Read Online Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker - Free Book Online

Bucknall’s words in my head.
Keep away from that stable.
    Glancing around to check that no one is looking, I approach it. The stable is out of the sun and has no windows. It is as dark as a cave inside. At first, peering through the bars, I can see no sign of life.
    So why should I keep away from it?
    Then, as I stand there, I see a movement, like a dappling of light in the darkness where none should be.
    Hullo.
    Another movement. There’s a horse in there – a big grey. A glint of a dark eye catches the light. From the shadows, there comes low, loud breathing, almost like the growl of a beast.
    Who are you?
    The eye gazes back at me. Whatever is in there shifts slightly. The splashes of brightness in the gloom catch the light for a second and quiver like sunlight on water.
    â€˜What the blazes are you doing?’
    It is a low angry rasp, in a strong Scottish accent from ten metres behind me. I turn to see a small, wiry man standing, hands on hips. He is wearing dark blue exercise breeches and looks much older than the other lads. His grey hair is neatly parted, like a character out of an old-fashioned film. Angus.
    â€˜I was just looking.’
    He strides towards me like an angry bantam cockerel. And stands uncomfortably close to me. ‘And who the blazing blazes might you be?’
    â€˜I’m Jay. I’m new.’
    â€˜Who the blazes says so?’
    (I should explain that Angus never actually uses the word ‘blazes’. He is the sweariest person I have ever met. He swears like other people breathe.)
    â€˜I saw Mr Wilkinson this afternoon. He said—’
    â€˜He’d take you on for some holiday work, I know.’ Angus laughs wearily. From the far side of the yard, a lad – dark-haired and with a powerful, stocky build – walks towards us, carrying a bucket of feed. He whistles loudly and out of tune, and as he passes us, he says, ‘Pony club day, is it, Angus?’
    The head lad laughs. ‘Evening, Pete.’
    The lad called Pete heads for the stable containing the big grey. He reaches for the pitchfork and, entering the stable, makes a rasping growl. There is a clatter of horse’s hooves from within the stable, followed by curses.
    Angus glances at me. ‘Get on with your work, girl,’ he says.
    â€˜Which horse is in that stable?’
    â€˜A psycho called Manhattan.’
    There is more commotion from the box, and then Pete emerges with the bucket, now empty.
    â€˜A psycho? How is he a psycho?’
    Angus raises his eyebrows. Then, to my surprise, he smiles.
    Not.
    He.
    She.

A UNTIE
    â€˜ YOU DON’T WANT to worry too much about Angus. He’s not as fierce as he tries to make out.’
    Enter Laura – small, broad-shouldered and tough. Her blonde hair is cut short, but the look in her eye and the muscles in her arms will tell you that she’s as tough as any of the lads. As we walk together to the hostel they call ‘Auntie’s’, she chats away, staring ahead of her as if she doesn’t want to seem too friendly too quickly.
    â€˜Does he ride out?’
    â€˜He does. He rides an old handicapper called Andy’s Pet. He’s a bit of a legend in his own way, Angus. He was a top apprentice in Mr Wilkinson’s early days as a trainer. He sacrificed everything for racing – his wife walked out, his marriage broke up, he had nothing to do with his kids. He has always lived for the game.’
    â€˜But he never made it as a jockey.’
    â€˜He didn’t. Had a fall. Lost his nerve. You hear a lot of that in this town.’
    Laura strides ahead of me in silence for a few moments. She walks so quickly that I have to jog now and then to keep up with her.
    â€˜He’s all right, old Angus, but he won’t do you any favours. He’s a tad bitter and twisted about women since his wife left him.’
    â€˜Is that why you’re the only girl in the yard?’
    â€˜Could be. Just be