Wobble to Death

CHAPTER 5

The tracks now crunched under a dozen marching pairs of feet. Billy Reid, three hours in credit, looked ready to collapse at any moment. From time to time his eyes turned forlornly towards the hut where his brother contin-ued to sleep.

‘Didn’t like to disturb him, young’un,’ had said the old pedestrian who shared the hut. ‘I’d go over there and wake him if I was you. I never saw a man sleepin’ more peaceful. I feel a lot better meself. Uncommon comfy, them pallets.’ Feargus O’Flaherty had other comments to make about the sleeping arrangements as he toured the track with Williams and Chalk. By comparison with his newest experi-ence, his brushes with banshees paled into insignificance.

‘And there, as I live and breathe, was the spectre of death come to claim me for Purgatory. The smell it brought with it was all around me, stifling me. Holy Mother of God, how I prayed! And when I opened my eyes there was Death her-self, in the form of a woman, stealing up on me.’

‘Was that when you ’it the roof, Feargus?’

‘It was. I think that was how I saved my soul. I jumped up like an avenging angel, with a great shout of defiance, and she fled.’

‘Did you chase after ’er?’

‘I did not.’

‘Was she a shapely woman?’ Williams inquired. ‘I think I might surrender my ’oly soul when she visits me.’

‘God forgive you, Williams!’ O’Flaherty snarled at the Half-breed. ‘The man who jokes of death risks his own sal-vation.’

Duly chastened, Williams altered his approach:

‘What did your little room-mate do while this was going on?’

‘Double-Barrel? I saw nothing of him.’

‘ ’Iding under ’is bloody bed, I reckon.’

‘Not at all. He didn’t come in to the hut for rest or sleep. So far as I can tell he was out here blistering his little feet all the while.’

The three pedestrians regarded Mostyn-Smith, whose steady march continued, with some interest. Unlike Reid, the other invader of the small hours, he showed little sign of fatigue. The stride was as easy and precise as it had been hours before. While others were sleeping he had lapped the track twenty-eight times.

On the inner circuit, unexpected things were happening. Charles Darrell was a revitalised force, cantering through his laps at a faster rate than anyone else in the race. His blis-tered foot might not have existed. Even Sam Monk, the advocate of uninhibited running, stood with a towel waving Darrell down, appealing to him to ease the pace. But with a sweep of his hand the runner blazened defiance. It was not clear whether his exuberant display was calculated to upset Chadwick’s poise, but this it undoubtedly did. Whatever form he assumed Darrell’s running would take, Chadwick had not expected to surrender the initiative. His decision of the previous day to break into a run had proved a useful tactic. It gave him psychological mastery. And the sight of Darrell hobbling to his tent that night convinced Chadwick that he could dictate events in future. Darrell would be con-tent to leave the thinking, the planning, the pacemaking to him; the poor fellow was committed by his weakened state to a strategy of straw-clutching.

Now this cripple of three hours ago was completing his second mile in less than twelve minutes. Chadwick, by con-trast, was having to force his taut muscles to work. It was hard enough walking; raising a run was unthinkable. Twice Darrell had lapped him, and now he could hear the boots bearing down on him again. This time, as though to empha-sise his new role, Darrell spoke as he moved out to overtake. ‘Care to run a few laps with me? Easier that way.’

‘Not at present,’ Chadwick answered, between gasps.

The infernal man was chopping his stride, talking over his shoulder.

‘We might make six hundred by Saturday if we share the pace,’ continued Darrell. ‘Settle the race in the final stages, but both beat the record.’

Chadwick shook his head, but said nothing, and Darrell, after shrugging his shoulders and opening his arms expan-sively, cruised on ahead.

The runners on the outer track were following these developments with interest. Williams spoke first.

‘What’s this? Charlie Darrell’s bloody swan-song, I reckon.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Obvious. He’s finished. Tryin’ to run Chadwick into the ground before ’e stops.’

