Читать книгу The Courier - Ava McCarthy - Страница 12

Callan clanked through the turnstiles, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. The only thing inside it was a Browning pistol that he’d already fired once that day. He checked his watch. In another twenty minutes, he planned on firing it again.

He scanned his surroundings. In front of him was an oval of immaculate grass, bounded by low hedges. Adverts for Hennessy and Paddy Power bookmakers lined the railings on the inside. The parade ring was empty.

He tipped up his baseball cap, backhanding the sweat from his forehead. He was cutting things bloody fine. The last job had been a screw-up, throwing him off schedule. He pictured the puffy-faced man kneeling on the floor, pissing himself as he waited to be shot. It should’ve been quick. In, out. No mess, no witnesses. He fingered the business card in his pocket. Now he had the Spanish-looking girl to add to his list.

People swarmed in front of him, beating a path between the grandstand, the bookies and Madigan’s Bar. Leopardstown racecourse always drew the crowds.

Leopardstown. Baile on Lobhair. Town of the lepers.

Pain pulsed through Callan’s skull, and with it an image: baked red dirt, buzzing insects, the stench of rotting flesh. A village in Sierra Leone, bodies butchered for the ritual cannibalism of the RUF. But in all of the rebels’ murderous binges, they never ate the lepers.

Callan blinked, shoved the memory away. He swallowed and edged closer to the ring. Soon the punters would be five deep around it, inspecting the horses for the next race. That was fine with him. He needed the crowd cover.

He opened his programme and checked through the runners for the one o’clock race. There were seven in total, and number four was underlined: Honest Bill. The small print confirmed what he needed to know: Jockey, R. Devlin; Trainer, D. Kruger; Owner, T. Jordan.

Frantic commentary echoed over the tannoy, winding up the 12.40 race. Punters began staking out their space by the parade ring. Callan adjusted the bag on his shoulder. It was light. In the jungles of Angola and Sierra Leone, every man in his unit had carried an AK-47, ten magazines, an extra ammunition belt, an M79 grenade launcher and a supply of white phosphorus grenades. Here, things were different. Here, you only carried what you could conceal.

Hooves clopped behind him, buckles clinked. He turned to see a frisky black horse being led into the ring. His coat was glossy, his chest muscles bulging. Callan consulted his racecard. Number one, Rottweiler’s Lad.

‘Bit of a sprinter, that fella.’ A middle-aged man had appeared next to him at the railings, chewing on a pipe. ‘Good deep chest.’

Callan grunted, raking his gaze over the other horses filing into the ring. Numbers three, six and five, all dark brown. They jig-jogged past, stirring up an aroma of hay and manure. Where the hell was number four?

The public address system crackled, the announcer giving the all-clear on the previous race. ‘Winner all right, winner all right.’

The signal for the bookies to start paying out. The man with the pipe ripped up his ticket and snorted. Then he turned to Callan, sweet tobacco mingling with stable smells.

‘Who d’ya fancy for this one, then?’

Callan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have time for ring-side tipsters, but rudeness would attract attention. His urban camouflage was anonymity: jeans and casual jacket, cap over the buzz-cut, everything loose-fitting to hide the muscles so at odds with his middle-aged face. After one o’clock, he needed to be forgettable.

He feigned a smile. ‘Honest Bill.’

‘Ah, Billy-boy. Great horse. Brave as they come.’

Rottweiler’s Lad pranced by, tossing his head and snorting. Jockeys began drifting into the ring, and Callan checked the racecard for Honest Bill’s colours: black-and-white cubes. None of the jockeys matched.

‘There’s your fella.’

Callan turned. A honey-brown horse bounced into the ring. His coat looked sweaty, and his hind legs were sheathed in red bandages. The saddle cloth bore the number four.

The muscles in Callan’s neck tensed. His eyes travelled beyond the horse to the jockey who’d stalked in behind him. He was taller than most, wiry like all of them, and his silks were patterned like a chessboard. Rob Devlin. Callan studied him, making sure he’d recognize him again.

Devlin made his way into the centre of the ring, shaking his head at a red-faced man who was waiting for him there.

‘Is that the trainer?’ Callan said.

The man with the pipe followed his gaze, then shook his head. ‘That’s the owner, Tom Jordan. TJ, they call him.’

Callan watched the red-faced man. He was standing eye-to-eye with the jockey, trying to stare him down, but Devlin seemed to be doing all the talking. A bell sounded, and the pair broke apart. Jockeys scattered to mount their rides, and a tall, scowling man broke away from another group to give Devlin a leg up.

‘That’s the trainer,’ the man with the pipe said. ‘Dan Kruger. One of the best.’

Callan narrowed his eyes. So that was Kruger. He edged around the ring to get a better view. The trainer looked to be in his late thirties, with prominent, dark brows and a tanned face. He patted the horse’s neck and saluted the jockey. Then Devlin gathered up his reins and headed out of the ring.

Callan glared at the jockey’s swaying back. For now, he was out of reach. But that still left the other two. He fixed his sights on Jordan and Kruger and followed them as they left the ring. They mingled with the crowd now flowing back towards the stands, and Callan melted into their slipstream.

