Reflex (21 page)

Sharpener won and I was exhausted, which was ridiculous. Harold, beaming, watched me fumble feebly with the girth buckles in the winners' enclosure. The horse, stamping around, almost knocked me over.

“You only went two miles,” Harold said. “What the hell's the matter with you?”

I got the buckles undone and pulled off the saddle, and began in fact to feel a trickle of strength flow again through my arms. I grinned at Harold and said, “Nothing . . . It was a damn good race. Nice shape.”

“Nice shape be buggered. You won. Any race you win is a nice bloody shape.”

I went in to be weighed, leaving him surrounded by congratulations and sportswriters; and while I was sitting on the bench by my peg waiting to get my strength back I decided what to do about Elgin Yaxley.

 

I had grown a habit, over the past two weeks, of taking with me in the car not only my favorite two cameras but also the photographs I seemed to keep on needing. Lance Kinship's reprints were there, although he himself hadn't
turned up, and so were the four concerning Yaxley. Straight after the big race I went out and fetched them.

The second horse I was due to ride for Harold was a novice hurdler in the last race, and because there had been so many entries in the novice hurdle that they'd split it into two divisions, the last race on that day was the seventh, not the sixth. It gave me just enough extra time for what I wanted.

Finding Elgin Yaxley wasn't so difficult, it was detaching him from Bart Underfield that gave the trouble.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” I said to Yaxley.

“You're not having the rides on our horses,” Bart said bossily. “So don't waste time asking.”

“You can keep them,” I said.

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to give Mr. Yaxley a message.” I turned to Yaxley. “It's a private message, for your ears only.”

“Oh, very well.” He was impatient. “Wait for me in the bar, Bart.”

Bart grumbled and fussed, but finally went.

“Better come over here,” I said to Elgin Yaxley, nodding towards a patch of grass by the entrance gate, away from the huge big-race crowd with their stretched ears and curious eyes. “You won't want anyone hearing.”

“What the devil
is
all this?” he said crossly.

“A message from George Millace,” I said.

His sharp features grew rigid. The small moustache he wore bristled. The complacency vanished into a furious concentration of fear.

“I have some photographs,” I said, “which you might like to see.”

I handed him the cardboard envelope. It seemed easier this second time, I thought, to deliver the chop. Maybe I was becoming hardened . . . or maybe I simply didn't like Elgin Yaxley. I watched him open the envelope with no pity at all.

He first went pale, and then red, and great drops of
sweat stood out like blisters on his forehead. He checked through the four pictures and found the whole story was there, the cafe meeting and George's two letters, and the damning note from the farmer, David Parker. The eyes he raised to me were sick and incredulous, and he had difficulty finding his voice.

“Take your time,” I said. “I expect it's a shock.”

His mouth moved as if practicing, but no words came out.

“Any number of copies,” I said, “could go off to the insurance company and the police and so on.”

He managed a strangled groan.

“There's another way,” I said.

He got his throat and tongue to shape a single hoarse unedifying word.
“Bastard.”

“Mm,” I said. “There's George Millace's way.”

I'd never seen anyone look at me with total hatred before, and I found it unnerving. But I wanted to find out just what George had extracted from at least one of his victims, and this was my best chance.

I said flatly, “I want the same as George Millace.”

“No.” It was more a wail than a shout. Full of horror; empty of hope.

“Yes, indeed,” I said.

“But I can't afford it. I haven't got it.”

The anxiety in his eyes was almost too much for me, but I spurred on my flagging resolution with the thought of five shot horses, and said again, “The same as George.”

“Not ten,” he said wildly. “I haven't got it.”

I stared at him.

He mistook my silence and gabbled on, finding his voice in a flood of begging, beseeching, cajoling words.

“I've had expenses, you know. It hasn't all been easy. Can't you let me alone? Let me off, won't you? George said once and for all . . . and now
you
 . . . Five, then,” he said in the face of my continued silence. “Will five do? That's enough. I haven't got any more. I haven't.”

I stared once more, and waited.

“All right, then. All
right
.” He was shaking with worry and fury. “Seven and a half. Will that do? It's all I've got, you bloodsucking leech . . . you're worse than George Millace . . . bastard
blackmailers
 . . .”

While I watched he fumbled into his pockets and brought out a checkbook and a pen. Clumsily supporting the checkbook on the photograph envelope, he wrote the date and a sum of money, and signed his name. Then with shaking fingers he tore the slip of paper out of the book and stood holding it.