‘No, no,’ said Chalk, from long experience, ‘Charlie ain’t the man to try that. Besides, ’e don’t look done in to me. ’E’s ’ad one of Monk’s bracers. That’s what’s ’appened to him. Two hours from now ’e’ll be creeping round like the rest of us. Mark my words.’

O’Flaherty was sceptical.

‘It’s bloody early in the race to be touching that stuff. I’ve got a pick-me-up for myself, but I shan’t let it pass my lips before Thursday.’

Williams rarely let an opportunity pass.

‘Sure you didn’t take it as a night-cap, Feargus, before you saw the spook?’

The Irishman lashed out with an arm, but Williams had once earned his living as a pugilist, and ducked neatly.

In the boardroom, Herriott and Jacobson were review-ing the first day’s takings, which amounted to a little over?260.

‘It could be a deal worse, Walter. With the?170 we took in entries we’ve already covered the hire of the Hall. Monday and Tuesday are never good days in these affairs. Astley reckons to double his receipts on the third and four days, and then double them again for the last two.’

‘There’s still two and a half thousand in expenses to cover,’ Jacobson reminded him. ‘If Darrell doesn’t blow up we ought to get good reports in the Press. But the moonstruck idiot is on the track now, spurting like a harrier. He’ll never keep going, Sol. He wasn’t a sound investment.’

Herriott exhaled noisily.

‘One moment, Walter. You’re the manager of this race, and you are responsible to me for seeing that it proceeds successfully. I picked out two of the best men in England, on good advice-the dregs and lees don’t concern us-and I’ve staked a fortune on this promotion. You’-and he laid a fat finger on Jacobson’s sleeve-‘will see that Darrell doesn’t drop out. He runs till Saturday, or walks, or crawls. Understand me?’

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Jacobson, ‘but you understand this, Sol. I agree I’m responsible for all the arrangements. I’ve appointed teams of judges and scorers who are working well in difficult conditions. I’ve spent weeks over preparations- printing, advertising, hiring officials, contractors for the stand, gate-keepers, commissionaires, police-’

‘All right, Walter. You’ve done well up to now-’

‘And there have been belts and medals to prepare, and all the entries to sift. That was my work, and it’s done, even if I knew nothing of pedestrianism before last June. What’s been your contribution, Sol?’

‘Three thousand pounds of my money, among other things.’

Months of stifled resentment were inflaming Jacob-son now.

‘Well, I can tell you what those other things are. Press interviews and escorting lady visitors-and one other duty that you insisted on. That was the right to choose the main contestants. And you, Sol, you chose Darrell.’

Herriott was shaking, partly from shock, partly anger.

‘Damn it, Jacobson, I’m not a blasted clairvoyant.’

‘I take your point. But nor am I a scapegoat for your mis-taken judgements. I’ve said enough. We’ve never had a wry word in all the years we’ve known each other.’

Herriott stood to pour sherry. His hands still trembled.

‘You are right. I spoke out of place and I apologise. I think we have both been on duty here too long.’

It crossed Jacobson’s mind that Herriott had spent all of the previous evening out of the building, but he said no more.

‘I shall hold myself responsible if anything goes wrong with Darrell-or Chadwick, for that matter,’ Herriott con-tinued. ‘But you, if I may say so, are on better terms with the training fraternity than I am. I should appreciate it, Walter, if you would have a word with Darrell’s man-Monk, I think he’s called-and find out what game they’re at.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

Herriott handed a glass of sherry to his manager.

‘Things should go better today. The band report at ten. I’m told they’re more noted for their vigour than the melody they produce, but they may help us to believe we’re feeling warmer.’

‘I hope they inject some life into the runners on the outer path,’ added Jacobson. ‘No one expects a broken down old cabber to go like a racehorse, but some of them look ready for the knacker.’

AT 5.30 A.M. Francis Mostyn-Smith returned to the track after a cat-nap of thirty minutes. He resumed his walk a few yards in front of O’Flaherty’s group, and the Irishman, as usual, slapped the little man’s shoulder.

