Dick Francis - Bonecrack

'Lucky Lindsay,' I said. As if it made any difference. I pushed myself upright in the chair and got my eyes open. Enso's face was only inches away and the look in his eyes was a death warrant.

The gun came up. I waited numbly.

'Stop him,' he said. 'Get him back.'

'I can't.'

'You must. Get him back or I'll kill you.'

'He's been gone twenty minutes.'

'Get him back.' His voice was hoarse, high-pitched, and terrified. It finally got through to me that his rage had turned into agony. The fury had become fear. The black eyes burnt with some unimaginable torment.

'What have you done?' I said rigidly.

'Get him back,' he repeated, as if shouting alone would achieve it. 'Get him back.' He lifted the gun, but I don't think even he knew if he intended to shoot me or to hit me with it.

'I can't,' I said flatly. 'Whatever you do, I can't.'

'He will be killed,' he yelled wildly. 'My son- my son will be killed.' He waved his arms wide and his whole body jerked uncontrollably. 'Tommy Hoylake- It says in the newspapers that Tommy Hoylake is riding Lucky Lindsay this morning-'

I shifted to the front of the chair, tucked my legs underneath it, and made the cumbersome shift up on to my feet. Enso didn't try to shove me back. He was too preoccupied with the horror trotting through his mind.

Tommy Hoylake- Hoylake is riding Lucky Lindsay.'

'No,' I said roughly. 'Alessandro is.'

'Tommy Hoylake- Hoylake- It has to be, it has to be-' His eyes were stretching wider and his voice rose higher and higher.

I lifted my hand and slapped him hard in the face.

His mouth stayed open but the noise coming out of it stopped as suddenly as if it had been switched off.

Muscles in his cheeks twitched. His throat moved continuously. I gave him no time to get going again.

'You were planning to kill Tommy Hoylake.'

No answer.

'How?' I said.

No answer. I slapped his face again, with everything I could manage. It wasn't very much.

'How?'

'Carlo- and Cal-' The words were barely distinguishable.

Horses on the Heath, I thought. Tommy Hoylake riding Lucky Lindsay. Carlo, who knew every horse in the yard, who watched all the horses every day and knew Lucky Lindsay by sight as infallibly as any tout. And Cal- I felt my own gut contract much as Enso's must have done. Cal had the Lee Enfield 303.

'Where are they?' I said.

'I- don't- know/

'You'd better find them.'

They- are- hiding.'

'Go and find them,' I said. 'Go out and find them. It's your only chance. It's Alessandro's only chance. Find him before they shoot him- you stupid murdering sod.'

He stumbled as if blind round the desk and made for the door. Still holding the pistol he bashed into the frame and rocked on his feet. He righted himself, crashed down the short passage and out through the door into the yard, and half ran on unsure legs to his dark red Mercedes. He took three shots at starting the engine before it fired. Then he swept round in a frantic arc, roared away up the drive and turned right on to the Bury Road with a shriek of tyres.

Bloody, murdering sod- I followed him out of the office but turned down the yard.

Couldn't run. The new hammering he'd given my shoulder made even walking a trial. Stupid, mad, murdering bastard- Twenty minutes since Alessandro rode out on Lucky Lindsay- twenty minutes, and the rest. They'd be pretty well along at Waterhall. Circling round at the end of the Line gallop, forming up into groups. Setting off-

Damn it, I thought. Why don't I just go and sit down and wait for whatever happens. If Enso kills his precious son, serve him right.

I went faster down the yard. Through the gates into the bottom bays. Through the far gate. Across the little paddock. Out through the gate to the Heath. Turned left.

Just let him be coming back, I thought. Let him be coming back. Lancat, coming back from his walk, saddled and bridled and ready to go. He was there, coming towards me along the fence, led by one of the least proficient riders, sent back by Etty as he was little use in the gallops.

'Help me take this jersey off,' I said urgently.

He looked surprised, but lads my father had trained never argued. He helped me take off the jersey. He was no Florence Nightingale. I told him to take the sling off as well. No one could ride decently in a sling.

'Now give me a leg up.'

He did that too.

'O. K.' I said. 'Go on in. I'll bring Lancat back later.'

'Yes, sir,' he said. And if I'd told him to stand on his head he would have said yes, sir, just the same.

I turned Lancat back the way he had come. I made him trot along the walking ground. Too slow. Much too slow. Started to canter, breaking the Heath rules. It felt horrible. I twitched him out on to the Bury Hill ground which wasn't supposed to be used for another fortnight and pointed him straight at the Bury Road crossing.

Might as well gallop- I did the first five furlongs on the gallop and the next three along the walking ground without slowing down much, and frightened a couple of early morning motorists as I crossed the main road.

Too many horses on Waterhall. I couldn't from more than half a mile away distinguish the Rowley Lodge string from others. All I could see was that it wasn't yet too late. The morning scene was peaceful and orderly. No appalled groups bending over bleeding bodies.

I kept Lancat going. He'd had a hard race two days earlier and shouldn't have been asked for the effort I was urging him into- he was fast and willing, but I was running him into the ground.

It was technically difficult, riding in clavicle rings, let alone anything else. However, the ground looked very hard and too far down. I stayed in the saddle as the lesser of two considerable evils. I did wish most fervently that I had stayed at home. I knew all about steeplechase jockeys riding races with broken collar-bones. They were crazy. It was for the birds.

I could see Etty. See some of the familiar horses.

I could see Alessandro on Lucky Lindsay.

I was too far away to be heard even if I'd had any breath for shouting, and neither of them looked behind them.

Alessandro kicked Lucky Lindsay into a fast canter and with two other horses accelerated quickly up the Line gallop.

A mile away, up the far end of it, there were trees and scrub, and a small wood.

And Carlo. And Cal.

I had a frightful feeling of inevitable disaster, like trying to run away through treacle in a nightmare. Lancat couldn't possibly catch the fresh Lucky Lindsay up the gallop. Interception was the only possibility, yet I could misjudge it so terribly easily.

I set off straight across Waterhall, galloping across the cantering ground and then charging over the Middle Canter in the opposite direction to the horses working there. Furious yells from all sides didn't deter me. I hoped Lancat had enough sense not to run head on into another horse, but apart from that my only worry, my sole, embracing, consuming worry, was to get to Alessandro before a bullet did.

Endless furlongs over the grass- only a mile, give or take a little- but endless. Lancat was tiring, finding every fresh stride a deeper effort- his fluid rhythm had broken into bumps- he wouldn't be fit again to race for months- I was asking him for the reserves, the furthest stores of power- and he poured them generously out.

Endless furlongs- and I wasn't getting the angle right- Lancat was slowing and I'd reach the Line gallop after Alessandro had gone past. I swerved more to the right- swayed perilously in the saddle, couldn't even hold the reins in my left hand and I wanted to hold on to the neck-strap with my right, wanted to hold on for dear life, and if I held on, I couldn't steer- It wasn't far, not really. No distance at all on a fresh horse. No distance at all for Lucky Lindsay.