The Runners (7 page)

‘John, I’ll have one for the road.’

‘A pint, Matt?’

‘And a short, thanks.’

‘Dad, the door was kicked in. It was knocked off the hinges.’

Matt was brilliant at fixing things. He had the door hanging back up in no time. Laura didn’t even
have to ask him not to go back to the pub. Bobby could hear his mother’s concerns.

‘We can’t raise children in this area.’

Matt listened intently to what she was saying. Bobby was afraid his dad was coming to the same conclusion as his mam.

‘We’ll put the house up for sale again.’

‘But nobody will buy it.’

‘We might get lucky.’

He had to tell Jay as quickly as possible. The last time there was talk of moving out was when fireworks had been put through the letterbox three nights in a row.

‘My mam wants to move out now and it’s my fault.’

‘How is it your fault?’ asked Jay.

‘Cause I called Willo a junkie.’

‘He
is
a junkie.’

‘I should have said nothing.’

‘Did you tell Anto?’ Jay wanted to know.

‘Why would I tell him?’

‘He always says if we have a problem to talk to him.’

Anto was livid that Bobby’s door had been touched. Bobby had never told him about the fireworks and the rocks. Jay told him exactly what was going on now, the fear of losing his friend sparking him into action.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Ryan. I’m going to have a word with who I think is responsible.’

‘I don’t want to be bringing more trouble on us.’

‘It will be the end of your trouble.’

‘I’d appreciate that, Anto.’

Anto made them stand outside while he went into the unknown house. Bobby was worried that Anto might make the situation worse. They could hear shouting and then quiet. Anto came out the window first, followed by Git and then Willo.

‘There is going to be an apology. If you can’t manage that then we can sort it out another way.’

Anto marched them down the road and knocked gently on the door.

‘They have something to say, Mrs Ryan.’

‘It was me who kicked the door and I’m sorry,’ said Willo, while he looked at the ground.

‘And you?’

‘Sorry, Mrs Ryan.’

Git looked like the whole idea was Willo’s. He would always go along with anything his brother did. Bobby couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Normally, violence was used to sort out problems in the inner city. His dad had been threatening for ages to kick the lads’ heads in, if he could catch them. Anto had sorted it out with words. The hassle had gone on for years and Matt had been able do nothing about it. Bobby knew it was
because Anto was from the flats. He wanted them to live in the flats. If they lived in a flat, nobody would see them as different. Why couldn’t they just move to the flats? He hated being different.

Thirteen was a lucky number for Bobby. He was born on 13 July, and he could sneeze thirteen times in a row. He had also seen thirteen magpies on a telegraph wire one day. He won a bet on a horse call Thurles Connection that day. It was number thirteen. He didn’t believe thirteen was unlucky.

His dad had asked him what he wanted for his birthday and there could only be one answer. He described the shirt in detail, explaining exactly where it was in the shop. Tony Ward’s sports shop in town had a bargain bin of old jerseys and a rack of all the latest football shirts. On the new rack was the brand new Liverpool shirt, sponsored by Crown Paints. It was written in yellow across the front of the red shirt. Bobby loved the way it looked. It was fourteen pounds ninety-nine pence.

It was always the same deal. Into his parents’ room to open his card first. It always had a footballer on the front. The message said, ‘Happy 13
^th
Birthday, enjoy the jersey. I hope it makes you play better. Love, mam and dad. XXX.’ He ripped open the present and saw white. It was a white jersey. He looked at the front of it, and it was the old England jersey they had worn in the 1982 World
Cup. It had an Admiral logo on the front and a blue and red stripe. He loved England, they were much better than Ireland, but Liverpool were the best.

‘What do you think?’

‘Thanks Dad,’ was all he could muster, knowing it was from the bargain bin in Tony Ward’s.

A fiver was all he was worth. He begrudgingly gave them both a kiss and went to walk out of the room.

‘Try it on.’

‘I need to have a wash first.’

He came upstairs after his washing ritual with the jersey on. He looked at himself in the mirror but all he wanted to see was the Liverpool shirt.

‘It looks great, thanks a million,’ he lied.

‘I thought you would love it. I know you love Kevin Keegan.’