“Not Hong Kong,” he said.

I didn't know at once what he meant, so I took refuge in more staring.

“Not Hong Kong. Not there again. I don't like it.” He was beseeching again, begging for crumbs.

“Oh . . .” I hid my understanding in a cough. “Anywhere,” I said. “Anywhere out of Britain.”

It was the right answer, but gave him no comfort. I stretched out my hand for the check.

He gave it to me, his hand trembling.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Rot in hell.”

He turned and stumbled away, half running, half staggering, utterly in pieces. Serve him right, I thought callously. Let him suffer. It wouldn't be for long.

I meant to tear up his check when I'd looked to see how much he thought my silence was worth: how much he'd paid George. I meant to, but I didn't. When I looked at that check, something like a huge burst of sunlight happened in my head, a bright expanding delight of awe and comprehension.

I had used George's own cruelty. I had demanded to be given what he himself had demanded. His alternative suggestion for Elgin Yaxley.

I had it. All of it.

Elgin Yaxley was going off into exile, and I held his
check for seven thousand five hundred pounds.

It was made out not to me, or to Bearer, or even to the estate of George Millace, but to the Injured Jockeys' Fund.

I
walked around for a while trying to find the particular ex-jockey who had become one of the chief administrators of the fund, and at length tracked him down in the private entertainment box of one of the television companies. There was a crowd in there, but I winkled him out.

“Want a drink?” he said, holding up his glass.

I shook my head. I was wearing colors, breeches, boots and an anorak. “More than my life's worth, boozing with you lot before racing.”

He said cheerfully, “What can I do for you?”

“Take a check,” I said, and gave it to him.

“Phew,” he said, looking at it. “And likewise
wow
.”

“Is it the first time Elgin Yaxley's been so generous?”

“No, it isn't,” he said. “He gave us ten thousand a few months ago, just before he went abroad. We took it of course, but some of the trustees wondered if it wasn't conscience money. I mean . . . he'd just been paid a hundred thousand by the insurance company for those horses of his that were shot. The whole business looked horribly fishy, didn't it?”

“Mm.” I nodded. “Well . . . Elgin Yaxley's going
abroad again, so he says, and he gave me this check for you. So will you take it?”

He smiled. “If his conscience is troubling him again, we might as well benefit.” He folded the check, tucked it away and patted the pocket which contained it.

“Have you had any other huge checks like that?” I enquired conversationally.

“People leave big amounts in their wills, sometimes, but no . . . not many like Elgin Yaxley.”

“Would Ivor den Relgan be a generous supporter?” I asked.

“Well, yes, he gave us a thousand at the beginning of the season. Some time in September. Very generous.”

I pondered. “Do you keep lists of the people who donate?”

He laughed. “Not all of them. Thousands of people contribute over the years. Old-age pensioners. Children. Housewives. Anyone you can think of.” He sighed. “We never seem to have enough for what we need to do, but we're always grateful for the smallest help . . . and you know all that.”

“Yes. Thanks anyway.”

“Any time.”

He went back to the convivial crowd and I returned to the weighing room and got myself and my saddle weighed out for the last race.

I was as bad as George, I thought. Identically as bad. I had extorted money by threats. It didn't seem so wicked, now that I'd done it myself.

Harold in the parade ring said sharply, “You're looking bloody pleased with yourself.”

“Just with life in general.”

I'd ridden a winner. I'd almost certainly found Amanda. I'd discovered a lot more about George. Sundry kicks and punches on the debit side, but who cared? Overall, not a bad day.

“This hurdler,” Harold said severely, “is the one who
wrecked the schooling session last Saturday. I know you weren't on him . . . it wasn't your fault . . . but you just mind he gets a good clear view of what he's got to jump. Understand? Go to the front and make the running, so he's got a clear view. He won't last the trip, but it's a big field and I don't want him being jostled and blinded in the pack early on. Got it?”

I nodded. There were twenty-three runners, almost the maximum allowed in this type of race. Harold's hurdler, walking edgily around the parade ring, was already sweating with nervous excitement, and he was an animal, I knew from experience, who needed a soothing phlegmatic approach.

“Jockeys, please mount,” came the announcement, and I and the hurdler in a decently quiet way got ourselves together and down to the start.

