Pulse(31)

‘Not,’ I said. ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with his memory or his mental function.’

‘So can I go now?’ Dick asked.

‘Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘Does the name Rahul mean anything to you?’

‘Isn’t there an Indian cricketer called Rahul something?’ he said. ‘Apart from that, nothing.’ He thrust the photo back into my hands and was still shaking his head as he disappeared into the jockeys’ changing room.

I wasn’t sure I totally believed him but, short of injecting a truth serum, I’d be unlikely to get anything further from him at the moment, and sodium thiopental was sadly not included in the approved medical kits.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ Adrian said.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ I said. ‘I was just asking him about the unidentified man.’

‘What unidentified man?’ Adrian asked.

I held out the photo. ‘This man was found unconscious in a toilet at the Open meeting and never woke up. I was the receiving consultant at Cheltenham General when he was brought in.’

‘But what has it got to do with Dick McGee?’

By now we had been joined by all the other doctors, who were listening intently to the exchange. And I could feel myself getting anxious.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just thought he might know who the man was, but I was wrong.’

‘Don’t the police know who he is?’ asked one of the others.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nobody does.’

‘So why then would Dick McGee?’ asked another.

‘Because he recognised him as someone he’d seen before,’ I said.

I was getting very uncomfortable at being questioned like this. I could feel the panic beginning to rise in my chest. I tried breathing deeply. I was clearly not as well as I thought. But my fellow medics were now intrigued by the mystery and weren’t about to let things go.

‘What was the cause of his death?’ one asked.

‘Cocaine overdose.’

I could feel a sudden drop of interest in the room. As with all medical personnel, we’d each had our share of dealing with drug-related suffering and death, most of which was self-inflicted and preventable. While doctors were not paid to comment on other people’s behaviour – their job was simply to treat whatever condition appeared before them – one couldn’t help feeling that some individuals were more deserving of our care than others.

But was I really any different from a street druggie?

I had always been partial to a cigarette or two, especially recently when they had helped to calm my frayed nerves. I’d also dabbled with illegal drugs in an attempt to alleviate the persistent heavy ache of depression. As a doctor, I knew better than most that I shouldn’t have – they were not good for my health – but I’d done it nevertheless.

So who was I to pass judgement on some cokehead or heroin junkie who had journeyed once too far into total oblivion, either by chance or by design? But there was something about the unnamed man that made me convinced that his death had been more than an accident or suicide.

‘Jockeys, five minutes,’ came the call. Five minutes before they were due out in the parade ring for the next race. Time for me to get out onto the course once more.

With relief, I picked up my red doctor’s bag and walked out.

The last two races on the first day of the Festival were always busy ones for the medical team. Each were steeplechases, one over four miles and the other over two and a half, and both were for novice horses, that is those that hadn’t won a race prior to the start of the jump season the previous April. In addition, the longer race was for amateur riders only, many of whom were novices themselves.

Inexperienced horses with inexperienced jockeys on board was all too often the ideal combination for fallers and especially for the unseated.

Jockeys are very particular about the difference between the two. A ‘faller’ is when the horse falls over and the jockey goes down with the ship, while an ‘unseated’ is where the jockey falls off but the horse remains on its feet. There is an important distinction but the result is pretty similar as far as the rider is concerned – hitting the ground hard, and at speed.

Thankfully not one of the seven discarded riders in the amateur race was seriously injured but that didn’t stop me having to run back and forth across the turf several times to check on them.

‘What a great fun way to spend a Tuesday,’ one of them said, laughing and rubbing mud from his face with the sleeve of his silks. ‘Certainly beats being stuck in the office. And I got almost halfway round before coming off!’

The amateurs were clearly as mad as the pros.

Once the last fallen rider had been patched up and sent on his way, the medical team had a short debrief in the medical room after six o’clock.

‘Well done, everybody,’ Adrian Kings said to us. ‘I’m sure the racecourse managing director will be happy with us. A good day’s work. One broken collarbone, some cracked ribs, a few bruises, one suspected concussion and not a hint of controversy. Not bad for the first day of the Festival.’ He sounded slightly disappointed, as if he had hoped for something more serious. ‘And today’s “Doctor of the Day Award” goes to Chris Rankin, for providing us with some innovative and unusual alternatives to the Turner concussion questions.’