Pulse(86)

‘These two are for Fontwell,’ he said, indicating towards the baskets nearest to him, ‘and the other one’s for Southwell for evening racing. I just hope I get the right stuff in each.’

I was confident that he would.

‘I gave your bags to Dick McGee and Jason Conway,’ I said.

‘I know. Jason discharged himself from hospital and was here first thing to collect his car keys.’

‘How is he?’ I asked, not that I cared much.

‘Like a bear with a sore head,’ Whizz said. ‘And still a bit confused, I reckon. I didn’t fancy him driving so I arranged for my lads to drive him home. He only lives in Cirencester. But, I tell you, he’s not happy with you medics. He’s furious that he can’t ride for seven days.’

One had to wonder why, after such heavy falls, jockeys were so keen to do it all over again. But that was what they were all like.

‘Seven days is the absolute minimum after a concussion,’ I said. ‘He’ll have to pass two separate assessments including one with a consultant neurologist. Ten to fourteen days is much more likely, or even longer.’

‘Don’t tell him that,’ Whizz said. ‘He’s angry enough already.’

Didn’t I know it.

The medical team all went for tea together in one of the tented restaurants near the exit to the car park.

The season at Cheltenham was almost over for another year, with just the Hunter Chase evening meeting to come in another week or so, when the jockeys would all be amateurs and the horses have to qualify by spending days out hunting. The course would soon hibernate for the summer, with only the Best Mate enclosure being used as a caravan park, before racing returned in October.

I sat at the table for quite a long time relaxing and drinking tea, while the others ate ham, egg and cucumber sandwiches and slices of a delicious-looking fruit cake.

I just watched.

Not that I wasn’t hungry. I was. Very.

It was a state I was used to. I spent most of my life these days being desperately hungry but trying to blot it out of my mind.

Yet, in spite of my hunger, I still couldn’t eat anything because the voice in my head was telling me not to. It told me that terrible things would happen if so much as a single mouthful passed my lips. The house would burn down. Or Grant would leave me. Or my boys would get run over by a long black Mercedes.

I called Grant to check again that he’d picked them up and all was fine.

‘Safe and sound,’ he said. ‘Oliver’s up in his room playing computer games and Toby has gone along to the village sports ground for a team practice before their last game of the season on Saturday.’

‘You let him go on his own?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Why not?’

Why not!

‘Please collect Oliver and both of you go down to the sports ground to watch Toby.’

There must have been a degree of desperation in my voice because Grant didn’t argue.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll go right away.’

‘Please call me when you’re there. I’m going to leave here now and I’ll come straight to the ground.’

I disconnected and stood up to go.

‘Oh, Chris,’ Adrian Kings said, putting a hand on the arm of my anorak. ‘I’ve just had a call from the weighing room. Seems our lady jockey, Jane Glenister, is now not feeling very well. She’s asked if you could go back and see her.’

Now what did I do? I wanted to leave, to get to Gotherington, to check on my babies.

‘Can’t you go?’ I asked.

‘She apparently asked specifically for you and I promised my wife I’d be home early.’

Hell, I thought.

Grant would be at the sports ground before me anyway, even if I drove there at breakneck pace. It would be all right, I told myself. I’d eaten no sandwiches nor any cake so Toby would be fine. Surely he’d be safe with all the other members of the football team around him?

‘OK,’ I said with resignation. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s waiting in the changing room.’

I hurried back towards the weighing room.

It was now raining hard with the few remaining racegoers hurrying to their cars with coat hoods pulled up against the elements. I skipped up the steps into the weighing room and went to collect the keys to the medical room from the key-safe in the Clerk of the Course’s office.

They weren’t there.

How odd, I thought.

I went through into the changing room, which was deserted. The jockeys and valets had all gone home. The door to the medical room was wide open and the lights were still on. Adrian must have forgotten to lock up.

I walked over and went in.

The blue privacy curtains were pulled around one of the beds.

‘What’s wrong, Jane?’ I asked, pulling the curtains open.

But it wasn’t Jane Glenister in there.

So preoccupied had I become with the safety and security of my sons that I had neglected my own and walked straight into a trap.

Behind the curtains was the man I’d last seen sitting in the long black Mercedes, the driver with the bulging biceps.





32


I turned to run back out into the changing room but Big Biceps and I were not alone.

Mike Sheraton had been standing behind the door and he now pushed it closed.