Taking the Fall (8 page)

At Exeter the next day he rode a winner and a third. He won the seller at Worcester, and that made Petie very happy. Three days before Christmas they were at Lingfield. Petie had him on a mount called Wellbeing in the second race, a Class 5 handicap hurdle for four-year-olds and upwards, but his big race of the day was the Abercombie Stakes, the fifth race on the card, a Class 1 chase for five-year-olds and above.

Littlewoods the bookmakers owned the racetrack. They were working to pull in the punters and had organised a Christmas gala day. With a bit of wining and dining and a few free bets for the producers, they’d managed to bring in the TV cameras, too. The Weighing Room had an extra air of excitement, beyond the usual nerves and tension and banter.

‘Have you seen that tart they brought with them?’ one naked jockey was shouting, scratching at his balls. He seemed to be talking to the whole room. ‘Women sports commentators, can you believe it? What the hell next?’

‘Get her in here,’ shouted another naked jockey. ‘I’ll interview her.’

Someone flicked a wet towel at his arse.

It had been two years since the first female jockey had competed on equal terms in the Grand National, and the television company had responded by commissioning a former model – but one with a family background in racing – to co-anchor their racing programme. Her name was Mandy Gleeson. Duncan had seen her interviewing jockeys on the TV. She was no slouch. She knew her stuff all right.

Duncan stayed out of the banter. His nerves only expressed themselves inwardly. He liked instead to get focused and descended in on himself. He didn’t like to talk much with anyone before a race.

The weigh-in was sound – but only just, thanks to more pee pills. What with the big one at Kempton coming up on Boxing Day, there wasn’t going to be much of the turkey and pudding for him. Outside in the paddock, Petie was waiting. At 10–1 Wellbeing was not much fancied. He was on the small side, with legs that didn’t seem all that well constructed. He was also physically nondescript. He didn’t stand out, not in any sense, and the average punter trying to size him up would probably consider him physically average or below average.

But Petie Quinn wasn’t your average punter, and Duncan too knew that this horse had reserves. In the parade ring Petie told him just to go for it and gave him a leg-up on to the horse. Duncan made his way to the start, where there was a white camera van ready to track the race from the rail. Something about it spooked Wellbeing, but Duncan walked him round a few times and the horse settled.

Wellbeing got off to a strong start. Duncan knew that whatever he decided, the horse was going to take some holding. He was straining to get out there in front. Duncan felt that sudden and familiar knock of blood to the brain where the instincts took over. Petie had said to let him fly. Wellbeing didn’t need asking. Duncan let him go and the horse streamed out there in front. It was glorious. From that moment early in the race Duncan knew he’d got it won. The horse was like a flag in the wind and Duncan felt like he was doing nothing more than holding the pole. His own heartbeat and the pounding of hooves underfoot were inseparable.

Wellbeing led the whole way round. Nothing else in the race had an answer. In fact Duncan eased up well before the post because he was afraid the margin of victory combined with the outside odds might have looked suspicious to the stewards. As it was, he had nothing to worry about.

‘Would you believe that?’ Petie said to him back in the paddock. ‘Would you believe that? We’ll be looking for a better class of race for this fella!’

Duncan jumped down. He was still patting the horse when he saw a camera crew heading towards him across the winners’ enclosure. They were being led by Mandy Gleeson. She held a microphone with a furry windsock, like it was a torch lighting the way in front of her.

‘Here’s the press,’ Duncan said.

Petie turned and looked startled. ‘Oh, fuck that,’ he said, and scuttled away, leaving Duncan to handle things.

‘Where you going?’ Duncan called after him. But Petie had already melted into the crowd.

It was the first time Duncan had had a microphone stuffed under his nose like that. He was still holding Wellbeing by the rein. Mandy Gleeson was a tall, dark-haired beauty and she fixed him with intelligent eyes. A breeze blew her hair across her face and she smiled as she scraped it back with an elegant fingernail. ‘Just having a word now with the jockey, Duncan Claymore: Duncan you had it from the off.’

‘Sure enough, we knew what the horse was capable of, but even we were a bit surprised. I just steered him home.’

‘Modest, I’m sure. You’re having a good few days and let’s hope it continues for you. Perhaps we can have a word with the trainer when he gets here? Tell us a bit about him.’