‘That wouldn’t have been you sneaking back from the huts, now would it? I thought we were a man short on this track. You can’t sleep all day, mate.’

Mostyn-Smith opened his mouth but they were already too far ahead to hear his reply. So he waited until they approached him to overtake again, but this time side-stepped smartly to his right so that they could pass inside, without the back-slapping. And as they came level, he addressed them.

‘You noticed the refreshing smell of carbolic in our hut, I hope, O’Flaherty. I managed to arrange with the manage-ment for our floor to be scrubbed each evening. It gives us a great advantage.’

‘You what?’ The Irishman had pulled up and rounded on Mostyn-Smith.

‘Carbolic, O’Flaherty. For hygiene, you know. The place reeked of animals. I don’t think you’ll be disturbed. I haven’t seen the cleaning-woman go in myself, but the hut smells distinctly sweeter.’

‘Carbolic? Cleaning-woman?’ repeated O’Flaherty. His face darkened as realisation dawned on him. ‘Oh Father! Keep me from committing a mortal sin!’

He wielded a fist before Mostyn-Smith’s startled face, but words and action failed him. He dropped his hands limply. Utterly deflated, he trudged off after the others, praying that they had not heard the conversation.

Walter Jacobson did not immediately search for Monk. The spirit he had shown in the boardroom had shaken Herriott. He was determined not to surrender any of the new respect he had won. So he resisted the impulses that urged him to carry out orders at once. And when he eventually found Monk, towards six o’clock, the circum-stances had altered. Charles Darrell’s spasm of energy had plainly subsided. He now moved along the track at a sedate plod, and the limp was back. Chadwick, however, had run off his stiffness and settled to a comfortable jog-trot, ener-getic enough to make inroads on his rival’s lead.

Monk was in the restaurant. ‘Emergency breakfasts’ were being served there.

‘Chadwick needs to make up a mile or two after your lad’s fine start,’ Jacobson tactfully began, as he seated himself next to the trainer. ‘I think he surprised us all, going off at such a gallop.’

Monk shook his head.

‘Too fast. It wasn’t like Charlie. He knows you can’t play about with pace. He knows that as well as anyone. What’s he doing now? Beginning to suffer, I shouldn’t wonder.’

He seemed complacent. Evidently Darrell deserved to suffer a little, in his trainer’s opinion.

‘Well,’ answered Jacobson, ‘his lapping looks a sight slower than it was. Do you mean that he wasn’t under instructions to warm up the pace?’

‘I never give instructions unless I see a man’s liable to break down. If Charlie ain’t learned by now that you don’t bolt like a goose at Christmas on the second morning of a six-day wobble, then he deserves a few hours’ struggling. I got no sympathy, Mr Jacobson.’

‘You’re not worried about blistering? How are his feet?’

Monk nonchalantly buttered a piece of toast.

‘Seen ’em worse-a lot worse. He won’t give up on that account.’

‘I sincerely hope he won’t give up on any account. There’s a deal of public interest in this duel with Chadwick. It would be disastrous to our promotion if the race didn’t come to a finish.’

‘Then you’d better see Chadwick’s trainer, Mr Jacobson. We ain’t the party that’ll seize up, if any does. Charlie’s record is clean.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Jacobson, who still held private reser-vations about Darrell’s staying powers. ‘But, like you, I like to see a man run to his best form.’

A voice unexpectedly hailed Monk from the restaurant door.

‘You’re wanted on track, mate. Your feller’s down with cramp!’

‘I bloody knew it,’ the trainer told Jacobson. ‘He was ask-ing for this, running himself into a lather. D’you know how long we spent on his breathings? Six weeks! He was better prepared than any in this race.’

Grumbling profusely, Monk made for the door and marched out past the stands to the competitors’ entrance. At the side of the inner track a cluster of officials and a consta-ble had gathered around Darrell. He lay on his side with knees bent, arms tensed and moaning. His face was ghastly pale. Monk knelt at his side and began manipulating his legs.

