Bonecrack

CHAPTER TEN

This time I didn't waste my precious advantage. I sprang straight at him and chopped with all my strength at the wrist of the hand that held the syringe.

A direct hit. The hand flew backwards, the fingers opened, and the syringe spun away through the air.

I kicked his shin and punched him in the stomach, and when his head came forward I grabbed hold of it and swung him with a crash against the wall.

Buckram kicked up a fuss and stamped around loose, as rubber-face had not attempted to put the headcollar on. When rubber-face rushed me with jabbing fists I caught hold of his clothes and threw him against Buckram, who snapped at him with his teeth.

A muffled sound came through the rubber, which I declined to interpret as an appeal for peace. Once away from the horse he came at me again, shoulders hunched, head down, arms stretching forwards. I stepped straight into his grasp, ignored a bash in my short ribs, put my arm tight round his neck, and banged his head on the nearest wall. The legs turned to latex to match the face, and the lids palely shut inside the eyeholes. I gave him another small crack against the wall to remove any lingering doubts, and stood back a pace. He lay feebly in the angle between floor and wall, one hand twisting slowly forwards and backwards across the straw.

I tied up Buckram, who by some miracle had not pushed his way out of the unbolted door and roused the neighbourhood, and in stepping away from the tethering ring nearly put my foot right down on the scattered syringe. It lay under the manger, in the straw, and had survived undamaged through the rumpus.

Picking it up I tossed it lightly in my hand and decided that the gifts of the gods should not be wasted. Pulling up the sleeve of rubber-face's black jersey, I pushed the needle firmly into his arm and gave him the benefit of half the contents. Prudence, not compassion, stopped me from squirting in the lot: it might be that what the syringe held was a flattener for a horse but curtains for a man, and murdering was not going to help.

I pulled off rubber-face's rubber face. Underneath it was Carlo. Surprise, surprise.

The prizes of war now amounted to one rubber mask, one half empty syringe, and one bone-breaking truncheon. After a slight pause for thought I wiped my fingerprints off the syringe, removed Carlo's gloves, and planted his all over it; both hands. A similar liberal sprinkling went on to the truncheon: then, using the gloves to hold them with, I took the two incriminating articles up to the house and hid them temporarily in a lacquered box under a dustsheet in one of the ten unused bedrooms.

From the window on the stairs on the way down I caught an impression of a large pale shape in the drive near the gate. Went to look, to make sure. No mistake; the Mercedes.

Back in Buckram's box, Carlo slept peacefully, totally out. I felt his pulse, which was slow but regular, and looked at my watch. Not yet three thirty. Extraordinary.

Carrying Carlo to the car looked too much of a chore, so I went and fetched the car to Carlo. The engine started with a click and a purr, and made too little noise in the yard even to disturb the horses. Leaving the engine running I opened both rear doors and lugged Carlo in backwards. I had intended to do him the courtesy of the back seat, since he had done as much for me, but he fell limply to the floor. I bent his knees up, as he lay on his back, and gently shut him in.

As far as I could tell no one saw our arrival at the Forbury Inn. I parked the Mercedes next to the other cars near the front door, switched off the engine and the side lights, and quietly went away.

By the time I had walked the near mile home, collected the rubber mask from Buckram's box and taken off his headcollar, and dismantled the electronic eye and stowed it in the cupboard, it was too late to bother with going to bed. I slept for an hour or so more on the sofa and woke up feeling dead tired and not a bit full of energy for the first day of the races.

Alessandro arrived late, on foot, and worried.

I watched him, first through the office window and then from the owners' room, as he made his way down into the yard. He hovered in indecision in bay four, and with curiosity overcoming caution, made a crablike traverse over to Buckram's box. He unbolted the top half of the door, looked inside, and then bolted the door again. Unable from a distance to read his reaction, I walked out of the house into his sight without appearing to take any notice of him.

He removed himself smartly from bay four and pretended to be looking for Etty in bay three, but finally his uncertainty got the better of him and he turned to come and meet me.

'Do you know where Carlo is?' he asked without preamble.

'Where would you expect him to be?' I said.

He blinked. 'In his room- I knock on his door when I am ready- but he wasn't there. Have you- have you seen him?'

'At four o'clock this morning,' I said casually. 'He was fast asleep in the back of your car. I imagine he is still there.'

He turned his head away as if I'd punched him.

'He came, then,' he said, and sounded hopeless.

'He came,' I agreed.

'But you didn't- I mean- kill him?'