Duncan cast about to see where Petie had gone. The cameraman and the sound man circled. ‘Petie Quinn is a terrific trainer and you’ll be hearing a lot more about him. He’s not one for the cameras, if you know what I mean, but when it comes to the game, he’s right up there. He’s firm and he knows what he wants and he knows how to get the best out of both jockey and horse.’

‘And you’re riding again for him later today. We hope that goes well for you. If we can track down Petie Quinn we’ll have a word, but meanwhile we’ll hand you back to the studio.’ She was counted out by her director, and the cameraman and the sound man relaxed. Mandy smiled at Duncan. ‘You did good,’ she said.

Duncan, not a great one for smiling, said, ‘You did good too.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean the race. Obviously you did well in the race. I meant the interview. It’s not every jockey who can do a good job for the cameras.’

‘I meant the interview too. It’s not every TV presenter who can do a good job for the cameras either.’

She paused, wrinkling her brow. The wind blew her hair across her face again and she scraped it back a second time. ‘Are you taking the piss, by any chance?’

‘Why would I need to do that? I just won a race.’

Mandy turned to her crew. ‘Let’s leave Mr Claymore to enjoy his victory.’ They turned and left as a group. The stable lad who’d been hanging back came to lead Wellbeing away. Duncan watched Mandy go. He saw her look back, briefly, over her shoulder at him.

Duncan weighed in after the race result was announced so that the betting punters could collect. He got a few slaps on the back from his fellow jockeys, and it felt good. But amid the hearty congratulations he felt a stir in the Weighing Room. Another jockey had come in, a seasoned campaigner. His gaunt face and pinched features, along with his slightly crouched manner of walking, made him instantly recognisable.

He’d been the country’s Champion Jockey for the last nine seasons. It was Sandy Sanderson.

There was a chorus of ‘All right, Sandy!’ and ‘Good to see you, Sandy!’ and ‘Surprised to have you here today, Sandy!’ Sanderson lapped it up without so much as a bit of eye contact with the jockeys greeting him. If it wasn’t for the fact that the junior jockeys stepped aside for him, it looked like he was prepared to muscle his way through. He was a little man who took up a great deal of space. He said something brief and dismissive to his valet. He looked like he was doing everyone a favour by showing up.

Duncan turned to one of the jockeys he’d just beaten in the last race. ‘What the fuck is he doing here?’

‘Last-minute change,’ the jockey said under his breath. ‘If you ask me, the racetrack wanted him here for the cameras. Hey – you’ll be up against him in the fifth.’

Sanderson was very popular with the public. He knew how to work the media and he always made out he was on the punters’ side against the bookies. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. But while Joe Public adored him, Sanderson was less popular with some of the jockeys, despite the apparent adulation from the Weighing Room. He’d cut you up in a race, or box you in. There were stories, from untelevised meetings, of him using his whip across the face of a neck-and-neck competitor.

Duncan had no problem believing the stories. Along with Osborne and Cadogan, Sanderson had been there conspiring to destroy his father. He was the third man on his list.

Perhaps Sanderson caught Duncan staring at him; or maybe Duncan made the mistake of thinking Sanderson didn’t know who he was. Why would he? He was way out of Duncan’s league. But he’d underestimated the man. The Champion Jockey seemed to sweep past him, but at the last moment he turned. Sanderson had a habit of speaking through almost gritted teeth. ‘Claymore, isn’t it? Soaking up the sellers and the bumpers, is it?’

Duncan recovered quickly. ‘Just like you did early in your career. You’re a role model.’

Sanderson sucked his teeth and moved on through the Weighing Room.

Sellers, yes, he took selling rides, and bumpers too. Sanderson knew that was where he got some of his winners. But the comment had been enough to let Duncan know that he posed – at least somewhere in the Champion Jockey’s mind – a threat to Sanderson. Duncan couldn’t wait to challenge him in the fifth race.

The Abercombie Stakes was the main race of the day and the cameras made a lot of the parade ring and the betting patterns. The excitement level swelled, but Duncan felt very little of it. He was gone into the zone. He didn’t want to talk to anyone or be spoken to by anyone. The noise, the banter, the weighing routine, it was all debris on his way to the green grass. He was riding a beautiful six-year-old liver chestnut gelding with a star called The Buckler, and he couldn’t wait.

