Nerve

Fourteen

The third cruising taxi driver that I stopped just round the corner in Bayswater Road agreed to take me all the way to Ascot. During the journey, which was quick and skilfully driven, I kept the warmth and flexibility going in my arms by some minor exercises and imaginary piano playing; and if the driver saw me at it in his mirror he probably imagined I was suffering from a sad sort of St Vitus dance.

He announced, when I paid him at the gate, that he thought as it was his own cab that he might as well stay and have a flutter on the races himself, so I arranged for him to drive me back to London again at the end of the afternoon.

‘Got any tips?’ he said, counting my change.

‘How about Template, in the big race?’ I said.

‘I dunno,’ he pursed his lips. ‘I dunno as I fancy that Finn. They say as he’s all washed up.’

‘Don’t believe all you hear,’ I said, smiling. ‘See you later.’

‘Right.’

I went through the gate and along to the weighing-room. The hands of the clock on the tower pointed to five-past one. Sid, James’s head travelling lad, was standing outside the weighing-room door when I got there, and as soon as he saw me he came to meet me, and said, ‘You’re here then.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

‘The governor posted me here to wait for you. I had to go and tell him at once if you came. He’s having lunch... there’s a rumour going round that you weren’t going to turn up, see?’ He bustled off.

I went through the weighing-room into the changing-room.

‘Hello,’ said my valet. ‘I thought you’d cried off.’

‘So you came after all,’ said Peter Cloony.

Tick-Tock said, ‘Where in hell have you been?’

‘Why did everyone believe I wouldn’t get here?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Some rumour or other. Everyone’s been saying you frightened yourself again on Thursday and you’d chucked up the idea of riding any more.’

‘How very interesting,’ I said, grimly.

‘Never mind that now,’ said Tick-Tock. ‘You’re here, and that’s that. I rang your pad this morning, but your landlady said you hadn’t been back all night. I wanted to see if it was O.K. for me to have the car after racing today and for you to get a lift back with Mr. Axminster. I have met,’ he finished gaily, ‘a smashing girl. She’s here at the races and she’s coming out with me afterwards.’

‘The car?’ I said. ‘Oh... yes. Certainly. Meet me outside the weighing-room after the last, and I’ll show you where it is.’

‘Super,’ he said. ‘I say, are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You look a bit night-afterish, to my hawk eyes,’ he said. ‘Anyway the best of luck on Template, and all that rot.’

An official peered into the changing-room and called me out. James was waiting in the weighing-room outside.

‘Where have you been?’ he said.

‘In London,’ I said. ‘What’s this rumour about me not turning up?’

‘God knows,’ he shrugged. ‘I was sure you wouldn’t have stayed away without at least letting me know, but...’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’ Not unless, I thought, I had still been hanging in a deserted tack-room in the process of being crippled for life.

He dismissed the subject and began to talk about the race. ‘There’s a touch of frost in the ground still,’ he said, ‘but that’s really to our advantage.’ I told him I had walked round the course the day before, and knew which parts were best avoided.

‘Good,’ he said.

I could see that for once he was excited. There was a sort of uncharacteristic shyness about his eyes, and the lower teeth gleamed in an almost perpetual half smile. Anticipation of victory, that’s what it is, I thought. And if I hadn’t spent such a taxing night and morning I would have been feeling the same. As it was, I looked forward to the race without much joy, knowing from past experience that riding with injuries never made them better. Even so, I wouldn’t have given up my place on Template for anything I could think of.

When I went back into the changing-room to put on breeches and colours, the jockeys riding in the first race had gone out, leaving a lot of space and quiet behind them. I went along to my peg, where all my kit was set out ready, and sat down for a while on the bench. My conscience ought to have been troubling me. James and Lord Tirrold had a right to expect their jockey to be in tip-top physical condition for so important a race, and, to put it mildly, he wasn’t. However, I reflected wryly, looking down at my gloved hands, if we all owned up to every spot of damage, we’d spend far too much time on the stands watching others win on our mounts. It wasn’t the first time I had deceived an owner and trainer in this way and yet won a race, and I fervently hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

I thought about the Midwinter. Much depended on how it developed, but basically I intended to start on the rails, sit tight in about fourth place all the way round, and sprint the last three furlongs. There was a new Irish mare, Emerald, who had come over with a terrific reputation and might take a lot of beating, especially as her jockey was a wily character, very clever at riding near the front and slipping the field by a hard-to-peg-back ten lengths round the last bend. If Emerald led into the last bend, I decided, Template would have to be close to her by then, not still waiting in fourth place. Fast though he was, it would be senseless to leave him too much to do up the straight.