I was thinking only of bowling along in front out of trouble, and when the tapes went up, off we set. Over the first, leading as ordered; good jump, no trouble. Over the second, just out in front; passable jump, no trouble. Over the third . . .

In front, as ordered, at the third. Rotten, disastrous jump, all four feet seeming to tangle in the hurdle instead of rising over it: exactly the mess he'd made over the schooling hurdle at home.

He and I crashed to the turf together, and twenty-two horses came over the hurdle after us.

Horses do their very best to avoid a man or a horse on the ground, but with so many, so close, going so fast, it would have been a miracle if I hadn't been touched. One couldn't ever tell at those times just how many galloping hooves connected: it always happened too fast. It felt like being rolled like a rag doll under a stampede.

It had happened before. It would happen again. I lay painfully on my side looking at a close bunch of grass, and thought it was a damn silly way to be earning one's living. I almost laughed. I've thought that before, I
thought. Every time I'm down here on the mud, I think it.

A lot of First Aid hands arrived to help me up. Nothing seemed to be broken. Thank God for strong bones. I wrapped my arms around my body, as if hugging would lessen the hurt.

The horse had got up and decamped, unscathed. I rode back to the stands in an ambulance, demonstrated to the doctor that I was basically in one piece, and winced my slow way into ordinary clothes.

When I left the weighing room, most people had gone home, but Harold was standing there with Ben, his traveling head lad.

“Are you all right?” Harold demanded.

“Yeah.”

“I'll drive you home,” he said. “Ben can take your car.”

I looked at the generous worry in both of their faces, and didn't argue. Dug into my pocket, and gave Ben my keys.

“That was a hell of a fall,” Harold said, driving out of the gates. “A real brute.”

“Mm.”

“I was glad to see you stand up.”

“Is the horse all right?”

“Yes, clumsy bugger.”

We drove in companionable silence towards Lambourn. I felt beaten up and shivery, but it would pass. It always passed. Always would, until I got too old for it. I'd be too old in my mind, I thought, before my body gave out.

“If Victor Briggs comes down here again,” I said, “would you tell me?”

He glanced at me sideways. “You want to see him? Won't do any good, you know. Victor just does what he wants.”

“I want to know . . . what he wants.”

“Why not leave well enough alone?”

“Because it isn't well. I've left it alone . . . it doesn't work. I want to talk to him . . . and don't worry, I'll be diplomatic. I don't want to lose this job. I don't want you to lose Victor's horses. Don't worry. I know all that. I want to talk to him.”

“All right,” Harold said doubtfully. “When he comes, I'll tell him.”

He stopped his car beside my front door.

“You're sure you're all right?” he said. “You look pretty shaken. Nasty fall. Horrid.”

“I'll have a hot bath . . . get the stiffness out. Thanks for the lift home.”

“You'll be fit for next week? Tuesday at Plumpton?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

It was already getting dark. I went around in the cottage drawing the curtains, switching on lights, heating some coffee. Bath, food, television, aspirins, bed, I thought, and pray not to feel too sore in the morning.

Ben parked my car in the carport, gave me the keys through the back door and said goodnight.

Mrs. Jackson, the horsebox driver's wife from next door, came to tell me the tax assessor had called.

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes. Yesterday. Hope I did right, letting him in, like. Mind you, Mr. Nore, I didn't let him out of my sight. I went right around with him, like. He was only in here a matter of five minutes. He didn't touch a thing. Just counted the rooms. Hope it's all right. He had papers from the council, and such.”

“I'm sure it's fine, Mrs. Jackson.”

“And your telephone,” she said. “It's been ringing and ringing. Dozens of times. I can hear it through the wall, you know, when everything's quiet. I didn't know if you'd want me to answer it. I will, any time, you know, if you want.”

“Kind of you,” I said. “I'll let you know if I do.”

She gave me a bright nod and departed. She would
have mothered me if I'd let her, and I guessed she would have been glad to let the tax man in, as she liked looking around in my house. Nosy, friendly, sharp-eyed neighbor, taker in of parcels and dispenser of gossip and advice. Her two boys had broken my kitchen window once with their football.

I telephoned to Jeremy Folk. He was out: would I care to leave a message? Tell him I found what we were looking for, I said.

The instant I put the receiver down, the bell rang. I picked it up again, and heard a child's breathless voice. “I can tell you where that stable is. Am I the first?”

