Читать книгу Citizen - Charlie Brooks - Страница 16

Tipper was flying after the Irish Oaks. He persuaded Sam to stay up for the night and they got properly lashed up. But his joy was cruelly cut short the next morning as he made his befuddled way into the yard.

‘That filly’s knackered,’ Dermot Quigley sneered as Tipper approached her stable. ‘Near fore tendon. She won’t race again. Think you gave her enough to do yesterday?’

Tipper wanted to smack his head off, but he just ignored the chippy little bastard and pushed past him into Red’s stable. Her front legs were bandaged up so there was nothing to see. But Tipper realized she was in pain when she turned towards him. Tipper felt sick. He knew there and then that Quigley was right and her career was over. He felt gutted. His stomach tightened up like it had when Mr Power had told him about his Ma. Like something was being ripped out of him. As soon as he was on his own he rang Sam.

‘Jesus Sam, you won’t believe it. The filly’s got a leg. Done her tendon. It’s my fault. I was too hard on her yesterday,’ Tipper whispered into the phone.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. A race is a race. You have to ask for everything. Okay it’s a fucker. But you won an Oaks on her and no-one can ever take that away from you. Shit happens Tipper, but that filly has made you.’

Thaddeus Doyle barely congratulated Tipper after the race. The only remark he passed was something like ‘you got out of jail there’. The injury was no fault of his and Doyle knew that. But Quigley took the opportunity to poison Tipper’s pill. He really hated Tipper. It had begun when Red dumped Quigley on the ground. Now Quigley made it his mission to make sure that, champion apprentice or not, there would be no more Group race appearances for this boy, who dared to succeed where he had failed. Tipper would in future be legged-up on nothing but also-rans.

‘Let me give you the lowdown on that little shite,’ Quigley told Doyle. ‘You can’t trust him. None of the lads like him. He grew up in a Dublin slum and, from what I hear, he got himself a criminal record as long as the River Shannon. It wouldn’t surprise me now if he’s off with the bookies all the time getting backhanders. Come to think of it, I’ve a notion that late jump-off in the Oaks was him trying to throw the race, only the horse was too good on the day to be stopped. And there’s another thing.’ Quigley held up his finger to emphasize a clinching argument. ‘The little runt can’t hold his drink.’

None of these facts were true, except the last. But Doyle didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Quigley—or, more to the point, of his daughter Mrs Quigley—so he silently restricted Tipper to rides at third-rate meetings till the end of the season. Irish racing has its glittering prizes, but a lot of it is small-time. Tipper still got some winners—and he still emerged top apprentice on his tally of overall victories in the season. But, without the glamour of Red to console him, kicking a series of low-rated scrubbers round Listowel or Kilbeggan started to get him down.

Red’s injury had not been life threatening and after a couple of weeks Tipper had learnt that she was to be shipped to England to get ready for a career at stud. When it came to getting her up the loading ramp onto the lorry, Red was having none of it. Tipper had wanted to make himself scarce. Having not had the chance to say good-bye to the only other person in the world he’d ever loved, he now didn’t want to say good-bye to Red. Well, not in front of a load of impatient lads. But without his re-assurance she was going nowhere. So he had to lend a hand.

‘Come on littlun,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Don’t be messing me about. You’ll be grand where you’re going.’ He was lying. He feared for her wherever she went. Because he was the only person she trusted. And now he had to mislead her. There was nothing else he could do.

It should have helped that, by the standards of the Dublin estate where he’d grown up, he had a few euros in his pocket. After the Oaks he’d moved out of the stable lads’ hostel and bought himself a complete new wardrobe of clothes; and the flashiest Harley Davidson motorbike the Curragh had ever seen. He even found a girl in town who’d joyfully ride pillion. But in spite of that the black cloud that had lifted thanks to Red now descended on him again. He suddenly felt like he was going to be a one hit wonder. He couldn’t see anything good on the horizon.

One night after evening stables he parked his bike inside the gate of his digs, behind a hedge where no-one could see it from the road. As he took his helmet off a voice out of the darkness frightened the hell out of him.

‘Well, little brother, you’ve done brilliant for yourself, so you have! Look at that bike.’

The voice was unmistakable.

‘Liam?’

A passing set of headlights lit up the shadows and, leaning laconically against the wall, the figure of a young man was swept by light.

‘Jesus, Liam! Is it you?’

‘It sure is little brother.’

‘Jesus. Last I heard, you was in the Mountjoy.’

Liam stepped forward into the streetlight, dressed in a shiny old suit, carrying a full supermarket bag.

‘Long time no see little brother. So life’s treating you well. Quite a little star I hear you are.’

Tipper felt unrelaxed. There was a hard, nasty edge to his brother’s voice. Just like there’d always been. He wasn’t congratulating him. He was accusing him.

‘Well it’s not a bed of roses Liam. I can tell you that. In fact I’ve got a few problems…’

‘Yeah. Well haven’t we all. Enough of you. I need to borrow that bike. Just for a few days, like.’

‘Jesus Liam. Well. Well I need it right now. I…’

‘Look little brother, I’m not going to go down on my fockin knees okay. You’ll get it back. You always were bloody spoilt.’ Liam walked towards Tipper and put his hand out flat. He glared at Tipper in the street light with all the malice of a sworn enemy.

Tipper thought about it. His mind took him back to his childhood. To all of the belts that he’d had from Liam. None of them had ever injured him physically but they’d lodged in his mind. He didn’t hate Liam. He just wanted nothing to do with him. He thought about legging it down the street. He’d out run his brother anytime. He thought about having a swing at him. But there wasn’t an ounce of his body that wanted to do either. So he just gave Liam the keys.

‘Cheers little brother. Like I said. You’ll get it back.’