It is not customary for jockeys to stay in the changing-room while a race is on, and I saw the valets looking surprised that I had not gone out to watch it. I stood up, picked up the under-jersey and Lord Tirrold’s colours and went to change into them in the washroom. Let the valets think what they like, I thought. I wanted to change out of sight, partly because I had to do it more slowly than usual but mostly so that they shouldn’t see the bandages. I pulled down the sleeves of the finely-knitted green and black jersey until they hid those on my wrists.

The first race was over and the jockeys were beginning to stream into the changing-room when I went back to my peg. I finished changing into breeches, nylons and boots and took my saddle and weight cloth along to the trial scales for Mike to adjust the amount of lead needed to bring me to twelve stone.

‘You’ve got gloves on,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes,’ I said mildly, ‘it’s a cold day. I’d better have some silk ones for riding in, though.’

‘O.K.’ he said. He produced from a hamper a bundle of whitish gloves and pulled out a pair for me.

I went along to the main scales to weigh out, and gave my saddle to Sid, who was standing there waiting for it.

He said, ‘The governor says I’m to saddle Template in the stable, and bring him straight down into the parade ring when it’s time, and not go into the saddling boxes at all.’

‘Good,’ I said emphatically.

‘We’ve had two private dicks and a bloody great dog patrolling the yard all night,’ he went on. ‘And another dick came with us in the horse-box, and he’s sitting in Template’s box at this very minute. You never saw such a circus.’

‘How’s the horse?’ I asked, smiling. Evidently James was splendidly keeping his word that Template would not be doped.

‘He’ll eat ’em,’ Sid said simply. ‘The Irish won’t know what hit them. All the lads have got their wages on him. Yeah, I know they’ve been a bit fed up that you were going to ride him, but I saw you turn that Turniptop inside out on Thursday and I told ’em they’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, sincerely enough: but it was just one more ounce on a load of responsibility.

The time dragged. My shoulders ached. To take my mind off that I spent some time imagining the expression on Kemp-Lore’s face when he saw my name up in the number frame. He would think at first it was a mistake. He would wait for it to be changed. And at any moment now, I thought maliciously, he will begin to realise that I am indeed here.

The second race was run with me still sitting in the changing-room, the object of now frankly curious looks from the valets. I took the brown gloves off and put on the greyish white ones. They had originally been really white, but nothing could entirely wash out a season’s accumulated stains of mud and leather. I flexed my fingers. Most of the swelling had gone, and they seemed to be getting fairly strong again in spite of the cracked and tender skin.

Back came the other jockeys again, talking, laughing, swearing, dealing out friendly and not so friendly abuse, yelling to the valets, dumping down their kit — the ordinary, comradely, noisy changing-room mixture — and I felt apart from it, as if I were living in a different dimension. Another slow quarter of an hour crawled by. Then an official put his head in and shouted, ‘Jockeys out, hurry up there, please.’

I stood up, put on the anorak, fastened my helmet, picked up my whip, and followed the general drift to the door. The feeling of unreality persisted.

Down in the paddock where in June the chiffons and ribbons fluttered in the heat stood cold little bunches of owners and trainers, most of them muffled to the eyes against the wind. It seared through the bare branches of the trees beside the parade ring, leaving a uniformity of pinched faces among the people lining the rails. The bright winter sunshine gave an illusion of warmth which blue noses and runny eyes belied. But the anorak, as I had been pleased to discover, was windproof.

Lord Tirrold wore on his fine-boned face the same look of excited anticipation that I could still see on James’s. They are both so sure, I thought uneasily, that Template will win. Their very confidence weakened mine.

‘Well, Rob,’ said Lord Tirrold, shaking me too firmly by the hand, ‘This is it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed, ‘This is it.’

‘What do you think of Emerald?’ he asked.

We watched her shamble round the parade ring with the sloppy walk and the low-carried head that so often denotes a champion.

‘They say she’s another Kerstin,’ said James, referring to the best steeplechasing mare of the century.

‘It’s too soon to say that,’ said Lord Tirrold: and I wondered if the same thought sprang into his mind as into mine, that after the Midwinter, it might not be too soon, after all. But he added as if to bury the possibility, ‘Template will beat her.’

‘I think so,’ James agreed.

I swallowed. They were too sure. If he won, they would expect it. If he lost, they would blame me; and probably with good cause.

