 60. Without the bovril he would have had 65 and with 5 pence more the round 70.

Leaving the bovril on the shelf he returned to the counter and bought a packet of crisps. This left him with 51 pence. 50 pence was not bad at all. It had come from nothing, nothing. A 50 pence
bet was fine.

Along at the tote window he struck his next bet. Dog 2 50 pence a place, he said to the woman.

With the ticket in his pocket he swallowed the remains of the bovril and crumpled the crisp packet onto the floor, and left the bar. The programme was in his back pocket. But he left it there.
No point even seeing if the dog stood a chance. That had nothing to do with it now. The bet was made. The 50 pence on Trap 2, no matter what. If it finished first or second he would receive cash in
exchange for the ticket. He got it from his pocket and looked at it, it was green, a green ticket; 2. Trap 2, 50 pence place. A 50 pence was not bad. Even for the nap it would not have been too
bad. 50 pence the nap would have been fine, it would have been alright. But no matter. It made no difference. Not at all. Nothing. There might have been no 50 pence. A mistake to even think about
things like that.

The hooter.

Again he stayed silent throughout the race but he nodded, he nodded at dog 2 coming inside on the rails rounding the third bend and on round the last bend. And staying on really strong to get up
and win its race on the line. Trap 2 winning the race. Trap 2 as the winner. But fuck all to do with it, fuck all to do with it. It made no difference. None at all. To have finished placed was the
thing, the bet. To finish in the first two, that is what mattered, to get a return on the stake, in exchange for the cash; this is what it is about. And the next race was the fourth on the card,
and the nap was going.

Dog 2 paid 2/1 on the tote a place, giving £1.50 in return for the 50 pence. And if he had backed the dog as a straight win on the tote he would have received more than four quid but so
what, it was irrelevant, it had nothing to do with it – a mistake to even think it. He had £1.50 in his pocket and it had come from nothing, and that was the only point.

When it came time he made his way to the line of bookmakers, letting the 1 pence coin fall from his hand, not looking where it landed. He hovered around the crowd of punters waiting to shade the
odds and finally dashed in to take the 7/2 to the whole £1.50. And that was not bad. The morning paper had forecast 5/1 for this dog but he had known such a price was out of the question. 7/2
was fine, it was good. And when he was turning to leave the area he saw one bookie scrub out the 7/2 and mark up 3’s. He nodded.

Up at the spot where he had been standing were two middle aged men. He stepped in closer, and another step, until he was in as near as he could manage, without banging into them. He was gripping
the programme when the hooter sounded. And the hare trundling off on its way, collecting speed till rounding the bend and now hurtling towards the boxes, and up crashed the trap gates. Dog 1 was
the nap, and it walked out its box, and he nodded, there was no chance. It had to get well off its mark to have any chance and it didnt, so it had none. There was no point even giving it a
shout.

He watched the dog chasing after the pack, making up a fair bit of ground down the back straight, coming inside the dogs directly in front and eventually running on into third place. If the
thing had trapped properly it would have guyed it, no danger. But it had finished third. Dog 2 had won and dog 5 was second. From somewhere behind him somebody cried: That fucking 5 dog
should’ve pished it.

Tammas turned and shouted: You fucking kidding! Dog 1 was a fucking certainty – if it’d trapped it’d’ve fucking guyed it. Bastards. He shook his head and strode off and
up towards the exit.

An attendant was standing there and he unlocked the door for him. Some boys were waiting outside and they glanced at the man as he closed the door.

He continued striding till beyond the car park and outside the ground he walked more slowly. Approaching the bridge he paused, taking the bookmaker’s ticket from his pocket. He began to
tear it up in rectangular sections, and then scattered them over the parapet, watching them as they landed on the river.

•••

On the following Tuesday morning he rose from the bench and walked from the smoke-area, down to the short flight of steps up to the gaffer’s office. He walked up and
chapped on the door, and opened it immediately. The chargehand was there, sitting on the edge of the desk. He was talking to the gaffer who was leaning back on his chair with his hands clasped
behind his head. The two of them frowned at Tammas. He sniffed and said: Eh I want to leave, on Friday, I want to lift my books – I’m chucking it.

After a moment the gaffer nodded. Fine, he said.

He did not acknowledge the chargehand. He turned and went back out and down the steps. In the smoke-area he saw where he had been sitting previously, and he smiled. He nudged the man next to
him: You got a spare fag at all?

The man said, Aye. And gave him one from his packet, and gave him a match.

Ta . . . Tammas lighted the cigarette and exhaled, he looked across at Ralphie and winked, smiled again. Ralphie nodded.

•••

It was 9 pm and a Friday evening, and he was in a pub up the town. From there he strolled along to the dancing. The doorman scarcely glanced at him as he entered and paid his
money. At this time of night females and couples were the main people present. Nobody at all was on the floor dancing. Tammas bought a bottle of beer and he carried it upstairs to the balcony. He
sat at one of the empty tables, taking an
Evening Times
from his side pocket; he glanced at the racing results then turned to the page with the following day’s race programme. Across
from him, a few tables off, sat a couple. While the girl sat with her elbows on the edge of the table the guy kept bending and kissing the nape of her neck. Eventually Tammas shifted on his chair
so that he was not facing in their direction, turned a page of the newspaper; then he brought out his cigarettes and matches, but he stopped there.