Peter Temple: Black Tide

Wootton closed his race book and glanced around, a worried expression, the look of someone trying to decide whether to go to the toilet now or chance it. He fished the matchbook out of his pocket and stared at it. Cynthia appeared at his side. I couldn’t see him pass it over, but she didn’t linger any longer than Cam had.

‘It says here,’ said Lyall, ‘that Vision Splendid is an unremarkable veteran who failed miserably at a comeback attempt in Ballarat.’

‘Who says that?’ I took the paper and looked. ‘Bart Grantley. Shrewd judge of equine performance. Got any money?’

‘I am carrying a sum of money, yes.’

I told her what to do.

She said, without expression, ‘Do I understand you to be disputing Mr Grantley’s expert opinion?’

‘No. He’s right. Spring in there and do it.’

By the time we got out on the stand, the caller was saying, ‘…load of money for the ultra-veteran Vision Splendid, number six, Tommy Wicks up, trainer, K. Devine. Not exactly an unknown quantity this horse, form goes back to when some of the jockey’s riding in this race were getting their second lot of teeth.’

‘He’s being sarcastic about my fifty bucks,’ Lyall said.

‘They’re like that. Lots of cruel people in racing.’

We found a good spot. Looking down, I could see the McCurdie family. They’d formed a defensive circle, warily eyeing the city folk around them, alert for pickpockets, handbag-snatchers and perverts.

The caller went on: ‘Sizeable plunge, the bookmakers have hauled it in from 40-1 to tens very smartly. No, it’s down to eights, there’s money for it interstate, some money, fair bit for this time of the year. World’s full of optimists. Either that or they’re clever people, visionaries. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Tommy Wicks carries the hopes of the Viagra generation here today. They shall fall to rise again. At the barrier for the fourth, sixteen hundred metres, field of eleven, well-mannered lot, I think they’re letting the elderly horse go in first. Seriously, they’re going in nicely, five or six to come…’

I could feel Lyall looking at me. I was taking the menacing post-Gulf War camera out of its case.

‘Suburban solicitor,’ she said in a musing and mildly questioning tone. ‘I wonder what big city solicitors are like? I’d like to know one. They’d be involved in serious stuff, wouldn’t they? Wars and famines, bribing presidents and kings, laying waste to whole fucking continents, that sort of thing?’

I put the technology to my eye, wandered around, found the gate, obeyed the digital instruction. Then I could dwell on Tommy Wicks’s nose and look at one of Vision’s liquid and stoic eyes. ‘No,’ I said. ‘They only do the boring stuff.’

On my thigh, long fingers fell, casually as a leaf dropping, no purpose, no intent, simply an open hand come to rest.

‘Away in a clean line,’ said the caller. ‘Melanie’s Child the best, leads The Gallery, January One on the inside, Vision Splendid’s handy on the outside, dropping back quickly, replaced by Honey Dew, then comes Fatbat, Kilberry Lad, Shebeen, out wide is Drumlanrig improving quickly and bringing up the rear Count Waldersee and Pericard.’

With twelve hundred to go, the field had divided into two. Vision Splendid was the backmarker in the bunched front group of five, a length clear of the sixth horse.

‘Not a lot of pace on here,’ said the caller. ‘Might be out of respect for the senior citizen now lying fifth behind Drumlanrig, Shebeen, January One and in front The Gallery looking strong. At the thousand metres, Drumlanrig hanging out. Shebeen’s gone up to January One and Vision Splendid’s almost level pegging with Drumlanrig. In the back group…’

‘What’s happening?’ Lyall asked.

‘Looking good,’ I said. I had clear sight of Tommy Wicks as they came down the straight towards North Hill. He was riding a patient race, tucked in behind the three leaders, waiting for his chance to take the gap between Drumlanrig and Shebeen.

At the five hundred, beginning the turn into the run for home, I could see Tommy beginning to ease Vision forward. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Go for it, Thomas.’

The caller said, ‘At the five hundred, the pace is on now, the veteran Vision Splendid’s staying with them, he’s going forward, oh dear, January One’s shifted out, he’s bumped Shebeen, nasty knock, Drumlanrig’s checked, lurched sideways, that’s knocked Vision almost onto the rail, stewards won’t like this one bit…’

In the confusion, I lost sight of Tommy for a second, found him, saw the snarl on his face, could almost hear the foul words he was shouting at Drumlanrig’s teenage jockey.

Swearing wasn’t going to help.

I looked down. McCurdie was pulling his hat down, trying to get it over his eyes, shut out the awful day.

‘Three-fifty to go,’ said the caller, ‘The Gallery’s in the clear, going for the doctor, confusion sorted out behind but too late for the plunge horse and the rest…’

I found Tommy Wicks again.

Tommy didn’t believe it was too late.

He put Vision Splendid into a space the width of its head between January One and the rail, appeared to make contact with the jockey. January shifted out again, this time bumped The Gallery.

In the straight, two hundred to go, Vision and The Gallery.

‘Here’s a turn,’ the caller shouted, ‘plunge horse’s through on the rails, unbelievable finish this, Wicks has shouldered his way through, gone up to The Gallery, the veteran’s moving like a three-year-old, they’re well clear of the rest, stride for stride, fifty to go, The Gallery’s holding on…’

I could feel Lyall’s fingertips digging into me, getting close to my thighbone.

The horses were both at full stretch, low to the ground, necks extended, jockeys riding hands and heels, willing the creatures to make one final desperate effort.

‘Going to the line together, can’t separate them,’ shouted the caller. ‘The Gallery may have held on by a hair in a nostril. What a race. They’re calling for the picture to separate them, my feelings is The Gallery…’

I put the glasses down, felt my shoulders slump, Lyall’s grip on my thigh loosen. Down below, the McCurdies were in shock, looking around in a dazed way, like people surprised to have survived an accident.

We waited.

‘Is it digital?’ Lyall asked.

I looked at her. ‘What?’

‘The camera. Is it digital?’

I didn’t say anything.

Waited.

‘Number six gets it,’ said the caller. ‘Vision Splendid by the narrowest of margins over The Gallery, third is Shebeen.’

Jock McCurdie, his wife, daughter and the two nephews were in a laughing, hugging, crying circle, like a depleted all-age, all-gender football team winning its first grand final for forty years.

‘Well, the bookies have been monstered here, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the caller. ‘Here and elsewhere. Turns out the visionaries were right. They’ll be pulling the ancients out of the retirement paddocks as we speak. K. Devine the trainer, trains at Lancefield, must be something in the air out there…oh, oh, there’s been a protest. Second against first. I think it relates to Tommy Wicks forcing himself through on the rail. So. The excitement isn’t over yet.’

‘What’s this mean?’ Lyall asked.

I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘Second-placed horse’s jockey says he’d have won if our bloke hadn’t nudged him coming into the straight. If the stewards agree with him, we come second.’

‘How do they decide?’

‘Look at the video, interrogate the jockeys, consult the taro cards, disembowel chickens.’

We waited.

The McCurdies had gone back into shock. Jock had his arm around Mrs McCurdie’s ample shoulders, talking into an ear. I knew what he was saying: There’ll be other times, love.