'I'm not your father,' I said astringently. 'Carlo got injected with some stuff he brought for Buckram.'

His head snapped back and his eyes held a fury that was for once not totally directed at me.

'I told him not to come,' he said angrily. 'I told him not to.'

'Because Buckram could win for you next week?'

'Yes- no- You confuse me.'

'But he disregarded you,' I suggested, 'And obeyed your father?'

'I told him not to come,' he repeated.

'He wouldn't dare disobey your father,' I said dryly.

'No one disobeys my father,' he stated automatically and then looked at me in bewilderment. 'Except you,' he said.

'The knack with your father,' I explained, 'is to disobey within the area where retaliation becomes progressively less profitable, and to widen that area at every opportunity.'

'I don't understand.'

'I'll explain it to you on the way to Doncaster,' I said.

'I am not coming with you,' he said stiffly. 'Carlo will drive me in my own car.'

'He'll be in no shape to. If you want to go to the races I think you'll find you either have to drive yourself or come with me.'

He gave me an angry stare and didn't admit he couldn't drive. But he couldn't resist the attraction of the races, either, and I had counted on it.

'Very well. I will come with you.'

After we had ridden back from Racecourse side with the first lot I told him to talk to Margaret in the office while I changed into race-going clothes, and then I drove him up to the Forbury Inn for him to do the same.

He bounded out of the Jensen almost before it stopped rolling and wrenched open one of the Mercedes' rear doors. Inside the car a hunched figure sitting on the back seat showed that Carlo was at least partially awake, if not a hundred per cent receptive of the Italian torrent of abuse breaking over him.

I tapped Alessandro on the back and when he momentarily stopped cursing, said, 'If he feels anything like I did after similar treatment, he will not be taking much notice. Why don't you do something constructive, like getting ready to go to the races?'

'I'll do what I please,' he said fiercely, but the next minute it appeared that what pleased him was to change for the races.

While he was indoors, Carlo made one or two remarks in Italian which stretched my knowledge of the language too far. The gist, however, was clear. Something to do with my ancestors.

Alessandro reappeared wearing the dark suit he had first arrived in, which was now a full size too large. It made him look even thinner, and a good deal younger, and almost harmless. I reminded myself sharply that a lowered guard invited the uppercut, and jerked my head for him to get into the Jensen.

When he had closed the door, I spoke to Carlo through the open window of the Mercedes. 'Can you hear what I say?' I said. 'Are you listening?'

He raised his head with an effort and gave me a look which showed that he was, even if he didn't want to.

'Good,' I said. 'Now, take this in. Alessandro is coming with me to the races. Before I bring him back, I intend to telephone to the stables to make quite sure that no damage of any kind has been done there- that all the horses are alive and well. If you have any idea of going back today to finish off what you didn't do last night, you can drop it. Because if you do any damage you will not get Alessandro back tonight- or for many nights- and I cannot think that Enso Rivera would be very pleased with you.'

He looked as furious as his sorry state would let him.

'You understand?' I said.

'Yes.' He closed his eyes and groaned. I left him to it with reprehensible satisfaction.

'What did you say to Carlo?' Alessandro demanded as I swept him away down the drive.

'Told him to spend the day in bed.'

'I don't believe you.'

'Words to that effect.'

He looked suspiciously at the beginnings of a smile I didn't bother to repress, and then, crossly, straight ahead through the windscreen.

After ten silent miles I said, 'I've written a letter to your father. I'd like you to send it to him.'

'What letter?'

I took an envelope out of my inner pocket and handed it to him.

'I want to read it,' he stated aggressively.

'Go ahead. It isn't stuck. I thought I would save you the trouble.'

He compressed his mouth and pulled out the letter.

He read:

Enso Rivera,

The following points are for your consideration. 1. While Alessandro stays, and wishes to stay, at Rowley Lodge, the stable cannot be destroyed. Following any form or degree of destruction, or of attempted destruction, of the stables, the Jockey Club will immediately be informed of everything that has passed, with the result that Alessandro would be banned for life from riding races anywhere in the world.

2. Tommy Hoylake.

Should any harm of any description come to Tommy Hoylake, or to any other jockey employed by the stable, the information will be laid, and Alessandro will ride no more races.

3. Moonrock, Indigo and Buckram.

Should any further attempts be made to injure or kill any of the horses at Rowley Lodge, information will be laid, and Alessandro will ride no more races.