Template himself stalked round the parade ring in his navy-blue rug, playing up each time as he came face on to the wind, trying to turn round so that it blew on his quarters, with his lad hanging on to his leading-rein like a small child on a large kite.

A bell rang, indicating it was time for the jockeys to mount. James beckoned to the boy, who brought Template across to us and took off his rug.

‘Everything all right?’ James asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

Template’s eyes were liquid clear, his ears were pricked, his muscles quivering to be off: the picture of a taut, tuned racing-machine eager to get on with the job he was born for. He was not a kind horse: there was no sweetness in his make-up and he inspired admiration rather than affection: but I liked him for his fire and his aggressiveness and his unswerving will to win.

‘You’ve admired him long enough, Rob,’ said James teasingly. ‘Get up on him.’

I took off the anorak and dropped it on the rug. James gave me a leg up into the saddle and I gathered the reins and put my feet into the irons.

What he read in my face I don’t know, but he said suddenly, anxiously, ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’ I smiled down at him, reassuring myself as much as him.

Lord Tirrold said, ‘Good luck,’ as if he didn’t think I needed it, and I touched my cap to him and turned Template away to take his place in the parade down the course.

There was a television camera on a tower not far down the course from the starting gate, and I found the thought of Kemp-Lore raging at the sight of me on his monitor set a most effective antidote to the freezing wind. We circled round for five minutes, eleven of us, while the assistant starter tightened girths and complained that anyone would think we were in perishing Siberia.

I remembered that Tick-Tock, the last time we had ridden together on the course on a cold day, had murmured ‘Ascot’s blasted Heath. Where are the witches?’ And I thought of him now, putting a brave face on his inactivity on the stands. I thought briefly of Grant, probably hating my guts while he watched the race on television, and of Peter Cloony’s wife, with no set to watch on at all, and of the jockeys who had given up and gone into factories, and of Art, under the sod.

‘Line up,’ called the starter, and we straightened into a ragged row across the course, with Template firmly on the inside, hugging the rails.

I thought of myself, driven to distraction by having it drummed into me that I had lost my nerve, and I thought of myself dragged over flinty ground and tied to a piece of galvanised chain; and I didn’t need any more good reasons for having to win the Midwinter Cup.

I watched the starter’s hand. He had a habit of stretching his fingers just before he pulled the lever to let the tapes up, and I had no intention of letting anyone get away before me and cut me out of the position I had acquired on the rails.

The starter stretched his fingers. I kicked Template’s flanks. He was moving quite fast when we went under the rising tapes, with me lying flat along his withers to avoid being swept off, like other riders who had jumped the start too effectively in the past. The tapes whistled over my head and we were away, securely on the rails and on the inside curve for at least the next two miles.

The first three fences were the worst, as far as my comfort was concerned. By the time we had jumped the fourth — the water — I had felt the thinly healed crusts on my back tear open, had thought my arms and shoulders would split apart with the strain of controlling Template’s eagerness, had found just how much my wrists and hands had to stand from the tug of the reins.

My chief feeling, as we landed over the water, was one of relief. It was all bearable; I could contain it and ignore it, and get on with the job.

The pattern of the race was simple from my point of view, because from start to finish I saw only three other horses, Emerald and the two lightly-weighted animals whom I had allowed to go on and set the pace. The jockeys of this pair, racing ahead of me nose for nose, consistently left a two-foot gap between themselves and the rails, and I reckoned that if they were still there by the time we reached the second last fence in the straight, they would veer very slightly towards the stands, as horses usually do at Ascot, and widen the gap enough for me to get through.

My main task until then was keeping Emerald from cutting across to the rails in front of me and being able to take the opening instead of Template. I left just too little room between me and the front pair for Emerald to get in, forcing the mare to race all the way on my outside. It didn’t matter that she was two or three feet in front: I could see her better there, and Template was too clever a jumper to be brought down by the half-length trick — riding into a fence half a length in front of an opponent, causing him to take off at the same moment as oneself and land on top of the fence instead of safely on the ground the other side.

With the order unchanged we completed the whole of the first circuit and swept out to the country again. Template jumped the four fences down to Swinley Bottom so brilliantly that I kept finding myself crowding the tails of the pacemakers as we landed, and had to ease him back on the flat each time to avoid taking the lead too soon, and yet not ease him so much that Emerald could squeeze into the space between us.