He unzipped his bag a fraction and slotted a hand inside, grasping the butt of his gun. Keeping the weapon in the bag meant he could place the barrel right up against the target. Two silenced shots and the target would go down. The crowd would think he’d fainted, Callan would disappear, and his ejected cartridges would be caught inside the bag. Neat and tidy.

He followed the two men across the concourse. Kruger disappeared inside one of the bars, and Jordan was about to follow when a small boy of nine or ten raced up and grabbed him by the hand. Jordan turned and laughed, allowing himself to be dragged away.

Callan clenched his fingers around the gun. He tracked the pair along the side of the stands as they hurried towards the bookies’ enclosure.

He checked his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He lengthened his stride, closing the gap between them. The boy scampered off to the nearest bookie and Jordan stood alone, like a springbok separated from the herd.

Callan hesitated, checking his cover. The crowds here had thinned, the punters deserting the bookies for a place on the stands. He hung back. Too exposed.

The tannoy system crackled. ‘They’re under starter’s orders.’

The boy reappeared. Jordan took him by the hand and together they hiked up into the stands.

‘And they’re off.’

Callan strode after Jordan, circling, weaving, slipping through the crowds, using whatever cover his combat zone offered him. The commentator droned out his inventory of horses.

‘And racing now away from the stands, it’s Forest Moon the leader, from Holy Joe and Dutch Courage. Then comes Rottweiler’s Lad, with Honest Bill the back marker.’

Jordan and the boy stopped halfway up the grandstand. Callan was already four steps higher, and he stared at the back of Jordan’s head.

‘Rounding the turn now, it’s Forest Moon and Holy Joe. Then Rottweiler’s Lad improved into third place.’

Callan sidestepped into a gap, lining himself up behind Jordan. Suddenly, the man ducked, squatting low. Callan froze, then relaxed again as he saw the boy climbing up on to Jordan’s shoulders. By the time Jordan was upright, Callan had moved one step down. Two more, and he’d be right behind him.

The commentator’s voice shifted up a key. ‘And into the back straight, it’s Holy Joe, Forest Moon weakening into second, challenged by Rottweiler’s Lad, Honest Bill, then Dutch Courage.’

A murmur rippled through the crowds. ‘Come on, Honest Bill.’

Jordan handed the boy a pair of binoculars. People craned their necks to get a clearer view and Callan took another step down.

‘As they round the final bend, it’s Holy Joe the leader from Rottweiler’s Lad, then Forest Moon, Honest Bill making ground on the outside but Devlin has left him a lot to do.’

The crowd buzzed, shifting restlessly. ‘Come on, Billy-boy!’

Callan inched forwards. Suddenly, the boy swivelled and stared at him through the binoculars. Callan’s scalp prickled. He flashed on another ten-year-old boy. Matted black hair, wild eyes. The child soldier with binoculars around his neck and a machete in his raised arms. Chills swept through Callan’s frame.

A roar went up from the crowd, and the commentator’s pitch shot up an octave. ‘And they’re into the home straight, it’s Rottweiler’s Lad, Holy Joe, Honest Bill accelerating on the outside!’

Callan’s vision blurred. He could smell the child soldier’s unwashed body. He recalled how the boy’s shirt had fallen open, exposing red welts where the initials ‘RUF’ had been carved into his chest with a razor. Callan hadn’t hesitated. He’d fired his sniper rifle, spitting two bullets into the boy’s forehead.

‘And they’re inside the final two furlongs!’ The commentator was in a frenzy, the yells from the crowd filling the stands. ‘It’s Rottweiler’s Lad, but here comes Honest Bill surging up on the outside!’

Callan remembered standing over the boy’s body. He’d stared at the bloody initials where the rebels had rubbed cocaine to induce the boy’s savagery. Beside him stood a line of wailing children. The child soldier had been about to hack off their arms.

‘It’s Rottweiler’s Lad from Honest Bill, I’ve never seen anything like it, Devlin has turned him loose, calling on him for everything he has!’

The boy on Jordan’s shoulders turned away. Callan’s chest tightened, the memories choking him. He took a deep breath, then descended the final step. He was right behind Jordan, close enough to smell the scent of cigars from his clothes.

The commentator was yelling now. ‘It’s the final furlong, it’s Rottweiler’s Lad and Honest Bill, stride for stride, Honest Bill digging deep.’

Callan stretched the canvas of his bag taut around the gun barrel.

‘They’re neck and neck, what a race between these two!’

The roars had reached a deafening pitch. It was the crescendo he’d been waiting for, the perfect cover. He pressed the gun barrel into Jordan’s back.

The commentator hadn’t drawn breath. ‘It’s a desperate finish as they come up to the line, Rottweiler’s Lad trying to fight back!’

The stands were a blaring wall of noise. Callan squeezed the trigger twice. The commentator’s voice was off the scale.

‘And it’s Honest Bill the winner! What a horse!’

Callan stepped backwards and sidled through the heaving crowd. From the corner of his eye he saw the boy tumble to the ground, his father crumpling beneath him.

Callan strolled towards the exit.

Winner all right.