Читать книгу Citizen - Charlie Brooks - Страница 14

During the preliminaries of the Irish Oaks at the Curragh, Tipper, who’d only just turned eighteen, had wondered if things could get any better if he lived to be a hundred. The tension at the start was almost suffocating. But, as Stella Maris jig-jogged around with the other horses, he felt elated rather than nervous. This was the most important fillies’ classic in the Irish flat racing calendar, and he was riding the most beautiful horse in the field.

She was not just a beauty; she was arguably the best too. The Hon. Rupert Robinson had hardly been able to believe his luck watching her skip home in her two preparatory contests. If she could now land a classic, he could sell her to stud and make back ten times what he’d put in.

It had all seemed a long-shot when she’d arrived at Doyle’s place. The word had got around that she’d needed tranquillizers just to load her into the horse-transporter. She kicked behind, she bit in front and bolted whenever she could. So what made the difference? At the Oaks Doyle was asked that very question by RTE.

‘It’s a great team I’ve got,’ he told the television presenter smugly. ‘Everyone’s played their part to get her here, you know?’

He was lying, of course: the real difference was Tipper O’Reilly.

And as Stella Maris became a hot topic in racing circles in the weeks leading up to the Oaks, Tipper had been showing what a useful jockey he was all round; able to judge pace, keep a horse balanced in a packed field and time a run to the line. As a result he’d begun to get rides from other stables. Some were even on winners and, before long, he found himself leading the field for the apprentice jockeys’ championship. But claimers—jockeys so inexperienced they get a weight advantage of seven, five or three pounds—are hardly ever entrusted with runners in Group One races. So the question round every bar table on the course was, could this downy-cheeked boy of eighteen beat the grizzled and hardened men, and take a classic?

As the horses began to go forward and into the starting stalls, Tipper hung back, as he quickly ran through in his mind what Doyle had told him to do.

‘Don’t let them box you in. Try and sit handy and make your move at the last moment. Be the last one to play your hand. And, whatever you do, don’t sit too far back.’

Doyle knew that, overall, he had the best horse in the race. But she was a galloping type, who’d done all her winning over a mile and a half, and there were some useful mile and a quarter horses in this contest who could box Red in and then outpace her to the line if they got the chance.

‘They’ve got a pacemaker in,’ he warned. ‘He might try and dictate a false pace. Don’t fall for it. You can make the running if you absolutely have to, if they go no pace at all. And don’t get boxed in on the inside. Go wide on the last bend. And more important than anything, for Christ’s sake don’t give her too much to do.’

Watching them load horse after horse into the stalls, Tipper remembered the day on the Curragh when the handlers played brag while he’d coaxed Red through her first lesson in stalls entry. After that there had always been a residue of tension at the starting gate, but he’d never failed to get her in yet. Still, he knew better than take it for granted. Horses are specialists in making a fool of you.

Dancing a little on her toes Red was the last to approach the line of stalls. Tipper sensed her hesitancy and clicked his tongue as a reminder that he was there. She seemed to make up her mind then, walking sweetly forwards and in. Tipper heard the rear gates close with a click behind her tail. At least, that’s what he thought.

Aside from normal riding tactics, neither Doyle nor Tipper were on the look out for any foul play. But stalls handlers are far from the best paid people in racing and the opposition had not been averse to laying out a few euros in the hope of lowering Red’s colours. Eamonn—the brag player who’d once predicted Tipper’s future as a shelf-stacker—was the handler charged with shutting the gate behind Red. The previous evening, in the pub, he hadn’t needed much persuasion that Tipper was a cocky little shit who thought he could make eejits out of the professionals. So, as Eamonn eased Red’s gates shut, he made sure her tail was well and truly wedged between them. It was an easy mistake to make—and well paid enough to get him and Mrs Eamonn a flight to Lanzarote. The starter had no chance of seeing what had been done and nor had Tipper. When you go in last, there’s no time to be looking behind you.