‘Happy birthday, English boy,’ laughed Jay.

‘Piss off, it’s a Kevin Keegan shirt.’

‘An England Kevin Keegan shirt.’

‘I asked for the new Liverpool shirt and this is what I got.’

‘Are you coming into town?’

‘I’m not robbing any jeans.’

‘Do you fancy a few games of Mario Brothers? I’ll put five credits into it for your birthday.’

‘Thanks a million.’

Bobby couldn’t get the Liverpool shirt out of his
head. After a few hours playing Mario, he had a plan.

‘Let’s go after this game.’

‘Where to?’

‘To the bookies. I’m going to win the money to buy the shirt.’

‘You’re mad. What if you lose the money?’

‘I had nothing to begin with, so if I end up with nothing then I’m just back where I started.’

‘You say that every time. You have to have something to start with if you are going to put the bet on.’

Every bookie in Dublin was next door to a pub. It provided another way for the alcoholics to lose their money, or to win some for more drink. Or to win some for a new football shirt. Bobby could read the form of horses. Sometimes horses were in good form, sometimes bad. The same as humans. The key to winning a bet was to predict what form they would be in. A row of numbers beside their name signified where they had finished in their last few races. A zero meant it had finished nowhere. A one meant it had won the last race it ran. The number two beside the name meant it finished second. It was important to be able to read the form. The
Sporting Life
listed the finishing time of each horse and the distance of each race it ran. The summer was the flat-racing season. The horses
went over jumps in the winter, when the ground was softer, so that the jockeys wouldn’t completely wreck themselves when they fell off going thirty miles an hour. The shortest races were five furlongs. A furlong was two hundred metres. Eight furlongs was a mile.

Ladbrokes on O’Connell Street was just around the corner from Barney’s video arcade. It was Bobby’s favourite bookies because they had free coffee and tea. It was illegal to gamble if you were under eighteen, but Bobby had never been stopped. He had been questioned a few times but he just said the bet was for his dad. Bobby grabbed some dockets and a bookie’s pencil. He looked up at the board that listed all the races. The 2.15 at Catterick was ten minutes away from starting. There were ten runners. It was a seven-furlong sprint. Number 13 was called Jack the Lad.

‘That has to be a sign. Thirteen is my lucky number and it’s a seven-furlong sprint.’

‘You’re as mad as your da. What does it matter if it’s a seventy-furlong sprint?’

‘A seventy-furlong sprint isn’t a sprint because seventy furlongs is over eight miles.’

‘Just put the bet on.’

Bobby checked the
Sporting Life
. Beside the horse’s name it said, ‘Course and distance winner’.

This rang a bell for Bobby. His dad had about ten thousand superstitions when it came to gambling.

Never back a favourite in a three-horse race
.

He had heard that so many times and thought it was the most ridiculous one. Another one was
course and distance winner
. Some days it was a reason to back a horse, other days it was the reason a horse would lose. Half of his superstitions contradicted the other half.

Jack the Lad was 4–1. Pat Eddery was in the saddle. Bobby knew if he put three pounds on it would give him fifteen back.

‘I’m going to put three quid on Jack the Lad.’

Bobby climbed up on one of the stools to write the bet out.

£3 win Jack the Lad, 2.15 Catterick
.

The lady behind the counter was looking at him suspiciously.

‘Is it OK if I do a bet for my dad? He is in the pub next door.’

‘Of course it is, son, do you know which horse he wants to back?’

At that moment, Bobby remembered another one of his dad’s superstitions.

‘Never write out a bet with a bookie’s pencil.’

He didn’t listen to that voice in his head the last time and he lost.

‘No I’ll go and ask him, thanks.’

‘Come on, Jay, quick, we need to find a shop.’

‘For what?’

‘We need to buy a pen and we need to pretend we’re asking my dad which horse he wants to back.’

‘You just wrote out the bet.’

‘I know, it was with a bookie’s pencil, though.’

‘It doesn’t make any difference, you lunatic.’

There was a shop a few doors down from the bookies.

‘Can I have a pen please?’

‘What type of pen, we have Bic biros, felt tips…’

‘What is the cheapest?’

