Pulse(28)

They also had to do the Tandem Stance Test where they were required to stand with their feet in line one behind the other, hands on hips and eyes closed for twenty seconds without losing balance.

Any rider with suspected concussion would be fully medically assessed, immediately stood down and not permitted to ride again until cleared by the Chief Medical Adviser (CMA) of the horseracing authority. They are also not left alone or allowed to drive and may well be sent directly to hospital for a brain scan.

The driver dropped us off as close as possible to the enclosures. We hurried together across the track and up the horse-walk where the horses come out onto the course from the paddock.

The huge-screen TVs next to the parade ring flashed up the photo of the dead man with the bold DEAD-MAN caption underneath asking if anyone recognised him.

The jockey beside me stopped abruptly. He was staring up at the screen.

‘Do you know that man?’ I asked.

He didn’t answer.

‘Do you know him?’ I asked again, this time more forcefully while tugging on the arm of his silks.

‘Er, no,’ he said, turning towards me. ‘Never seen him before.’

He started moving forward again, briskly pushing his way through the crowd towards the weighing room. I stood and watched him go.

He had clearly been lying.

I took the racecard out of my coat pocket and turned to check the details of the first race. Yellow-and-blue diamonds, yellow cap – the horse was called Fast Broadband and had been ridden by one Richard McGee – Dick McGee.

He was one of the top twenty or so jump jockeys presently riding.

I made my way back to the weighing room but more sedately. I needed to register the details of the faller on the computerised Riders Injury Management System, known as RIMANI, even though there was no real injury to speak of. Every patient encounter, however brief, had to be recorded.

‘Hi, Chris,’ said Adrian Kings as he saw me enter the medical room. ‘All well?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Just filing my report.’

I sat at the computer terminal and typed in the information.

‘I see from this that you have already cleared Dick McGee to ride,’ I said, spinning the chair round to face Adrian.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was in here a second ago.’ He suddenly looked concerned. ‘Is there a reason why I shouldn’t have?’

‘No reason,’ I said. ‘I just wondered how you found him.’

Adrian shrugged his shoulders. ‘Much like any other bruised jockey who is trying to convince me it doesn’t hurt when he’s actually in agony. These boys could give our footballers a lesson or two.’

‘But you still passed him fit to ride?’ I asked.

‘No medical reason why I shouldn’t. Bruises may be sore but they are not normally dangerous, not unless they’re of the brain, of course.’

What I had really meant was more to do with the jockey’s demeanour. Had he been unduly agitated? Or overly concerned?

I was certain Dick McGee had recognised the dead man and I intended finding out why he had denied it.

The second race was event-free as far as the medical team was concerned.

The doctors rotated their positions on the course for each race and this time I was down at the start as the twelve runners circled while having their girths tightened by the assistant starters. I stood by the rail watching Dick McGee go round and round. He was now wearing red-and-black silks aboard the favourite, a six-year-old grey called Oystercard.

He saw me looking at him but, if that worried him, he didn’t openly show it.

I climbed into the Land Rover as the starter called the jockeys into line and then the chase was on once more.

Ten of the twelve horses finished the race and the other two pulled up without incident when tailed-off coming down the hill towards the third-last fence.

Oystercard won.

In the distance I could see the figure in red and black standing tall in the stirrups and saluting the vast crowd, which roared back its approval as he passed by the winning post, in front by two lengths.

The lows and highs of jump racing, I thought – a kick in the nuts and a mouthful of grass in the first, victory and acclaim in the second.

However, the third race, a three-mile handicap steeplechase over two complete circuits of the course with twenty fences to negotiate, was more challenging for the medical team.

Twenty-four runners went to post but only fourteen of them were to get to the finish. Of the remaining ten, four pulled up, four fell and the other two were brought down by tripping over another horse that had already fallen, both at the same fence, the second open ditch at the far end of the course on the first circuit.

Being ‘brought down’ was always the worst way to fall. Not only was it no fault of the horse in question, but there was little or no warning for the jockey, who could easily be catapulted directly head-first into the turf.

So it was with some trepidation that I ran across the track to a motionless form, while a second doctor plus one of the ambulance crews tended to the other two fallen riders.

To compound the problem, one of the horses was still lying on the ground nearby, its forelegs thrashing about violently. I feared at the time that it might have been fatally injured.

Taking care to avoid the flailing hooves, I reached my allocated jockey who was lying on the grass curled up in a ball, gently moaning.