‘That’s the second to go inside an hour,’ cheerfully com-mented one of the onlookers. ‘That boy Reid fell like a stone-and his brother couldn’t be found, neither. By the looks of him he won’t see the track for a couple of hours.’

Darrell allowed Monk to work at his aching legs. The pain was easing. Chadwick jogged by, regarding these oper-ations with interest.

Darrell spoke. ‘It was soft to go off like that, I own it. Just get me back on the path.’

‘How are your feet?’ Monk asked.

‘No trouble really. Pins and needles. Part of the cramp, I suppose.’

‘Try to stand up.’

Applause broke out in the enclosure as Darrell was seen to be vertical again. A crowd of several hundred had paid their shillings, many before commencing the day’s work.

‘Now put your weight on the leg. Move around. Are you game to go on? I wouldn’t come off yet, or the cramp might take a hold. I’ll bring a jacket. Must keep your blood warm.’ Darrell freed himself from the hands supporting him, and stepped on to the track. A little unsteadily he forced himself to trot away. There was cheering from the stands.

Monk slipped into the tent and brought out a Norfolk jacket. He caught up with Darrell and wrapped it around him.

‘Just keep on the move, Charlie, and you’ll run yourself back on form.’

The runner worked the jacket on and seemed to quicken his pace as he rounded the bend at the Liverpool Road end. Sol Herriott, who was holding a Press conference at one end of the arena, was visibly affected by Darrell’s break-down.

‘Shall we adjourn for a few moments, gentlemen, to watch this dramatic development?’

They clustered on one of the bends, a wall of dark over-coats turreted with bowler hats, behind which Darrell was lost to view for seconds as he hobbled past. Monk walked anxiously at his side, encouraging him from inside the ropes. Then the reporters rearranged themselves around Herriott. Questions bombarded him.

‘What happens if he throws in his hand?’

‘Where’s your doctors, Mr Herriott?’

‘Will you call the race off if he pulls out?’

‘What’s happened to young Reid?’

The promotor held up a hand and fixed his mouth and eyebrows in the grimace of a long-suffering schoolmaster. The questions subsided. Herriott, with deliberate slowness, lit a cigar, and resumed the conference.

‘Cramp is nothing unusual in a six-day race, gentlemen. Shall we keep our perspective? If there is any question of this man retiring from the race I have no doubt that he’ll try the remedy of a few hours’ sleep before giving up. And I may remind you that Mr Darrell is a professional sportsman of uncommon long experience. There are stratagems in this business of pedestrianism, gentlemen. Need I say more?’

‘You’re telling us Darrell’s a good actor, Mr Herriott?’

‘Merely suggesting a possibility, Mr Martin. You are from the Sporting and Dramatic, aren’t you? Your opinion is doubtless more valuable than mine.’

He simpered at the skill of his repartee.

The questions lasted another five minutes. Herriott’s the-sis (that the promotion was so impeccably staged that it could not fail to produce record performances and a momentous finish) took some knocks, but he defended it stoutly. The pity was that when he was beginning to con-vince some of his listeners a series of screams rang echoing across the Hall and the conference dispersed in seconds.

A woman was in a state of hysteria in the shilling enclosure. Officials sprinted across the tracks, the newsmen converged there and the shrieking creature was subdued. What had escaped most of the Press was the reason for her outburst. On the inner track Darrell had collapsed again. He lay full length on the track, his face contorted with pain, turned towards the section of the crowd where the woman had been watching. The attention switched to him. Monk ran on to the track and began working at the contracted leg-muscles. A blanket was thrown over Darrell’s shoulders. After some seconds of silence the crowd began shouting that he should be taken off, and whistles of approval greeted two stretcher-bearers, who moved the runner, still gasping with pain, to his tent.

A doctor, summoned by Herriott, joined Monk inside the tent, where Darrell lay on the bed, breathing more regularly and with some relaxation.

‘A devil of a cramp,’ the trainer diagnosed as he contin-ued to massage the legs.

‘Keep the man warm, then, and massage upwards, with the course of circulation. We must get those boots off.’

