RAY

But I didn’t put my coat on and go down to Billy Hill’s. ‘George, I’ve got a thick ’un for you.’ Where I’d look a fool slapping down a thousand cash, even if they took it. Where I’d lose all credit for being a canny punter. ‘So what’s the game, Raysy? Looks like you’ve gone and won already.’ And where I might be tempted to say, any case, to declare to the assembled company, all the gluttons for punishment and two-quid no-hopers, ‘This is for Jack, I’m doing this for Jack. You know, Jack Dodds, it’s to save his skin.’ You’d have to be a fool to back a horse called Miracle Worker, you’d have to be a fool to own and train one. You’d have to be a bookie’s bosom pal. Still, if Lucky Johnson here has a fancy.

I picked up the phone there and then, third ciggy on the go, and dialled a number where I knew they’d take a four-figure punt, no questions asked, even from the likes of me. Where they’d say, ‘What’s the asking?’ And I’d say, ‘A thousand, to win, tax paid.’ And they’d take down my credit-card number and read me back the details without so much as a wobble in the voice, Miracle Worker, thinking, There’s one born every minute, there must be harder ways of making dough.

Thirty-three to one.

But it’s different if you know. And if it don’t come in, which it will, then Jack’ll get his money back. I’ll foot the bill for this bet, recoup it on another. Jack’ll get his thousand back, and that’s my conscience squared. Price of a camper.

‘All placed, Mr Johnson. Thank you for calling.’

And it has to be in my name, it can’t be in Jack’s. Because supposing. Just supposing.

Then I put Jack’s thousand in a spot I use, behind a cupboard. I aint carrying a grand in cash around with me more than I can help. And I put on my coat and shoved my cigs in my pocket and looked around the room before I left like I hadn’t ever looked at it before. It looked about the loneliest room on earth.

And you’re flogging the family home an’ all.

I walked in the direction of the Coach, thinking, If I’m so sure, I could pop in the turtfie’s anyway and put on a bet of my own, or pick out a combination to cover my loss. Which wouldn’t be logical, if I know, and it’d be tempting fate, either way. This isn’t my day, it’s Jack’s day. You’ve got to keep it simple. Though it aint.

Or I should go and see him, now, tell him. Maybe that’s why I’m legging it along this street like there’s somewhere I ought to be going. 53 bus to St Thomas’s, Westminster Bridge. Tell him what his money’s riding on, tell him that the bet’s on me, either way. Least I can do, Jack. Except I don’t want to have to look him in the eye, or have him look me in the eye. And if he’s got any sense, he’ll tune in on his earphones, on his radio, that’s one thing he can still do. Racing from Doncaster. And he’ll know, because he will, he’ll know too.

So I slipped into the Coach. Quiet for a Friday. Bernie says, in his just-between-you-and-me voice, bringing me my pint, ‘What’s the news on Jack?’ I say, ‘I went in last night, I’ll go again this evening. It’s just a matter of time, Bern.’ Looking at Slattery’s clock. Quarter past two. And Bernie shakes his head, like what’s happening to Jack is something that ought not to be possible, like it’s a miracle working the opposite way. I say, ‘You having one too, Bern? Have one on me. Fetch me a sandwich while you’re at it. Ham, no mustard.’ And up on its shelf, high up at the end of the bar, Bernie’s telly’s all set up and switched on, the screen angled and the sound pitched just right, so that any Joe sitting at the bar can keep his eye and ear on what’s showing, without having to move an inch to order a drink. Racing from Doncaster. Lincoln Handicap meeting.

Bernie brings my sandwich and sees me looking at the screen and says, ‘One or two on, I suppose?’ And I say, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. It don’t seem right somehow, does it? What with.’ Bernie nods, approving. ‘But there must be one or two you’d fancy, any case?’ he says. I say, ‘Be telling, wouldn’t it?’ biting my sandwich. Bernie smiles, like he knew I’d say that. He pours his drink, nodding at the TV. ‘And I suppose you’d be there, wouldn’t you? If it wasn’t for.’ And I say, ‘Yep.’ Like Jack should’ve thought.

Cheltenham too, Gold Cup, then Doncaster, first of the flat.

He says, ‘Cheers, Ray,’ lifting his glass. ‘Good health all round.’ I say, ‘Good health.’ He says, ‘Sound up high enough for you?’ I nod and he waddles off, tea towel over his shoulder, like he does when he knows conversation’s not what’s required. But he can see me sitting there, eyes glued to the screen, more than you’d think necessary for a man who hasn’t got a bet on. He can see me lighting snout after snout and knocking it back, quicker than usual. Steady drinker is Ray, slow and steady. ‘Make the next one a short, Bernie. That’s a long short.’