‘The Bic, it’s five pence. We have them in blue, black, red…’

‘Any colour will do, red actually.’

Liverpool wore red. Bobby had three pound twenty left. He knew a three-pound bet would cost three pound thirty with the ten per cent tax added on.

‘Can I borrow ten pence off you, Jay?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘Not for a bet. I’m not giving you money for a bet.’

‘Pretend it’s for a Mint Crisp then.’

Jay begrudgingly handed over the ten pence. Bobby took out a fresh docket. He started writing out the bet. He always heard voices in his head when he was writing out a bet.

Do the bet. Back another horse. Put the money back in your pocket
.

‘Last few loading at Catterick,’
came across the tannoy.

He wrote the bet out again.

£3 win Jack the Lad 2.15 Catterick
.

‘That’s three thirty please.’

He made the Sign of the Cross in the palm of his hand with his index finger. He could feel his heart racing.

‘Jack the Lad has drifted in the market betting. They’re off at Catterick at 2.16.’

Bobby walked back to Jay.

‘If the horse wins, don’t get excited or they might think we put the bet on for ourselves.’

‘OK, why has it drifted?’

‘It’s not fancied on the track, so the odds drift. It doesn’t make a difference really, just means I win more money.’

They both stared intently at the small television in the corner of the bookies. Two old men were dragging on their smokes, directly under the TV. They had to stand close to see the screen. One of them shouted, ‘Go on number two.’

Some old men backed numbers without even looking at the form. Bobby looked up at the board. Number two. Red Mist. 33–1. The commentary for the race was crackly.

Red Mist leads by about four lengths. Two furlongs
to go. The pack are chasing him down. Red Mist still holding on by four lengths
.

Bobby felt a knot grow in his stomach, as his heart started to beat a bit faster. He should have backed Red Mist. It was a red jersey he was looking for, a red pen he wrote the bet with, and Red Mist was 33–1. He had three pounds. That would have been ninety-nine pounds winnings. He started to feel sick.

A furlong to go. Red Mist still leads. Clockwork Orange is closing, so is Jack the Lad. Pat Eddery is closing with every stride on Jack the Lad
.

Eddery was his dad’s favourite jockey, when he won him a bet. He was a bastard, bollix and any other insulting term he could think of when he lost a race.

One hundred yards to go. They’re neck and neck. Fifty yards to go. It’s too close to call. A photo finish between Jack the Lad, Red Mist and Clockwork Orange
.

‘Do you think you won?’

‘I think Jack the Lad got up on the line. It’s hard to tell. Eddery is a genius, as my da would say.’

This one is gone to the judges. Very close. Its looks to me as if the outsider, Red Mist, has pulled off a surprise, with Willie Carson on board
.

The old smoker under the television got a big hug from his friend.

‘Willie Carson is a genius. We’ll have a few pints on him tonight.’

They both lit up another cigarette and looked like the most contented couple in the world.

Result in from Catterick. First, number two, Red Mist. Second, number seven, Jack the Lad. Third, number four, Clockwork Orange. The SPs. 33–1, 9–2 and 7–4 favourite
.

The SP stood for Starting Price. Bobby thought it should have been FP, for finishing price. He felt sicker than he had ever felt doing a bet. He normally put fifty pence on. That was his limit. If he lost, he left the bookies. If he won, he put another fifty pence on. He always limited his losses. Bobby scrunched up the docket and threw it on the floor. Jay pretended he was the commentator on the race.

‘First, number two, Red Mist, second number seven…’

‘Piss off.’

They walked out of the bookies in silence.

‘I’m going down to my mam to get a red apple.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Or a lovely orange.’

‘I’m going home.’

His heart was racing, and he still had the sick feeling in his stomach. He could hear voices in his head telling him he should have done this or he should have done that. Why didn’t he back Red Mist? He would have over a hundred pounds in
his pocket if he had. When he got home, he sat on his bed staring at Croke Park, swearing he would never gamble again, but deep down he knew he would. The sick feeling always left him eventually, leaving him free to have another bet.

Bobby could wallow in the mire for hours. He only knew what that meant because his brother had a Doors LP. Eventually, Jay knocked.

‘What have you been doing?’

‘Wallowing.’

‘What?’