In a matter of minutes Darrell was free of pain, but the experience had left him considerably weaker. His pulse-rate and heart-beat were taken.

‘This man is not to run again today,’ the doctor stated, perhaps without realising its full implications.

Darrell spoke for the first time.

‘You can’t-I must. You can’t stop me.’

His shoulders were pressed back on to the bed.

‘Take a sleep, my man. You are in no state to think of con-tinuing. When you’ve rested you’ll be twice the runner.’

With a nod to Monk, the doctor withdrew to report to Herriott.

‘The man obviously has a saline deficiency, and he is now totally exhausted. There is no question of his running for another twelve hours.’

‘Twelve? You can’t mean this. He’s one of the principals. These men recover quickly-’

‘Twelve hours, sir, or I won’t answer for the man’s health. The pulse is racing dangerously.’

Herriott sought for words to influence the doctor. Twelve hours meant the ruin of his promotion. All the publicity, all the interest, had focused on the Darrell-Chadwick duel.

‘Perhaps… another opinion. Your colleague, when he comes in, may see the possibility of a faster recovery?’

‘That is for him to decide, Mr Herriott. You have my opinion. I am sorry-’

The conversation was severed by a groan of appalling desperation from Darrell’s tent. For a shocked instant, both men stood immobile. Then they ran to the tent.

Charles Darrell lay pinned to the mattress by Monk’s straining arms. Beneath the blankets his lower body jerked woodenly in convulsions. Pain had transformed his face. His mouth gaped, struggling to shout again, but instead repeat-edly gasped for breath.

The doctor pulled Monk from the restraining position which he had instinctively taken up, and allowed Darrell to roll on to his side, where he at last gave vent to agonised moaning. The spasms lessened in number and intensity as the seconds passed.

‘Stretcher! We must move him out at once,’ the doctor shouted. ‘I need a room for him, away from this row.’

Herriott, to his credit, was equal to the urgency of the sit-uation. While the stretcher-bearers were recalled to the tent, he ordered other attendants to erect a spare bed in the boardroom. In minutes, Darrell, still conscious, but moan-ing with an involuntary rhythm, was carried out of the tent and across the tracks.

As the party moved towards the corridor which led to the offices, a figure in black running costume followed and caught up with the doctor.

‘You will excuse me. My name is Mostyn-Smith. Possibly I can assist. I have a degree in medicine.’

The doctor received this information as calmly as though Mostyn-Smith were dressed in frock-coat and spats.

‘My thanks, Doctor. I shall be much in your debt if you will give an opinion.’

Darrell was borne into the boardroom where the bed was almost ready.

‘And now, Mr Herriott, and you, sir,’ the doctor said addressing Monk, ‘if you will leave us with the patient? Please do not go far away, as we may need urgent medical supplies.’

When the door had closed, Herriott turned to face a dozen reporters, eager for statements. He recovered a little of his poise.

‘Mr Darrell has been removed from the area of the tracks in order that he may rest, gentlemen. As you saw for your-selves, he was suffering from severe cramp-a sign of over-tiredness. Please do him the kindness now of leaving him to rest. A doctor is with him as an extra precaution, and if there is any comment on his condition I shall recall you.’

For almost an hour, interrupted only when Mostyn-Smith came out briefly to ask for warm, strong tea for the patient, Herriott paced the corridor, trying to devise ways of salvaging something from this setback. The Press, he knew would not be stalled for long. If Darrell were forced to with-draw from the race, and the newspapers published the infor-mation, the attendance for the second part of the week would plummet. Nobody wanted to see an exhibition by Chadwick, famous as he was; and the rest of the field could run for a year without attracting anyone to the Hall.

At length the door of the bedroom opened, and Mostyn-Smith, saying nothing, indicated with his eyes that they were ready for Herriott to enter. He understood the silence a moment later. He stood in the doorway and looked at the bed on the opposite side, where the lifeless body of Charles Darrell lay, covered by a blanket.