4. The information which would be laid consists at present of a full account of all pertinent events, together with (a) the two model horses and their handwritten labels; (b) the results of an analysis done at the Equine Research Establishment on a blood sample taken from Indigo, showing the presence of the anaesthetic promazine; (c) X-ray pictures of the fracture of Indigo's near foreleg; (d) one rubber mask, worn by Carlo; (e) one hypodermic syringe containing traces of anaesthetic, and (f) one truncheon, both bearing Carlo's fingerprints.

These items are all lodged with a solicitor, who has instructions for their use in the event of my death.

Bear in mind that the case against you and your son does not have to be proved in a court of law, but only to the satisfaction of the Stewards of the Jockey Club. It is they who take away jockeys' licences.

If no further damage is done or attempted at Rowley Lodge, I will agree on my part to give Alessandro every reasonable opportunity of becoming a proficient and successful jockey.

He read the letter through twice. Then he slowly folded it and put it back in the envelope.

'He won't like it,' he said. 'He never lets anyone threaten him.'

'He shouldn't have tried threatening me,' I said mildly.

'He thought it would be your father- and old people frighten more easily, my father says.'

I took my eyes off the road for two seconds to glance at him. He was no more disturbed by what he had just said than when he had said his father would kill me. Frightening and murdering had been the background to his childhood, and he still seemed to consider them normal.

'Do you really have all those things?' he asked. 'The blood test result- and the syringe?'

'I do indeed.'

'But Carlo always wears gloves-' He stopped.

'He was careless,' I said.

He brooded over it. 'If my father makes Carlo break any more horses' legs, will you really get me warned off?'

'I certainly will.'

'But after that you would have no way of stopping him from destroying the stables in revenge.'

'Would he do that?' I asked. 'Would he bother?'

Alessandro gave me a pitying, superior smile. 'My father would be revenged if someone ate the cream cake he wanted.'

'So you approve of vengeance?' I said.

'Of course.'

'It wouldn't get you back your licence,' I pointed out, 'And anyway I doubt whether he could actually do it, because there would then be no bar to police protection and the loudest possible publicity.'

He said stubbornly, 'There wouldn't be any risk at all if you would agree to my riding Pease Pudding and Archangel.'

'It never was possible for you to ride them without any experience, and if you'd had any sense you would have known it.'

The haughty look flooded back, but diluted from the first time I'd seen it.

'So,' I went on, 'although there's always a risk in opposing extortion, in some cases it is the only thing to do. And starting from there, it's just a matter of finding ways of opposing that don't land you in the morgue empty-handed.'

There was another long pause while we skirted Grantham and Newark. It started raining. I switched on the wipers and the blades clicked like metronomes over the glass.

'It's seems to me,' Alessandro said glumly, 'as if you and my father have been engaged in some sort of power struggle, with me being the pawn that both of you push around.'

I smiled, surprised both at his perception and that he should have said it aloud.

That's right,' I agreed. 'That's how it's been from the beginning.'

'Well, I don't like it.'

'It only happened because of you. And if you give up the idea of being a jockey, it will all stop.'

'But I want to be a jockey,' he said, as if that were the end of it. And as far as his doting father concerned, it was. The beginning of it, and the end of it.

Ten wet miles further on, he said, 'You tried to get rid of me, when I came.'

'Yes, I did.'

'Do you still want me to leave?'

'Would you?' I sounded hopeful.

'No,' he said.

I twisted my mouth. 'No,' he 'Because between you, you and my father have made it impossible for me to go to any other stable and start again.'

Another long pause. 'And anyway,' he said. 'I don't want to go to any other stable. I want to stay at Rowley Lodge.'

'And be Champion Jockey?' I murmured.

'I only told Margaret-' he began sharply, and then put a couple of things together. 'She told you I asked about Buckram,' he said bitterly. 'And that's how you caught Carlo.'

In justice to Margaret I said, 'She wouldn't have told me if I hadn't directly asked her what you wanted.'

'You don't trust me,' he complained.

'Well, no,' I said ironically. 'I would be a fool to.'

The rain fell more heavily against the windscreen. We stopped at a red light in Bawtry and waited while a lollipop man shepherded half a school across in front of us.

'That bit in your letter about helping me to be a good jockey- do you mean it?'

'Yes, I do,' I said. 'You ride well enough at home. Better than I expected, to be honest.'

'I told you-' he began, lifting the arching nose.

'That you were brilliant,' I finished, nodding. 'So you did.'

'Don't laugh at me.'-The ready fury boiled up.

'All you've got to do is win a few races, keep your head, show a judgement of pace and an appreciation of tactics, and stop relying on your father.'