From time to time I caught a glimpse of the grimness on Emerald’s jockey’s face. He knew perfectly well what I was doing to him, and if I hadn’t beaten him to the rails and made a flying start, he would have done the same to me. Perhaps I had Kemp-Lore to thank that he hadn’t even tried, I thought fleetingly; if the bonfire Kemp-Lore had made of my reputation had led the Irishman to mis-judge what I would do, so much the better.

For another half-mile the two horses in front kept going splendidly, but one of the jockeys picked up his whip at the third last fence, and the other was already busy with his hands. They were dead ducks, and because of that they swung a little wide going round the last bend into the straight. The Irishman must have had his usual bend tactics too fixed in his mind, for he chose that exact moment to go to the front. It was not a good occasion for that manoeuvre. I saw him spurt forward from beside me and accelerate, but he had to go round on the outside of the two front horses who were themselves swinging wide, and he was wasting lengths in the process. The mare carried seven pounds less weight than Template, and on that bend she lost the advantage they should have given her.

After the bend, tackling the straight for the last time, with the second last fence just ahead, Emerald was in the lead on the outside, then the two tiring horses, then me.

There was a three foot gap then between the innermost pacemaker and the rails. I squeezed Template. He pricked his ears and bunched his colossal muscles and thrust himself forward into the narrow opening. He took off at the second last fence half a length behind and landed a length in front of the tiring horse, jumping so close to him on one side and to the wings on the other that I heard the other jockey cry out in surprise as I passed.

One of Template’s great advantages was his speed away from a fence. With no check in his stride he sped smoothly on, still hugging the rails, with Emerald only a length in front on our left. I urged him a fraction forward to prevent the mare from swinging over to the rails and blocking me at the last fence. She needed two lengths’ lead to do it safely, and I had no intention of letting her have it.

The utter joy of riding Template lay in the feeling of immense power which he generated. There was no need to make the best of things, on his back; to fiddle and scramble, and hope for others to blunder, and find nothing to spare for a finish. He had enough reserve strength for his jockey to be able to carve up the race as he wished, and there was nothing in racing, I thought, more ecstatic than that.

I knew, as we galloped towards the last fence, that Template would beat Emerald if he jumped it in anything like his usual style. She was a length ahead and showing no sign of flagging, but I was still holding Template on a tight rein. Ten yards from the fence, I let him go. I kicked his flanks and squeezed with the calves of my legs and he went over the birch like an angel, smooth, surging, the nearest to flying one can get.

He gained nearly half a length on the mare, but she didn’t give up easily. I sat down and rode Template for my life, and he stretched himself into his flat-looking stride. He came level with Emerald half-way along the run in. She hung on grimly for a short distance, but Template would have none of it. He floated past her with an incredible increase of speed, and he won, in the end, by two clear lengths.

There are times beyond words, and that was one of them. I patted Template’s sweating neck over and over. I could have kissed him. I would have given him anything. How does one thank a horse? How could one ever repay him, in terms he would understand, for giving one such a victory?

The two tall men were pleased all right. They stood side by side, waiting for us in the unsaddling enclosure, the same elated expression on both their faces. I smiled at them, and shook my feet out of the irons and slid off on to the ground. On to the ground: down to earth. The end of an unforgettable experience.

‘Rob,’ said James, shaking his big head. ‘Rob.’ He slapped Template’s steaming shoulder and watched me struggle to undo the girth buckles with fingers shaking from both weakness and excitement.

‘I knew he’d do it,’ Lord Tirrold said. ‘What a horse! What a race!’

I had got the buckles undone at last and had pulled the saddle off over my arm when an official came over and asked Lord Tirrold not to go away, as the Cup was to be presented to him in a few minutes. To me, he said, ‘Will you come straight out again after you have weighed in? There’s a trophy for the winning jockey as well.’

I nodded, and went in to sit on the scales. Now that the concentration of the race was over, I began to be aware of the extra damage it had done. Across the back of my shoulders and down my arms to the fingertips every muscle felt like lead, draggingly heavy, shot with stabbing and burning sensations. I was appallingly weak and tired, and the pain in my wrists had increased to the point where I was finding it very difficult to keep it all out of my face. A quick look revealed that the bandages were red again, and so were the cuffs of the silk gloves and parts of the fawn under-jersey. But if the blood had soaked through the black jersey as well, at least it didn’t show.

With a broad smile Mike took my saddle from me in the changing-room and unbuckled my helmet and pulled if off my head.

‘They are wanting you outside, did you know?’ he said.