Unlike the heroic but funny-looking Wellbeing, The Buckler looked the part. He had terrific balance and symmetry of build and a lovely, fluid stride.

Petie was there in the ring. The Buckler was on his toes, ears pricked forward, already hungry for it. He circled and Petie led him round. ‘You’ve to ride him covered up. Keep back. You’ll know when to go,’ said Petie. Duncan heard him but said nothing.

He took a steady canter down to the starting gate. Sanderson was already there on his chestnut, along with the favourite, a grey called Owner’s Consent, and one or two other horses circling. The Buckler was a bit flighty and excited by the crowd, so Duncan took him round in a wide circle. The horse wanted to go; so did the jockey. Sanderson stopped his horse, stretching, standing in the stirrups for a moment, and looked across at Duncan. It was a mean look. Duncan wondered if Sanderson knew that he was Charlie’s son.

I can take the evil eye
, he thought,
and I can spin it right back at you
.

The starter’s assistants came over to make a girth check and let the jockeys know they had half a minute to go. A lot of mud had been kicked up in the previous races. Duncan pulled on his goggles. He heard the loudspeaker echoing without having to hear the words spoken by the starter. It was just detail, all smoothed out. There was only the race ahead of him as he stepped his horse up to the tape. Sanderson came in right next to him. The horses inched forward in a tight, controlled bunch.

The white tape flew up like a startled bird and they were away. Duncan got a nice start and he let the front runners go ahead, tucking in behind comfortably. Over his shoulder Sanderson was doing the same, with the favourite Owner’s Consent in a similar position. The race was three miles and two furlongs. There were a lot of jumps and a lot of heavy mud to get through.

But The Buckler was full of running and he took some holding. It was like riding an electric current, and Duncan knew he had a good horse. If he could get his timing right, he fancied himself. They jumped cleanly and made good ground and the mud was flying. Duncan took a clod of wet earth in the face kicked up by one of the front-runners. At about the halfway marker he felt a shift of gear around him and he knew the leaders were tiring early and the covered runners still had plenty left. He could spot Sanderson’s colours keeping good pace on his left hand and Owner’s Consent on his right. Visibility was poor, but there was the rumble of hooves over heavy ground to keep him in the zone.

Three hurdles from home, one of the front-runners fell but he took nothing down with him. Owner’s Consent shifted up in front, but still with plenty in hand. Duncan kept pace and Sanderson hung in there with him, and already Duncan knew it was going to be between one of those three. They headed up to the second-last hurdle and still the mud was flying. Owner’s Consent was making ground, and although it was sooner than Duncan would have liked, he knew he had to stay with him or lose it altogether.

As they approached the jump, Sanderson deliberately brought his mount tight in to Duncan: so tight you couldn’t have slipped a cigarette paper between them. Duncan snarled but stayed focused: he figured that Sanderson was just trying to put him off his jump. A few lengths on from the jump Sanderson got himself forward a little and hooked the heel of his boot in front of Duncan’s stirrup. The Buckler lost a little momentum as they hit the jump. Sanderson got over clean, but The Buckler landed badly and lost two lengths in the run to the final fence.

Owner’s Consent was pulling away and Sanderson was on to him.
Now we go
, Duncan told The Buckler, giving him a little squeeze. He took the final hurdle just behind Sanderson. Owner’s Consent had opened up a lead on both of them, but Duncan thought he might just catch him. The Buckler wanted it as much as he did, and he was a horse with a big heart. Duncan heard the roar of the crowd as he caught Sanderson and passed him in the last half-furlong. It just wasn’t enough to catch Owner’s Consent, though, who galloped in with a length to spare; Duncan second; Sanderson beaten into third place.

The crowd was buzzing. The favourite had come home, the bookies would pay and they’d been treated to a fine race. Duncan knew the winning jockey a little and he wanted to congratulate him. The camera crew, led by a windswept Mandy Gleeson, were already moving in to interview him, so he decided to hang back and not steal the fellow’s limelight. But as he did so, he spotted Sanderson moving in with no such modesty, so he thought,
fuck it
. He got between them and leaned over to shake the winning jockey’s hand. The winner was so elated he would have kissed anyone’s grandmother, and he received Duncan warmly.