He was unpacified. 'It is natural to rely on one's father,' he said stiffly.

'I ran away from mine when I was sixteen.'

He turned his head. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was both surprised and unimpressed.

'Obviously he did not, like mine, give you everything you wanted.'

'No,' I agreed. 'I wanted freedom.'

I judged that freedom was the one thing that Enso wouldn't give his son for the asking: the obsessively generous were often possessive as well. There was no hint of freedom in the fact that Alessandro carried no money, couldn't drive, and had Carlo around to supervise and report on every move. But then freedom didn't seem to be high on Alessandro's list of desirables. The perks of serfdom were habit-forming, and sweet.

I spent most of the afternoon meeting the people who knew my father: other trainers, jockeys, officials, and some of the owners. They were all without exception helpful and informative, so that by the end of the day I had learned what I would be expected (and just as importantly, not expected) to do in connection with Pease Pudding for the Lincoln.

Tommy Hoylake, with an expansive grin, put it succinctly. 'Declare it, saddle it, watch it win, and stick around in case of objections.' 'Do you think we have any chance?' 'Oh, must have,' he said. 'It's an open race, anything could win. Lap of the Gods, you know. Lap of the Gods.' By which I gathered that he still hadn't made up his mind about the trial, whether Lancat was good or Pease Pudding bad.

I drove Alessandro back to Newmarket and asked how he had got on. As his expression whenever I had caught sight of him during the afternoon had been a mixture of envy and pride, I knew without him telling me that he had been both titillated to be recognisable as a jockey, because of his size, and enraged that a swarm of others should have started the season without him. The look he had given the boy who had won the apprentice race would have frightened a rattlesnake.

'I cannot wait until next Wednesday,' he said. 'I wish to begin tomorrow.'

'We have no runners before next Wednesday,' I said calmly.

'Pease Pudding.' He was fierce. 'On Saturday.'

'We've been through all that.'

'I wish to ride him.'

'No.'

He seethed away in the passenger seat. The actual sight and sound and smell of the races had excited him to the pitch where he could scarcely keep still. The approach to reasonableness which had been made on the way up had all blown away in the squally wind on Doncaster's Town Moor, and the first half of the journey back was a complete waste, as far as I was concerned. Finally, though, the extreme tenseness left him, and he slumped back in his seat in some species of gloom.

At that stage, I said, 'What sort of race do you think you should ride on Pullitzer?'

His spine straightened again instantly and he answered with the same directness as he had after the trial.

'I looked up his last year's form,' he said. 'Pullitzer was consistent, he came third or fourth or sixth, mostly. He was always near the front for most of the race but then faded out in the last furlong. Next Wednesday at Catterick it is seven furlongs. It says in the book that the low numbers are the best to draw, so I would hope for one of those. Then I will try to get away well at the start and take a position next to the rails, or with only one other horse inside me, and I will not go too fast, but not too slow either. I will try to stay not further back than two and a half lengths behind the leading horse, but I will not try to get to the front until right near the end. The last sixty yards, I think. And I will try to be in front only about fifteen yards before the winning post. I think he does not race his best if he is in front, so he mustn't be in front very long.'

To say I was surprised is to get nowhere near the queer excitement which rose sharply and unexpectedly in my brain. I'd had years of practice in sorting the genuine from the phoney, and what Alessandro had said rang of pure sterling.

'O. K.,' I said casually. 'That sounds all right. You ride him just like that. And how about Buckram- you'll be riding him in the apprentice race at Liverpool the day after Pullitzer. Also you can ride Lancat at Teesside two days later, on the Saturday.'

'I'll look them up, and think about them,' he said seriously.

'Don't bother with Lancat's form,' I reminded him. 'He was no good as a two-year-old. Work from what you learned during the trial.'

'Yes,' he said. 'I see.'

His eagerness had come back, but more purposefully, more controlled. I understood to some degree his hunger to make a start: he was reaching out to race riding as a starving man to bread, and nothing would deflect him. I found, moreover, that I no longer needed to deflect him, that what I had said about helping him to become a jockey was more true than I had known when I had written it.

As far as Enso was concerned, and as far as Alessandro was concerned, they were both still forcing me to give him opportunities against my will. It privately and sardonically began to amuse me that I was beginning to give him opportunities because I wanted to.

The battle was about to shift to different ground. I thought about Enso, and about the way he regarded his son- and I could see at last how to make him retract his threats. But it seemed to me that very likely the future would be more dangerous than the past.