Tipper knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t bother to say a word. He just turned his back and fished his door keys out of his pocket.

‘Something a bit interesting,’ Sinclair suggested to his wife one evening at about the same time. ‘Nico’s phoned to ask me about Tipper O’Reilly.’

‘O’Reilly?’

‘Yes. He asked if he could ride for us next season. Says he saw O’Reilly win the Irish Oaks on Stella Maris and his man would like the kid riding his horses. Thinks he’s the most promising young rider in Ireland.’

Alison snorted.

‘God, they’ve not been in the game five minutes and they’re already trying to tell us who to put on their horses.’

Taking a cheroot from a tin in her pocket, she lit up.

‘Anyway how would you tempt O’Reilly to come over here? He’s with Thady Doyle. Why should he come and work for a pillock like you?’

‘May I remind you, last time I looked, we were in the top ten flat yards in England? And actually O’Reilly could be the answer to one of our problems. We need a really good lightweight rider, and there doesn’t seem much doubt he’s useful in the saddle. He’ll be heading for a dead end at Doyle’s. Dermot Quigley will see to that, I’ve heard. What d’you think—should I give him a call? Someone else will grab him sooner rather than later.’

Sinclair hated asking her but he knew that it gave her a sense of power. Alison considered the suggestion as she took a deep drag of smoke. She’d seen Tipper O’Reilly in the flesh, on the day he’d ridden Stella Maris at the Curragh. He was a pretty lad all right, fresh-faced, pale skin, just the choirboy type that she liked best.

‘Yes,’ she said judiciously. ‘Yes, all right, why not? Let’s get Tipper O’Reilly over to ride for us.’

She took another satisfying drag and exhaled slowly. She loved reminding her pathetically weak husband that she was in control.

Nico had been bullshitting of course. He hadn’t seen the Irish Oaks. He’d never even heard of Tipper O’Reilly until the Duke had rung him and ‘strongly advised’ him to get O’Reilly over to ride for them.

‘Don’t worry Nico,’ the Duke had re-assured him. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him for you when he comes over.’

Tipper faced a gloomy end to the flat-racing season. It felt like it was set to be a bloody long, wet winter. His black cloud of depression had intensified as rapidly as his pillion girl had vanished when there was no bike to ride. Then, out of the blue he got a phone call. He didn’t know what to make of it; but he knew Sam would.

‘I’d a phone call from a feller in Newmarket in England. Says he’ll give me a job riding for him.’

‘Sounds great. Who is it?’

‘David Sinclair.’

Sam whistled.

‘Jeeze, that might not be bad. Big stable. You’d get some awesome rides. What did you say?’

‘Said I don’t know. Said I need to think about it. But he wants an answer in a couple of days maximum.’

‘I’d have bloody jumped at it already.’

‘See, I want to go right enough. But I’m pissing myself about being in England. I won’t know a bloody soul there.’

Sam phoned Tipper back the next morning.

‘What have you done about England, boy?’

‘Nothing. I’m still thinking.’

‘Well me Da says he’ll stand me the fare to go with you; he thinks I’ve got the experience and I’ll easily walk into a stud job over there. So what do you say? Will we go together and try our luck with the Newmarket girls?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. I’ll miss the hurling. But my knee’s playing up so I’m probably bollocksed there anyway.’

Sam’s Da had seen a change in his son. He could see there were going to be some wild oats strewn about. And he didn’t want them seeding in his neighbourhood. So he’d been only too happy to get him across the water.

Tipper did no more thinking. What did he have to lose?

‘You’re on,’ he said.

Newmarket is a lonely, wind-swept place to the shy newcomer. Tipper had been right to have had concerns.

Settling in mid-November into a two room flat off the High Street, he and his cousin looked around for other lads to meet and talk to. In the past a young Irishman would have found that half the population of the town was from back home. Not any more. Sinclair’s yard, like most big racing stables, was a Babel of east European and Latin American tongues. They were full of Croats and Cubans, Czechs and Chileans, Ukrainians, Bolivians, Poles and Paraguayans. They were good horsemen, but not such good linguists. The English language was being pushed into third place behind Spanish and the favourite second language of eastern Europe, Russian.

At least there was Tipper’s immediate boss, Sinclair’s Head Lad Jim Delaney. Delaney was originally from County Donegal and a horseman of the old school. They could talk hurling and football and always, of course, horses. Delaney would sometimes have a pint of stout with Tipper and Sam at the Waggon and Horses or the Golden Lion in the evening. He took an avuncular interest in their well-being, and warned them about any moral pitfalls they might encounter.

‘Let me give you two a bit of advice, lads. Keep your lip buttoned about yard business. This here is a terrible town for gambling. Bookies have their spies everywhere, touts and scouts are always watching and listening. Never get too close to a bookie, or any chancer that might be playing the internet betting exchanges. They’ll always be screwing you for information.’

‘We’re more interested in the girls, Mr Delaney,’ put in Sam. ‘Where can we meet some?’

‘How would I know that? Amn’t I a married man? But there’s clubs for the likes of you single young fellers. I don’t mind what you do with the birds, anyway. But keep out of the way of people who want information. They’re vultures.’

Sam had landed a job on a stud outside town, owned by an Irish billionaire called Dermot O’Callaghan. O’Callaghan had made his money developing software that translated text and email messages into any language in the world. He’d invested heavily in bloodstock and developed an impressive stud near Newmarket, which was still the headquarters of the European bloodstock industry.

Sam was built for man-handling stroppy foals and difficult, reluctant mares rather than riding racehorses, and his job on the stud put him one step from the actual training of winners and losers. Tipper, though, was plumb in the path of temptation. What Delaney, Sam and Tipper didn’t know was that one of the vultures had engineered Tipper’s path to Newmarket in the first place: the Duke.