Taking the Fall (16 page)

A message was sent out and there was a huge cheer from the crowd as Whistle And I’ll Come was confirmed as the winner. Charlie and Paddy were asked to say nothing whatsoever to the press. The matter would be handled privately by the Jockey Club without the need for negative media attention. Both of them undertook to keep their mouths shut.

11

D
uncan lay face down in the deep-pile white carpet at Sandy Sanderson’s home. Sweat caked his face and his back and made the carpet fibres stick to his skin in an uncomfortable way, but he couldn’t move. He was paralysed all over again. Christie lay a few inches away, recovering her breath, staring at the ceiling. She was wearing nothing but a pair of black thigh-length high-heeled leather boots. She lay with her legs wide apart. She too was paralysed. All over again.

Whenever they fucked, it always left Duncan and Christie completely speechless. It took every fibre of them and sucked out every ounce of energy; so much so that after they’d both come, they had almost nothing left over. They lay stunned in each other’s arms; then after several minutes they would find the superhuman strength required to just manage to roll away from each other, and that effort would cause them to lie in silence for another ten or fifteen minutes.

Duncan had never before been with anyone with whom he was so sexually compatible. She said the same. He reckoned that anyone who said that winning a horse race was better than sex had never had sex quite like this.

An hour earlier Christie had arrived at the door wearing a black leather minidress and those astonishing pirate black boots. She said she’d been given them after a modelling assignment but never got a chance to wear them; so she’d worn them for him. Duncan decided he was going to play things a lot cooler this time around. He said he wanted to look round the house, and he did. There was a snooker room off the hallway, and a great curving staircase leading to the bedrooms. He wondered if he could make it an ambition to fuck Christie in each and every room, most of which had photographs and paintings of Sandy Sanderson gazing back with this or that trophy or champion horse.

He never got to the bedrooms. In fact he managed about three and a half minutes of staying cool. They got as far as the kitchen before he was dragging down her underwear with his teeth. The leather dress was pulled off completely, but not the black thigh-boots. The smell of soft new leather mixed with the bewitching smell of her in a way that he would always come to associate with Christie.

‘Why can’t I speak?’ Christie said, still lying on her back.

‘Me too. I mean, me neither. I mean . . .’

She sat up and looked around her, as if her own lounge was some place she’d been mysteriously dumped by an unknown force. ‘Every time I fuck you, I feel like my brain has been scooped out.’

‘Me too. I mean yes.’

She hauled herself to her feet. ‘God. I’ll make some coffee.’

Duncan waited a moment, then crawled across the room on his hands and knees, finding various items of his clothes. He pulled his trousers on, then got up and staggered into the kitchen to find his shirt. She was still nude except for the thigh-length pirate boots. She stood with her hands on her hips waiting for the kettle to boil, her tanned bottom resting against the rolled edge of the expensive marble worktop.

‘Please put some clothes on,’ Duncan said, ‘or I’m going to have to do it all over again in five minutes’ time.’

But she didn’t. She stepped over towards him, with a model’s slight sway of the hips, and kissed him passionately. When they broke off she said, ‘God, this sex. It could drive you to crime.’

‘Oh it could.’

She made the coffee in a pot, and while it stood, she went upstairs, reappearing after a minute or two in a bathrobe. They were about to take the coffee back into the lounge when the phone rang.

‘Hi, darling!’ she chimed like a little bell. She put a finger to her lips in warning. ‘How are things in Saudi?’

Duncan picked up his coffee, left the kitchen and went through to the lounge. He was still amazed at what a shrine to Sanderson the house seemed to be. There were his photos on the walls, his trophies on very available surface, a couple of books about him on the otherwise empty bookcase and a rack of cassettes next to the video, hand-labelled recordings of his various triumphs, presumably so that he could spend hours on the sofa watching indisputable proof of his own sporting prowess.

He could hear Christie on the phone to him. She was utterly convincing. Casual, playful, sounding eager for him to come home. Duncan put down his coffee and found his coat, which had been flung to the floor shortly after his arrival. The cassette tape that Mandy Gleeson had given him was in his inside pocket. It was a pity he hadn’t got the time to label it like all the others; instead he switched on the video, ejected a tape from inside the machine and replaced it with his own. For good measure he fast-forwarded it a little way.

