Дик Фрэнсис - Rat Race

‘I locked up again,’ he said, handing me the bunch.

‘Thanks, Major.’

He nodded, glanced once more at Chanter, and retreated in good order.

Even for Nancy’s sake the official wouldn’t let Chanter up the steps to the Owners and Trainers. We watched at grass level with Chanter muttering ‘stinking bourgeois’ at regular intervals.

Colin Ross finished second. The crowd booed and tore up a lot of tickets. Nancy looked as though she were long used to that, too.

Between the next two races we sat on the grass while Chanter gave us the uninterrupted benefit of his views on the evils of money, racialism, war, religion and marriage. It was regulation stuff, nothing new. I didn’t say I thought so. During the discourse he twice without warning stretched over and put his hand on Nancy’s breast. Each time without surprise she picked it off again by the wrist and threw it back at him. Neither of them seemed to think it needed comment.

After the next race (Colin was third) Chanter remarked that his throat was dry, and Nancy and I obediently followed him off to the Tattersalls bar for lubrication. Coca Colas for three, splashed out of the bottles by an overworked barmaid. Chanter busily juggled the three glasses so that it was I who paid, which figured.

The bar was only half full but a great deal of space and attention was being taken up by one man, a large tough-looking individual with a penetrating Australian accent. He had an obviously new white plaster cast on his leg and a pair of crutches which he hadn’t mastered. His loud laugh rose above the general buzz as he constantly apologised for knocking into people.

‘Haven’t got the hang of these props yet...’

Chanter regarded him, as he did most things, with some disfavour.

The large Australian went on explaining his state to two receptive acquaintances.

‘Mind you, can’t say I’m sorry I broke my ankle. Best investment I ever made.’ The laugh rang out infectiously and most people in the bar began to grin. Not Chanter, of course.

‘See, I only paid my premium the week before, and then I fell down these steps and I got a thousand quid for it. Now that ain’t whistling, that ain’t, eh? A thousand bleeding quid for falling down a flight of steps.’ He laughed again hugely, enjoying the joke. ‘Come on mates,’ he said, ‘Drink up, and let’s go and invest some of this manna from Heaven on my good friend Kenny Bayst.’

I jumped a fraction and looked at my watch. Coming up to three thirty. Kenny Bayst clearly hadn’t told his good friend not to speculate. Absolutely none of my business. Telling him myself would be the worst favour I could do for Kenny Bayst.

The large Australian swung himself out of the bar, followed by the two mates. Chanter’s curiosity overcame his disinclination to show himself at a loss.

‘Who,’ he said crossly, ‘Is going to give that schmo a thousand quid for breaking his ankle?’

Nancy smiled. ‘It’s a new insurance fund, specially for people who go racing. Accident insurance. I don’t really know. I’ve heard one or two people mention it lately.’

‘Insurance is immoral,’ Chanter said dogmatically, sliding round behind her and laying his hand flat on her stomach. Nancy picked it off and stepped away. As a bodyguard, I didn’t seem to be doing much good.

Nancy said she particularly wanted to see this race properly, and left Chanter looking moody at the bottom of the staircase. Without asking her I followed her up the steps: a period alone with Chanter held no attractions.

Kenny Bayst, according to my slantways look at Nancy’s racecard, was riding a horse called Rudiments: number seven, owned by the Duke of Wessex, trained by Miss Villars, carrying olive green with silver crossbelts and cap. I watched the horse canter down past the stands on the olive green grass and reflected that the Duke of Wessex had chosen colours which were as easy to distinguish as coal on a black night.

I said to Nancy, ‘What did Rudiments do in his last race?’

‘Hm?’ she said absentmindedly, all her attention on the rose pink and white shape of her brother. ‘Did you say Rudiments?’

‘That’s right. I brought Kenny Bayst and Annie Villars here, as well.’

‘Oh. I see.’ She looked down at her racecard. ‘Last time out... it won. Time before that, it won. Time before that, it came fourth.’

‘It’s good, then?’

‘Fairly, I suppose.’ She wrinkled her nose at me. ‘I told you you’d get involved.’

I shook my head. ‘Just curious.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Is it favourite?’

‘No, Colin is. But... you can see over there, on that big board... see?... Rudiments is second favourite on the Tote at about three to one.’

‘Well...’ I said. ‘What does it mean, to lay a horse?’

‘It means to stand a bet. It’s what bookmakers do. What the Tote does, really, come to that.’

‘Can people do it who aren’t bookmakers?’

‘Oh sure. They do. Say the bookmakers are offering three to one, and you yourself don’t think the horse will win, you could say to your friends, I’ll lay you four to one; so they’d bet with you because you were offering more. Also, no betting tax. Private wager, you see.’

‘And if the horse wins, you pay out?’

‘You sure do.’

‘I see,’ I said. And I did. Eric Goldenberg had laid Rudiments the last time it had run because Kenny Bayst had agreed to lose, and then he’d gone and won. Their tempers were still on the dicky side as a result: and they had been arguing today about whether or not to try again.

‘Colin thinks he’ll win this,’ Nancy said. ‘I do hope so.’

Bonanza for Bayst, I thought.

It was a seven furlong race, it seemed. The horses accelerated from standing to 30 m.p.h. in times which would have left a Porsche gasping. When they swung away round the far bend Rudiments was as far as I was concerned invisible, and until the last hundred yards I didn’t see him once. Then all of a sudden there he was, boxed in in a bunch on the rails and unable to get past Colin Ross directly in front.

Kenny didn’t find his opening. He finished the race in third place, still pinned in by Colin in front and a dappled grey alongside. I couldn’t begin to tell whether or not he had done it on purpose.

‘Wasn’t that great ?’ Nancy exclaimed to the world in general, and a woman on the far side of her agreed that it was, and asked after the health of her sister Midge.

‘Oh, she’s fine, thanks,’ Nancy said. She turned to me and there was less joy in her eyes than in her voice. ‘Come over here,’ she said. ‘You can see them unsaddling the winner.’

The Owners and Trainers turned out to be on the roof of the weighing room. We leaned over the rails at the front and watched Colin and Kenny unbuckle the saddle girths, loop the saddles over their arms, pat their steaming horses, and disappear into the weighing room. The group in the winner’s enclosure were busy slapping backs and unburdening to the Press. The group in the third enclosure wore small tight smiles and faraway eyes. I still couldn’t tell if they were ecstatic and biding it, or livid and ditto.

The horses were led away and the groups dispersed. In their place appeared Chanter, staring up and waving his arm.

‘Come on down,’ he shouted.

‘No inhibitions, that’s his trouble,’ Nancy said. ‘If we don’t go down, he’ll just go on shouting.’

He did. An official strode up manfully to ask him to belt up and buzz off, but it was like ripples trying to push over Bass Rock.

‘Come on down, Nancy.’ Fortissimo.

She pushed herself away from the rails and took enough steps to be out of his sight.

‘Stay with me,’ she said. It was more than half a question.