‘Caning it a bit, aren’t we, Raysy?’

But when the three five comes on I’m not thinking like a punter, a chancer, needing a slug of courage. I’m thinking like a jockey. I’m thinking like I’m the jockey and I don’t have no choice. Some feller called Irons, never heard of him, Gary Irons. Heavy name for a jockey. I’m thinking what does a jockey do saddled with a horse called Miracle Worker? And a name like Irons. I’m sitting on a bar stool in the Coach but I’m being like a jockey, my toes up on the top rung, my knees braced and squeezing, arse wanting to lift. All I need is the whip. I watch him come out of the paddock, deep chest, sheepskin noseband, and head up to the start and I see in the way he rides out the way he’ll ride back, I see the way he takes the turf and hits full gallop quickly, long, clean strides, a stayer, a finisher, and I think, It’s this horse’s day, it’s this jockey’s day. Any old irons. It’s Jack’s day. And then it’s only seeing what you saw already, seeing what you knew in your head, it’s only letting the horse make the race for you. I watch him run like he’s never run before and never will again, or not at these odds, hold the midfield, find the gap, move up to make his challenge like he’s dispensing with preliminaries, and with four in front and maybe three lengths in it, kick forward and take them all as if there’s a spare gear in him and he could do with another furlong to really find his pace.

Sometimes it’s just the glory of a horse.

I don’t move a muscle when it passes the post. Or when they lead it round to the enclosure and the jockey dismounts and unsaddles and pats its head, and it dips its neck and snorts like it aint done nothing special. I don’t move a muscle when they click up the result and the SPs to confirm. Shortened a shade, but I don’t need no SPs.

Thirty-three to one.

Bernie says, ‘Someone’s lucky day.’ And I say, ‘Yep,’ picking up my whisky glass, draining it, looking through the bleary bottom of it. Then I look at my watch and at Slattery’s clock and put my empty glass on the bar and dismount my stool. ‘Well, must be getting along, Bern. See yer.’ Bernie says, ‘See yer,’ taking the glass. It’s hard to imagine Bernie not being there, like Slattery’s clock, behind the bar.

Then I go out and I think, I should go straight to see him. Twenty minutes if I’m lucky, lucky even with the bus. I should go straight and tell him. But if he’s got any sense, he’ll know, he’ll’ve tuned in. Lucky came good, he came good.

And there’s his thousand pounds, left for safe keeping. He should have that back, I should take him that. And there’s the little matter of how to hand over the winnings, on account of it can’t be cash, though that’s how he’ll’ve pictured it, if he’s pictured it, that’s how Jack Dodds will have pictured it. Big wad of readies, shopkeeper’s preferred. Thirty-four thousand smackers to stash in that bedside cabinet, like he’s ringing up the till. Nursey, you’ll never guess what I’ve got.

But it’ll have to be a cheque, Jack. I used my own name, for convenience. Shall I make it out to you? Or to Amy?

So I returned to quarters and got out Jack’s thousand and counted it, to be sure, though it hadn’t been touched. Eight hundred in fifties and two hundred in twenties. Then I phoned that special number again, to make sure about pay-out, sounding pretty cool, I reckon, for a man who’d just won thirty-odd thousand pounds. I thought, The tax is on me, Jack, I’ll give you a cheque with three clear noughts. Then I felt like I could hardly stand. I thought, I must’ve had one too many at the Coach, I shouldn’t’ve gone on the scotch. Wasn’t no need, was there, if I knew? And I shouldn’t go into that place now, the HDU, breathing beer and whisky and wobbly on my pins. Breathing booze over Nurse Kelly.

So I made myself a strong cup of coffee and sat for a bit to steady up. Half an hour won’t make no difference, and if he’s got any sense—But instead of steadying up, I dropped off, I slipped away, in a twinkling, and next thing I knew the phone was ringing and it was an hour later though I didn’t know it, and my coffee was standing where I’d put it, hardly touched and cold, and outside the sky was thick and grey and shaping up for rain. I picked up the phone and I knew the voice. It was Amy’s voice. But it sounded strange and I couldn’t make sense of what it was saying. She said, ‘He’s gone, Ray, he’s gone.’