He made his way through the hall to the bathroom. He could see Christie still chatting happily on the phone to Sanderson. On his way to the toilet, at the foot of the stairs but out of Christie’s sight, he noticed an extension telephone. He decided to pick it up and listen.

Mostly Sanderson was just bragging. He was talking about Saudi princes and Saudi money and about how there were laws against drinking but you could get fine single malt whisky if you just knew who to ask and if you were important enough. Duncan decided that even if you were his closest friend, you would have to conclude that Sandy Sanderson was the most self-adoring crashing bore in all of racing. He was about to put the receiver down again when he was seized by a wicked impulse.

He listened carefully to what was being said. Not to the words exactly, but to the rhythms of Sanderson’s speech. It was almost like he was talking to himself. He waited until Sanderson drew breath and Christie began to talk, and right then he spoke a single word into the mouthpiece. He said it very quietly. It was barely a whisper. Just loud enough so that it could be registered but not quite loud enough to convince you that you’d really heard it.

What he said was: ‘Boom!’

‘What was that?’ he heard Sanderson say, as if the Champion Jockey had suddenly woken from boring himself.

‘What?’ Christie replied.

‘Did you just say something?’

‘I was about to tell you that Duke rang here yesterday.’

‘No, before that. Did you say something?’

‘No, I didn’t say anything.’

‘Okay. Must be at this end. Arab phones. What did Duke want?’

The conversation was unimportant. Duncan listened in until they said their goodbyes, then put the receiver down at the same time that they did. Then he found his way to the bathroom.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked when he came back.

‘Oh yes. He’s had one glass of whisky since he’s been out there, if you believe him. But he’ll be whoring it.’

‘Likes women, does he?’

‘You could say that. He even liked me once upon a time.’

‘I can’t imagine anyone ever not liking you.’

‘He has his women. I put up with it. To be honest, it bores me to have him around all the time.’ She stood up and let her robe slip away from her. ‘As for you, I don’t know why you bothered to get dressed again. Because I’m not done with you yet.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Boots on or off?’

‘On. But this time I’m going to have to bend you over the table.’

Duncan had arranged to spend an hour in the sauna with Kerry that evening. He was already running late when he got back to his apartment. There was a large cardboard box outside the door. It seemed to have been hand-delivered. His name and address had been scribbled on the box lid with a felt pen.

The box was heavy. When he got the door open and the box inside, he found it contained a dozen bottles of champagne. There was a handwritten note inside, too. It just said:
Here’s to a terrific new year, your pal, George Pleasance
.

‘The thing is,’ Duncan said in the sauna to Kerry, ‘he’s not my pal. I talked to him for maybe three or four minutes at that New Year’s Eve party.’

‘This is how it begins,’ Kerry said. ‘Watch your step.’

‘Should I send it back?’

‘Don’t be a fuckin’ idjit! We’ll drink it and send the empty bottles back.’

‘I mean, if I send it back it’s like saying fuck you, isn’t it? And if I keep it, he’ll come again.’

‘You can’t send it back. Neither does it come free. This gift will be followed by another one. And then another.’

The sauna door opened and they both looked up. Kerry and Duncan often used the sauna to worry things out. They’d been doing it for years, to the point where if someone else came in, they resented it. A huge and flabby bald-headed chap stood at the door. He nodded briefly, then came and sat opposite them and opened his legs as if to advertise the dimensions of his wedding tackle.

Kerry jumped up and turned the dial up another seven or eight degrees.

‘I say!’ protested the newcomer. ‘It’s already pretty toasty in here!’

‘No, no,’ Kerry said. ‘This is Cabin A, which is the hot sauna; the milder one is Cabin B.’

‘I’ve never heard anything about Cabin A and Cabin B.’

‘Oh yes, sir. Very good for you, Cabin A. Stay in here with us. You’ll be fine.’

The fat man harrumphed and sighed and wiped his brow with his towel. After a few minutes he went out.

‘What would your old man say?’ Kerry said.

‘Charlie’s a spirits man. He thinks champagne tastes like piss.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘It’s one of those subjects that’s too near the knuckle, Kerry.’