Tipper was relaxed as he waited for the stalls to burst open. He was sure of Red now, sure she would be delighted as always to get the hell out of the stalls as quick as she could. ‘Jockeys!’ the starter roared, indicating that he was about to let them go. And then, almost immediately, came the crash as the gates sprang open. Red lunged towards freedom but immediately she felt the stinging tug on her tail and instinct made her plant. Tipper, leaning into her neck to anticipate their forward momentum, almost went over Red’s ears as she threw back her head and smacked him in the face. Blood from his nose splattered onto the goggles. Christ! Tipper kicked Red’s flanks as her instinct to bolt from pain drove her forward again. This time the tail freed itself and they were out.

But it was too late. Red was ten lengths adrift of the field and Tipper’s head was still ringing from the blow to his nose. At the same time some of the words uttered by Doyle in the paddock reverberated through his mind. ‘Lay handy. Don’t give her too much to do.’ That plan had just gone for a Burton.

In the grandstand, Red’s owner lowered his binoculars and turned to the trainer beside him.

‘What the fuck happened there?’ wailed Robinson.

‘Fucked if I know,’ said Doyle in despair. ‘She’s never dwelt before. And now the race is as good as over, for Christ’s sake.’

If the field had gone no gallop, Tipper could have made up his ground painlessly enough and the damage might have been minimal. But the pacemaker, in the colours of the man who had given Eamonn his summer holidays, went off like it had a chilli-pepper up its arse. All Tipper could see were rumps, human and equine, at some distance in front of him. Don’t panic, he told himself as he used his gloves to wipe the blood from his goggles. Don’t try to make up the ground too soon, you’ll blow her engine.

The field streamed away down the back straight as Tipper frantically formulated a plan to rescue the situation. It would have to be the reverse of the one he had agreed with Doyle. Instead of sitting handy and swinging wide off the bend, as if using it like a sling shot, he would have to hug the rail, saving every inch of ground as he gradually caught them up, then gamble on holding his position round the long bend into the straight. If at that stage any of the horses running the rail in front of him started going back through the field he would be sunk. But it was probably his only chance.

Up ahead the ferocious pace was stringing the field out while Tipper, riding as patiently as he knew how, let Red’s strong, easy stride inch her back into contention. He was still four lengths adrift of the tail enders when he spotted the elbows on one of the jockey’s flailing. The horse had blown up and, despite his efforts, there was nothing his rider could do. Luckily there was room to ease Red to his outside and glide past him, before angling back to the rail. That’s the only horse I can go outside of, Tipper told himself.

On the bend his luck held and Red had enough gears to thread through a narrowing gap on the inside of another two struggling horses. The jockeys shouted some uncomplimentary remarks at him for sneaking up their inside, but he was already past them before they could close the gap. With the straight approaching Red was still fifteen lengths off the leaders, but she was moving well, devouring the ground. Then, as he’d known he might, Tipper found himself closing on some more closely-packed traffic. The inside route was blocked by two runners having a fruitless battle with each other. Should he go wide and round them? No. Sit and suffer and try and get up their inner in the straight. Tipper tightened his reins and steadied Red.

Doyle, who had begun to hope again, was plunged back into renewed despair. ‘What the fuck’s he doing?’ he yelled. ‘He’s taken a pull.’

Tipper wasn’t enjoying himself but he kept his head: be calm, don’t panic. As the two beaten horses battled into the straight they did what Tipper had gambled on. Tiring and losing their balance, they rolled wide, so that Tipper was able to grab hold of Red, make sure she was balanced and then throw her into the gap along the rail. She seemed to punch her way through, but there were still twelve lengths to make up.

‘She’s got the break,’ Robinson shouted.

