John Francome - Declared Dead

Before I could reply, Freddie came in crying. As I picked him up and looked at him, I realised that for the moment I had no option.

I will never forget that afternoon at Worcester and the very first occasion in my life when I actually stopped a horse winning. Even then, it so nearly didn't go according to plan. Coming to the last and ignoring all my efforts to discourage him, Fainthearted was only a length behind the leader. To make matters worse, I was sitting with a double handful and I could have won almost without moving a muscle. Desperate measures were called for. I pushed him into the hurdle and really asked for a big one and then at the last moment deliberately changed my mind. He was completely confused and fell through the hurdle, breaking the top two bars and losing his balance with his back legs as he landed. I did nothing to help him and let the leader go as far away as I could before giving the impression to everyone in the stands that I was making a heroic effort to get back up to win. In fact we failed by a length.

Far from suspecting that I had been up to no good, Ralph was full of praise for the way I had managed to stay on board and comforted himself with the reflection that Fainthearted was nailed on next time out. The punters were less sympathetic. They had backed the horse down to 5-2 favourite and I had to listen to the usual cracks about how female jockeys ought to stick to the kitchen sink and bringing up children. If they had only known the real reason they had lost their money, they would have lynched me, woman or not.

It was now three months since that race and in the meantime my relationship with Edward had deteriorated even further. For the first time in years he had become interested in how I spent my day, cross-examining me in detail about whom I had seen and what I had done. Sometimes I felt he already knew the answers and was just trying to catch me out. One thing was clear. This sudden curiosity was not born of any desire to make our marriage work, as he took endless pleasure in ridiculing my friends and belittling my performances in the saddle. I had become a caged bird – to be played with and taunted with no chance of escape.

As I drove down the tricky Hungerford Hill into Lambourn my elation at winning the Gold Cup had given way to a profound sense of foreboding. However I viewed the future for Freddie and myself, it was shrouded in gloom. Edward was not going to forgive this afternoon's betrayal. Since that Worcester race he had made no secret of the fact that I now had to do what he ordered and each night before I had a fancied mount I went to sleep dreaming that I would wake up to be given the instruction not to try. In fact it had only happened on one other occasion, and I had duly caused the nominated horse to fall in a novice chase at Fontwell.

Little had I suspected that he had been saving up for the Gold Cup, the one race that every jockey dreams of winning. I could hardly believe my ears when he had casually mentioned the subject the night before as I turned off the light beside the bed. I had begged him not to make me do it, offering to cheat as often as he wanted in the future, but he just shook his head and laughed.

'I'm sorry, old girl, it's no good. You see, this is the big one, when I solve all my financial problems at a stroke. A touch of genius, I'd call it.'

'But why the Gold Cup?' I asked despairingly. 'I can't see how it makes any difference to you when I throw a race.'

'You wouldn't, would you? Think of all those greedy sods who'll be backing Cartwheel, believing he's going to win, and only you, me and one or two friends of mine knowing that it's the one certainty in the race that won't finish.'

'Who are these so-called friends? They're bookmakers, aren't they? I get it. They can afford to offer generous odds on Cartwheel if they know he's bound to lose. It's a licence to print money. I won't do it.'

If I didn't lose, he said, the game was up. He would expose me and take Freddie away. When I countered by saying that he would also be exposed, he roared with laughter.

'You're bloody naive, aren't you? There's nothing to link me to your dishonesty, but plenty to nail you. I took the precaution of paying a thousand pounds cash into your post office account after both Fontwell and Worcester. When, acting out of public duty, I tell my friends at the Jockey Club about the money, and they then take another look at the patrol films of those races, you can wave goodbye to your licence and that darling son of yours. Freddie!' he called out.

'Shh! What the hell do you want to wake him up for?' I asked angrily.

'So you can look at him for the last time. I'm sure my mother will be delighted to let us stay with them pending the court proceedings.'

'You're mad. He's your son as well, you know. Don't you love him too?'

'I suppose so, but to be honest I love myself a great deal more.'

I arrived home from Cheltenham at about six-thirty, to find Freddie still finishing his tea. He was so excited to see me that I put aside my fears and threw myself into playing games with him for the next hour. We were building a space station with his Lego set when the phone rang. It was a man's voice on the line, one I didn't recognise, flat and very matter-of-fact. He asked for Edward Pryde.

'I'm sorry, he's not back from Cheltenham. Can I give him a message?'

There was no response at the other end.

'Hello? Is anyone there? Who is this?' I wasn't in the mood for an obscene phone call or a practical joke.

'My name's not important. You must be Mrs Pryde. I thought you rode a very gutsy race today. A great shame, though, about the result. Could you just tell your husband there are one or two very upset people around who'd like a word with him?'

The line went dead. The vultures were beginning to gather.

The proposed carcass did not arrive home until the early hours of the morning. After putting Freddie to bed I had been inundated with phone calls from friends congratulating me on my victory and journalists trying to obtain further information on the attack in the paddock after the race. I just blamed it all on a disgruntled punter, which in one way of looking at it was true, and said that as far as I was concerned the incident was closed.

I had been in bed for well over two hours, going over the race in my mind again and again to stop me thinking about the confrontation ahead, when I heard the sound of Edward's Jaguar pulling up outside. Through the crack in the curtains I saw the headlights go out. My heartbeat began to quicken as the key turned in the lock of the front door. He usually poured himself a nightcap before coming to bed and I listened for the sound of his footsteps as he walked to the dining-room where the whisky was kept. Only this time there was silence, save for the tick of the alarm clock beside the bed. Edward was down there all right, but where and what he was doing I had no idea. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, opening it gently, just a little. The light was on in the kitchen and I could hear the kettle puffing as it boiled. Presumably he was making himself a cup of coffee to sober himself up. I went back to bed and waited.

It must have been a good ten minutes before he came up the stairs, taking each step deliberately as if he was afraid of falling over. I thought of getting up and pushing him back down again in the hope he'd break his neck. Death by misadventure they would call it. I just didn't have the courage. He came to a halt outside the door and paused for what seemed an eternity. I could bear it no longer.

'Edward. Is that you?' I asked pointlessly.

He responded by throwing open the door and hurling a pan of boiling water towards me in the bed.