‘Right. On the other hand, you could mention it to Mike.’

‘Mike?’

‘Sure. If what I hear is right, and he got sick of being asked to pull races, then he might have something to say.’

‘You know what?’ Duncan said. ‘It’s too hot in here. Let’s go and drink some of that champagne.’

The next day Duncan was riding at Lingfield. He was up against Aaron Palmer, the jockey who had also signed up with Mike. It was a Class 3 handicap hurdle for four-year-olds and upwards, over three miles, and Duncan fancied his chances. It was one of those races where no one wanted to take the lead, and when the starter let go the tape, nobody moved for about four or five seconds. Eventually somebody made the running.

There was little between Duncan’s horse and Aaron’s. They both hung back in third or fourth place until just before the last hurdle, when Duncan gave his horse the squeeze. But at the finish Aaron beat him into second place. Duncan knew experience and skill when he saw it raising the bar in front of him.

In the Weighing Room after the race he congratulated Aaron.

‘You went two furlongs too early,’ Aaron said. ‘You’ll see it next time.’

‘Have a word in the bar after?’

‘Sure.’

Mike had turned up to watch his two jockeys battle it out. He was waiting for them in the owners’ bar. ‘Fuckin’ good race, lads. Duncan, you went a furlong too early.’

‘Two,’ said Aaron.

‘What do you know about it?’ Mike said.

It was Mike who had suggested that Duncan speak privately with Aaron about the champagne. Mike had confessed that the main reason he himself had jacked in the racing to become an agent had been because he was sick of being instructed to pull up horses. He’d already admitted to Duncan that he was second rate, and that meant that in order to get rides he’d become the kind of jockey who had had to have no greater ambition than that given him by the trainer. It hurt him to talk about it. But he told Duncan that he should speak with Aaron. ‘Have a word with the Monk,’ he’d said.

So in the owners’ bar that afternoon at Lingfield, Duncan took the opportunity. ‘Mike, will you give us a minute? I want to have a word with Aaron.’

‘Not leaving me already, are you?’ Mike said.

They didn’t answer him. He bought the two jockeys drinks and left them at a table in the corner.

‘Pardon me if I take the chair with my back to the wall,’ Aaron said. ‘I like to have a good swim, see everything.’ He had a way of talking that was expressionless. If there was humour there you had to look hard into the criss-cross of lines in his leathery skin, and even then all you would see was two piercing blue eyes looking back at you. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Ever been given gifts by someone with an interest?’

‘Ha!’

‘Well?’

‘Would I tell you if I had?’

‘Yes, you would.’

‘Why’s that now?’

‘I’ve looked at all the pros. I’ve looked at the way different ones talk. I go around with my eyes open. Jockeys like to have their circle of mates. You’re the most independent jockey I see. People respect you, but you’ve got no mates that I see; nor any hangers-on. That’s how I want to be.’

Aaron took a sip of his white wine. He didn’t blink or take his attention from Duncan. His Adam’s apple worked hard in his throat to swallow the sip. ‘That Kerry’s a good mate of yours.’

‘Yes. But he’s not a hanger-on or a ligger.’

‘Who sends you gifts?’

Duncan told him. ‘It’s just a crate of champagne.’

‘This is how it starts. More will come.’ The bar was filling up and the conversation level had grown. The older jockey carefully scanned the room as he spoke, as if looking for an eavesdropper. ‘Starts with a bottle of this or a crate of that. Small stuff. Box of cigars. Then it’s tickets to a big football match or a show. You think: I’ll have that, why not. Then it’s a night out at one of those discos in town, where the celebs hang out. Doesn’t cost you a penny. I’ll have that, why not? Then one night at those places there is a woman. High class. Kind of woman would make a bishop kick in a stained-glass window. She’s yours for the night, doesn’t cost a penny. I’ll have that, why not? Then there’s the golfing weekend in Spain with a lot of other lads, top footballers and the like. And then there’s a car in the driveway for you, just on loan, like. Friendly.

‘And then after all this, one day comes the question. And if you say no, they say, well what did you think it was all for? And what
did
you think it was for, for Christ’s sake? Now there’s a scratch on the car, you can’t give it back. That night you had with the beautiful whore, you can’t give it back.