‘Too late,’ Doyle muttered, putting his binoculars down to stare blankly out at the track. He’d thrown the towel in; but Red hadn’t. Tipper gave her a slap down the neck and bellowed at her. As if needing to be told, she dropped her head, lengthened her stride and passed three more horses. Ahead of them, a furlong from home, there were still two runners going like hell side by side, and four lengths for Red to make up. Tipper could see the leading jockeys’ whips flailing, and heard the crack as they connected. He was rapidly gaining on them, though it couldn’t be said they were stopping. He looked for a gap on the rail, but there was only half of one. Tipper knew there was no time to pull wide. He’d have to go for the diminutive gap.

The post was fifty yards ahead, and Tipper had no more than three seconds to play with. Red was all but biting the quarters of the front two when, suddenly, the gap between one of them and the rail widened a fraction. Red seemed to lengthen her neck as well as her stride as she dived through it. All three horses crossed the line together. Tipper didn’t know if he’d got up. A length after the line Red was clearly in front, but actually on the line? It would be decided on the nod of a head.

‘I think we got there!’ Robinson shrieked, jumping up and down in frantic ecstasy.

‘Did we fuck,’ Doyle growled. ‘How in Christ’s name he lost that I’ll never know.’

‘No, no,’ insisted the owner, ‘I think O’Reilly might have got her up.’

But Doyle was cursing through gritted teeth.

‘The bollocks! The little shite! I’ll cut the tripes out of him when I see him.’

Tipper pulled Red up. They were both exhausted. His breath was heaving, and Red’s nostrils were working like bellows to suck in the air. She had pushed herself a long way through the pain barrier in the last furlong, and she was still hurting.

The race result was imminent and Tipper knew he was either a hero or a villain. No one would be interested in excuses. As far as the grandstand jockeys would be concerned he’d either ridden a tactical race of genius, or he’d blown it. And not many promising young careers would come back after blowing an Irish Oaks. But his fate was now in the hands—or the eye—of the judge, who was studying a freeze-frame of the finish. Coming down from his adrenaline rush, Tipper could not even recall the number they were carrying. As Doyle’s lad dodged out of the crowd and took Red’s head, Tipper looked back at the cloth under his saddle. Number six.

‘Please, God, let him call out six,’ Tipper prayed.

Unlike the early days of photo-finishes there was no need now to develop a print. Video technology makes it possible to decide close results almost instantaneously, except in the very hardest cases. And this was one of those, because as Tipper walked Red off the track and entered the walkway that led to the winner’s enclosure, there had still been no announcement.

The delay was long enough for a betting market to develop on the result. From somewhere in the tightly packed crowd he heard a bookie shouting odds, but missed which of the three finishers he was taking money on. Meanwhile the lad was chattering away at him, convinced they’d won. Tipper was too exhausted to answer. Looking ahead he saw a TV reporter with a microphone trying to interview the rider of one of the others in the finish. He saw the jockey’s head shake: did that mean he’d lost, or he didn’t know?

Tipper saw Sam leaning against the rail as he was led towards the unsaddling enclosure. Tipper looked at Sam’s expression to get some re-assurance. But there was none there. Sam’s face was blank. He shrugged both shoulders and held both hands out flat in front of him.

As they reached the winner’s enclosure, with its berths reserved for the first, second and third horses, there had still been no announcement. The place was surrounded by an unnatural hush. Usually there would have been a roar from the crowd, but everyone seemed to be collectively holding their breath. In the enclosure none of the three jockeys knew where to go and, unwilling to tempt fate, they hung back. They slipped from their saddles and began attending to the girth straps. Tipper had just lifted the saddled from Red’s back when the PA system briefly crackled. He froze.

‘The result of the photograph,’ the announcer said, before pausing dramatically.

Tipper looked round. There was Kerly, the Head Lad, and Doyle. Both looked grim. But Red’s owner, with a daft artificial smile on his face, was giving Tipper the thumbs-up. He waited. The PA crackled again.

‘First, number six…’

The order in which the others had finished was drowned in the gigantic roar of the crowd. They didn’t care who was second, and nor did Tipper.