I nodded. He held out a comb. ‘Better smarten your hair a bit. You can’t let the side down.’

I obediently took the comb and tidied my hair, and went back outside.

The horses had been led away and in their place stood a table bearing the Midwinter Cup and other trophies, with a bunch of racecourse directors and stewards beside it.

And Maurice Kemp-Lore as well.

It was lucky I saw him before he saw me. I felt my scalp contract at the sight of him and an unexpectedly strong shock of revulsion ran right down my body. He couldn’t have failed to understand it, if he had seen it.

I found James at my elbow. He followed my gaze.

‘Why are you looking so grim?’ he said. ‘He didn’t even try to dope Template.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I expect he was too tied up with his television work to be sure of having time to do it.’

‘He has given up the whole idea,’ said James confidently. ‘He must have seen there was no chance any more of persuading anyone you had lost your nerve. Not after the way you rode on Thursday.’

It was the reckless way I had ridden on Thursday that had infuriated Kemp-Lore into delivering the packet I had taken on Friday. I understood that very well.

‘Have you told anyone about the sugar?’ I asked James.

‘No, since you asked me not to. But I think something must be done. Slander or no slander, evidence or not...’

‘Will you wait,’ I asked, ‘until next Saturday? A week today? Then you can tell whoever you like.’

‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘But I still think...’

He was interrupted by the arrival at the trophy table of the day’s V.I.P., a pretty Duchess, who with a few well-chosen words and a genuinely friendly smile presented the Midwinter Cup to Lord Tirrold, a silver tray to James, and a cigarette box to me. An enterprising press photographer let off a flash bulb as the three of us stood together admiring our prizes, and after that we gave them back again to the clerk of the course, for him to have them engraved with Template’s name and our own.

I heard Kemp-Lore’s voice behind me as I handed over the cigarette box, and it gave me time to arrange my face into a mildly smiling blankness before turning round. Even so, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to look at him without showing my feelings.

I pivoted slowly on my heels and met his eyes. They were piercingly blue and very cold, and they didn’t blink or alter in any way as I looked back at them. I relaxed a little, inwardly, thankful that the first difficult hurdle was crossed. He had searched, but had not read in my face that I knew it was he who had abducted me the evening before.

‘Rob Finn,’ he said in his charming television voice, ‘is the jockey you just watched being carried to victory by this wonder horse, Template.’ He was speaking into a hand microphone from which trailed yards of black flex and looking alternately at me and at a camera on a scaffolding tower near by. The camera’s red eye glowed. I mentally girded up my loins and prepared to forestall every disparaging opinion he might utter.

He said, ‘I expect you enjoyed being his passenger?’

‘It was marvellous,’ I said emphatically, smiling a smile to outdazzle his. ‘It is a great thrill for any jockey to ride a horse as superb as Template. Of course,’ I went on amiably, before he had time to speak, ‘I am lucky to have had the opportunity. As you know, I have been taking Pip Pankhurst’s place all these months, while his leg has been mending, and today’s win should have been his. He is much better now, I’m glad to say, and we are all delighted that it won’t be long before he is riding again.’ I spoke truthfully: whatever it meant to me in fewer rides, it would benefit the sport as a whole to have its champion back in action.

A slight chill crept into the corner of Kemp-Lore’s mouth.

‘You haven’t been doing as well, lately...’ he began.

‘No,’ I interrupted warmly. ‘Aren’t they extraordinary, those runs of atrocious luck in racing? Did you know that Doug Smith once rode ninety-nine losers in succession? How terrible he must have felt. It makes my twenty or so seem quite paltry.’

‘You weren’t worried, then, by... er... by such a bad patch as you’ve been going through?’ His smile was slipping.

‘Worried?’ I repeated lightheartedly. ‘Well, naturally I wasn’t exactly delighted, but these runs of bad luck happen to everyone in racing, once in a while, and one just has to live through them until another winner comes along. Like today’s,’ I finished with a grin at the camera.

‘Most people understood it was more than bad luck,’ he said sharply. There was a definite crack in his jolly-chums manner, and for an instant I saw in his eyes a flash of the fury he was controlling. It gave me great satisfaction, and because of it I smiled at him more vividly.

I said, ‘People will believe anything when their pockets are touched. I’m afraid a lot of people lost their money backing my mounts... it’s only natural to blame the jockey... nearly everyone does, when they lose.’

He listened to me mending the holes he had torn in my life and he couldn’t stop me without giving an impression of being a bad sport: and nothing kills the popularity of a television commentator quicker than obvious bad-sportsmanship.

