Дик Фрэнсис - Knock Down

‘I’ve got some codeine,’ I said.

She twisted her mouth. ‘Then I’d like some.’

I fetched the pain killers and a glass of water.

‘Are you everyone’s nurse?’ she said.

‘Mostly my own.’

While I had been telephoning, she had taken note of the racing photographs on the walls.

‘These are of you, aren’t they?’ she asked.

‘Most of them.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘I don’t go racing myself, but my aunt has a stud farm, and I suppose I see your name in newspapers and on television.’

‘Not any more. It’s nearly three years since I stopped.’

‘Do you regret it?’

‘Stopping?’ I shrugged. ‘Everyone has to, sometime.’ Especially when on the receiving end of six months in a spinal brace and severe warnings from gents in white coats.

She asked if I would drive her along to where she had crashed so that she could see the place in daylight.

‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘And I want to look for the rug my horse got rid of on his travels, though it’s bound to be torn. Pity he lost it, really, as it’s a light fawn... much easier to see in the dark than his own bay coat.’

She stubbed out her cigarette but before we could move the telephone rang.

‘Hi, Jonah,’ said a cheerful American voice. ‘How did the sale go?’

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘Well... I guess the one for Kerry. You know. Kerry Sanders.’

‘Oh sure,’ I agreed. ‘Only I’ve bought two for her. Didn’t she tell you?’

‘Uh uh. Only that you were off to Ascot for some nag with a God awful name.’

Pauli Teksa. I pictured him at the other end of the line, a short solidly built man in his early forties, bursting with physical and mental energy and unashamedly out to make money. I had met him only a few times and thought his most outstanding quality was the speed with which he reached decisions. After a session with him one felt as if one had been carried along irresistibly by a strong tide, and it was only afterwards that one wondered if any of his instant assessments ever turned out to be wrong.

He was over in England for the Newmarket Yearling Sales, a bloodstock agent on a large scale in the States keeping tabs on the worldwide scene.

We had had a drink together in a group of others at Newmarket the previous week, and it was because of that and other equally casual meetings that he had, I supposed, given my name to Kerry Sanders.

I told him what had become of Hearse Puller. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sophie listening with her mouth open in incredulity. Pauli Teksa’s astonishment was tempered by greater cynicism about the world we both moved in, but even he was outraged at the use of force.

‘Pressure,’ he said vigorously. ‘Even unfair pressure. Sure But violence ...’

‘I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.’

‘I’ve been out of town since Tuesday. Just got back from Ireland. Guess she couldn’t reach me.’

‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘No great harm done. She made a profit on Hearse Puller and I bought her another horse instead.’

‘Yeah, but you sure ought to raise a hell of a ruckus over what went on back there at Ascot.’

‘I’ll leave it to Mrs Sanders.’

‘It sure makes me feel bad that it was I who got you into this mess.’

‘Never mind,’ I said.

‘But I’m glad you managed to do a deal for her in the end.’ He paused, his voice heavy with meaning.

I smiled wryly at the telephone. ‘You’re saying you want a cut of the commission?’

‘Jonah, fella,’ his voice sounded hurt, ‘did I ask?’

‘I learn,’ I said. ‘I learn.’

‘Two per cent,’ he said. ‘A gesture. Nothing more. Two per cent, Jonah. O.K.?’

‘O.K.,’ I said, sighing. The two percent, which sounded so little, was in fact two fifths of my fee. I should have charged Kerry Sanders more than five per cent, I thought. Silly me. Except that five per cent was fair.

It was no good refusing Pauli. The remaining three per cent was better than nothing, even with a bang on the head thrown in, and there was goodwill involved. Pauli on my side was a good future prospect. Pauli against, a lousy one.

By the time I put the receiver down Sophie had shut her mouth and regained her calm. She raised her eyebrows.

‘Hey ho for a quiet life in the country.’

‘Quiet is internal,’ I said.

Up on the main road the orange MG dangled like a crumpled toy at the rear of the breakdown truck. Sophie watched with regret as it was towed away, and picked up a bent silver hub cap which fell off in the first few feet.

‘I liked that car,’ she said.

The Rover had already gone. All that remained after distance swallowed the breakdown truck were some black brake marks on the road and a pathetic heap of swept up glass.

Sophie threw the hub cap into the ditch, shrugged off her regrets, and said we would now look for my rug.

We found it not very far away and across on the far side of the road, a damp haphazard heap half hidden by bushes. I picked it up expecting a complete ruin, as horses mostly rid themselves of their rugs by standing on one edge and becoming so frightened by the unexpected restraint that they tear the cloth apart in a frenzy to get free. Horses standing quietly in stables almost never shed their rugs, but horses loose among bushes could do it easily.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

I looked up, ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’

‘Well, good.’

‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully. Because I didn’t see how any horse could get out of his rug by undoing the three fastening buckles, one across the chest, the others under the stomach; and on this rug, which was totally undamaged, the buckles were quite definitely undone.

Sophie was adamant about returning home, the steel in her character showing little spikes when I tried to persuade her to give my number to the people who might call her out on stand-by. She unbent to the extent of grilled chicken for lunch in the still untidy kitchen, and at Gatwick Airport she even allowed me to pay the deposit for her hired car, though this was entirely because she had set out to the dinner party without cheque book or identification and felt less than impressive in my clothes. I said I liked pale blue socks with silver sandals. She said I was a bloody fool. I wished very much that she wasn’t going.

Crispin’s return from the pub coincided with mine from Gatwick. He was maudlin, bleary eyed, expansive, waving his arms around in large gestures and clutching a full bottle of gin. According to him he didn’t know how I put up with him, I was the salt of the earth, the salt of the effing earth, he didn’t care who knew it.

‘Sure,’ I said.

He belched. I wondered if one struck a match whether gin fumes would ignite like gas.

He focused on the remains of chicken and said he wanted some.

‘You won’t eat it,’ I said.

‘I will.’ He squinted at me. ‘You’ll cook for a bloody popsy but not for your own brother.’

I put another piece in the griller. It smelled good, looked good, and he didn’t eat it. He sat at the table, picked it up in his fingers and took a couple of small bites before pushing the plate away.

‘It’s tough,’ he said.

He lit a cigar. It took six matches, a lot of squinting and a variety of oaths.

We’d been through so many cures. Six weeks in a private nursing home drying out with a psychiatrist listening daily to his woes had resulted in precisely one month’s sobriety. Then, having been scooped by the police from a Park Lane gutter, he woke in a public ward and didn’t like it. I told him I wasn’t riding races just to keep him in trick cyclists. He said I didn’t care about him. The whole hopeless circus had been going on for years.