I regretfully said not. I also passed on the same bad news to ten more children within the next two hours. Several of them checked disappointedly to make sure I'd been told the right place—Zephyr Farm Stables? And several said did I know it had been owned for years and years by some Jesus freaks? I began asking them if they knew how the Colleagues had chanced to buy the stables, and eventually came across a father who did.

“Us and the people who kept the riding school,” he said, “we were pretty close friends. They wanted to move to Devon, and were looking for a buyer for their place, and these fanatics just turned up one day with suitcases full of cash, and bought it on the spot.”

“How did the fanatics hear of it? Was it advertised?”

“No . . .” He paused, thinking. “Oh, I remember . . . it was because of one of the children who used to ride the ponies. Yes, that's right. Sweet little girl. Mandy something. Always there. She used to stay with our friends for weeks on end. I saw her often. There was something about her mother being on the point of death, and the religious people looking after her. It was through the mother that they heard the stables were for sale. They were in some ruin of a house at the time, I think, and wanted somewhere better.”

“You don't remember the mother's name, I suppose.”

“Sorry, no. Don't think I ever knew it, and after all these years . . .”

“You've been tremendously helpful,” I said. “I'll send your Peter the ten pounds, even though he wasn't first.”

The father's voice chuckled. “That'll please him.”

I took his address, and also the name of the people who had owned the stables, but Peter's father said he had lost touch with them over the years and no longer knew where they lived.

Jeremy could find them, I thought, if he needed to. After I'd bathed and eaten I unplugged the telephone from the kitchen and carried it up to the sitting room, where for another hour it interrupted the television. God bless the little children, I thought, and wondered how many thousands were going to ring up. None of them had ever been inside the high wooden walls; it was always their mummies and daddies who had ridden there when they were young.

By nine o'clock I was thoroughly tired of it. Despite the long hot soak my deeply bruised muscles were beginning to stiffen; and the best place to take them was bed. Get it over with, I thought. It was going to be lousy. It always was, for about twenty-four hours, after so many kicks. If I went to bed I could sleep through the worst.

I unplugged the telephone and went down to the bathroom in shirtsleeves for a scratch round the teeth; and the front doorbell rang.

Cursing, I went to see who had called.

Opened the door.

Ivor den Relgan stood there, holding a gun.

I stared at the pistol, not believing it.

“Back up,” he said. “I'm coming in.”

It would be untrue to say I wasn't afraid. I was certain he was going to kill me. I felt bodiless. Floating. Blood racing.

For the second time that day I saw into the eyes of hatred, and the power behind den Relgan's paled Elgin
Yaxley's into petulance. He jerked the lethal black weapon towards me, insisting I retreat, and I took two or three steps backward, hardly feeling my feet.

He stepped through my door and kicked it shut behind him.

“You're going to pay,” he said, “for what you've done to me.”

Be careful, Jeremy had said.

I hadn't been.

“George Millace was bad,” he said. “You're worse.”

I wasn't sure I was actually going to be able to speak, but I did. My voice sounded strange: almost squeaky.

“Did you . . .” I said, “. . . burn his house?”

His eyes flickered. His naturally arrogant expression, which had survived whatever Lord White had said to him, wasn't going to be broken up by any futile last minute questions. In adversity his air of superiority had if anything intensified, as if belief in his own importance, were the only thing left.

“Burgled, ransacked, burned,” he said furiously. “And you had the stuff all the time. You . . . you
rattlesnake
.”

I had destroyed his power base. Taken away his authority. Left him metaphorically as naked as on his St. Tropez balcony.

George, I thought, must have used the threat of those photographs to stop den Relgan angling to be let into the Jockey Club. I'd used them to get him thrown out.

He'd had some sort of standing, of credibility, before, in racing men's eyes. Now he had none. Never to be in was one thing. To be in and then out, quite another.

George hadn't shown those photographs to anyone but den Relgan himself.

I had.

“Get back,” he said. “Back there. Go on.”

He made a small waving movement with the pistol. An automatic. Stupid thought. What did it matter?

“My neighbors'll hear the shot,” I said hopelessly.

He sneered and didn't answer. “Back past that door.”

It was the door to the darkroom, solidly shut. Even if I could jump in there alive . . . no sanctuary. No lock. I stepped past it.

“Stop,” he said.

I'd have to run, I thought wildly. Had at least to try. I was already turning on the ball of one foot when the kitchen door was smashed open.