He had been standing at right-angles to me with his profile to the camera, but now he took a step towards me and turned so that he stood beside me on my left side. As he moved there was a fleeting set to his mouth that looked like cruelty to me, and it prepared me in some measure for what he did next.

With a large gesture which must have appeared as genuine friendship on the television screen, he dropped his right arm heavily across my shoulders, with his right thumb lying forward on my collar bone and his fingers spread out on my back.

I stood still, and turned my head slowly towards him, and smiled sweetly. Few things have ever cost me more effort.

‘Tell us a bit about the race, then, Rob,’ he said, advancing the microphone in his left hand. ‘When did you begin to think you might win?’

His arm felt like a ton weight, an almost unsupportable burden on my aching muscles. I gathered my straying wits.

‘Oh... I thought, coming into the last fence,’ I said, ‘that Template might have the speed to beat Emerald on the flat. He can produce such a sprint at the end, you know.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He pressed his fingers more firmly into the back of my shoulder and gave me what passed for a friendly shake. My head began to spin. Everything on the edge of my vision became blurred. I went on smiling, concentrating desperately on the fair, good-looking face so close to mine, and was rewarded by the expression of puzzlement and disappointment in his eyes. He knew that under his fingers, beneath two thin jerseys, were patches which must be sore if touched, but he didn’t know how much or how little trouble I had had in freeing myself in the tack-room. I wanted him to believe it had been none at all, that the ropes had slipped undone or the hook fallen easily out of the ceiling. I wanted to deny him even the consolation of knowing how nearly he had succeeded in preventing me from riding Template.

‘And what are Template’s plans for the future?’ He strove to be conversational, normal. The television interview was progressing along well-trodden ways.

‘There’s the Gold Cup at Cheltenham,’ I said. I was past telling whether I sounded equally unruffled, but there was still no leap of triumph in his face, so I went on, ‘I expect he will run there, in three weeks’ time. All being well, of course.’

‘And do you hope to ride him again in that?’ he asked. There was an edge to his voice which just stopped short of offensiveness. He was finding it as nearly impossible to put on an appearance of affection for me as I for him.

‘It depends,’ I said, ‘on whether or not Pip is fit in time... and on whether Lord Tirrold and Mr. Axminster want me to, if he isn’t. But of course I’d like to, if I get the chance.’

‘You’ve never yet managed to ride in the Gold Cup, I believe?’ He made it sound as if I had been trying unsuccessfully for years to beg a mount.

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But it has only been run twice since I came into racing, so if I get a ride in it so soon in my career I’ll count myself very lucky.’

His nostrils flared and I thought in satisfaction, ‘That got you squarely in the guts, my friend. You’d forgotten how short a time I’ve been a jockey.’

He turned his head away from me towards the camera and I saw the rigidity in his neck and jaw and the pulse which beat visibly in his temple. I imagined he would willingly have seen me dead; yet he was enough in command of himself to realise that if he pressed my shoulder any harder I would be likely to guess it was not accidental.

Perhaps if he had been less controlled at that moment I would have been more merciful to him later. If his professionally pleasant expression had exploded into the rage he was feeling, or if he had openly dug his nails with ungovernable vindictiveness into my back, I could perhaps have believed him more mad than wicked, after all. But he knew too well where to stop; and since I could not equate madness with such self-discipline, by my standards he was sane; sane and controlled, and therefore unlikely to destroy himself from within. I threw Claudius Mellit’s plea for kid gloves finally overboard.

Kemp-Lore was speaking calmly towards the camera, finishing off his broadcast. He gave me a last, natural-looking little squeezing shake, and let his arm drop away from my shoulders. Slowly and methodically I silently repeated to myself the ten most obscene words I knew, and after that Ascot racecourse stopped attempting to whirl round and settled down again into bricks and mortar and grass and people, all sharp and perpendicular.

The man behind the camera on the tower held up his thumb and the red eye blinked out.

Kemp-Lore turned directly to me again and said, ‘Well, that’s it. We’re off the air now.’

‘Thank you, Maurice,’ I said, carefully constructing one last warm smile. ‘That was just what I needed to set me back on top of the world. A big race win and a television interview with you to clinch it. Thank you very much.’ I could rub my fingers in his wounds, too.

He gave me a look in which the cultivated habit of charm struggled for supremacy over spite, and still won. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, pulling his black microphone lead along the ground after him.

It is impossible to say which of us loathed the other more.