Jump.

Rogue, flying back to Fairyhouse, had reached Heathrow. Amber's number was engraved on his heart, as was everything she'd said about him. He wanted to call her or text her, 'Sorry about your Dad, call me,' but she'd have switched off her mobile in the hospital. He located the Marsden number, then tore it up. He'd be the last person she'd want to talk to.

Rafiq's euphoria and feeling of coming home were also sadly fleeting. Furious came out of the Larkminster Cup so well that Marius entered him for a big race at Ascot a week later, where he was a very hot favourite.

While he was riding out on the morning of the race, noticing bluebell and primrose leaves pus.h.i.+ng through the faded leaf mould and rejoicing that spring was on the way for him and Tommy, Rafiq was startled out of his reverie by his ringing mobile.

'Furious is not going to win today,' said a voice with a thick Pakistani accent, 'or we take out your family in Peshawar.'

'You don't know my family,' hissed Rafiq, pulling History Painting into a clearing.

'Oh yes we do.' The caller reeled off names and addresses until Rafiq's blood froze. It must be some terrorist mafia.

'Just f.u.c.k off,' he stammered.

'You've been spending a lot of time with Tommy Ruddock recently. D'you want her and Furious taken out as well?' The voice grew thicker and more menacing. 'We need funds. Allah will reward you if Furious doesn't win.'

Rafiq, who was vastly brave, hung up. Determined to ignore the threat, he caught up with the others and told no one.

The terror he always felt before a race was intensified a hundredfold that afternoon when he saw Tommy leading Furious round the parade ring at Ascot. She looked so radiantly happy and newly pretty because Tresa, feeling guilty about Snog-a-Trog, had straightened her hair for her.

Eddie Alderton, who was riding in the same race, had also noticed. 'Like your hair,' he called out to Tommy. Then to wind up Rafiq: 'How about a drink later?'

But Tommy had blushed, smiled and, turning lovingly towards Rafiq, said she was sorry, she was busy.

Suddenly Rafiq couldn't bear anything to happen to her, so he deliberately pulled Furious. This he did by holding him up for too long so that two furlongs out there was still a pack of horses ahead of him. Furious had no desire to mingle with them so he dawdled and came in sixth.

'Perhaps he was tired,' Rafiq told Channel 4. 'He only run a week ago.'

This enraged Marius. 'Don't you dare accuse me of overrunning my horses,' he shouted at Rafiq. Having b.o.l.l.o.c.ked him for careless riding, however, he gave him the benefit of the doubt.

The Ascot stewards were less lenient. They and the crowd had been looking forward to seeing Furious repeat his Larkminster Cup form. They suspended Rafiq for a week for breaching the non-trying rules.

Later Marius returned to the attack.

'If anyone thinks I encouraged you to pull Furious, I could be banned from entering any horse in a race for forty-two days (which would rule out the Gold Cup and the entire festival), and be fined thirty-five thousand which I can't b.l.o.o.d.y afford, so don't do it again.'

Rafiq felt bitterly ashamed but waited in terror for another telephone call.

118.

Alan for once was working flat out. From his study window, over a pile of Wilkie's cuttings and photographs, he could often see her let out for an hour or two in her New Zealand rug, trailing her devoted entourage through the frosty fields.

He had accepted the fact that his marriage was dead. He hadn't seen Carrie for days. The hedge fund market was in free fall, Carrie clinging to the wreckage. He was convinced his only happiness lay in running off with Tilda, and he needed to make a ma.s.sive success of Mrs Wilkinson's story to fund it.

He knew he was neglecting Trixie and he hardly had time to see Tilda, but he found intense satisfaction in rising at dawn to write, sustained by endless cups of black coffee made on the percolator Tilda had given him for Christmas. He didn't even slip out to the Wilkinson Arms at lunchtime or in the evening. Alban and Seth missed him dreadfully, and Chris complained his takings had nose-dived.

Adding pieces to the jigsaw, Alan had been digging into Wilkie's early history, even braving Harvey-Holden.

'H-H dear boy, I must devote a chapter to Usurper's leaving her dam and spending time at your yard. It's all a bit shadowy. Who broke her? You must have had valuable input. I'm determined to portray you in a positive light.'

'f.u.c.k off,' said Harvey-Holden, hanging up.

How had she escaped the fire? wondered Alan. Hengist remembered Rafiq being close to Jimmy Wade, one of the Ravenscroft stable lads, when he was in prison, but when Alan asked Rafiq for details Rafiq had also closed up. H-H had such a rapid turnover of staff, most of them foreign, so when they left they disappeared off home. Alan talked to H-H's ex-wife, who remembered little Usurper as being a poppet, 'But frankly my mind was on escaping from H-H, not his horses.'

Moving on to the present, they were now a few weeks away from the pinnacle of the National Hunt season the Cheltenham Festival. After her glorious win in the King George at Kempton on Boxing Day, Mrs Wilkinson was favourite for the Gold Cup. But after every big race the bookies would shuffle the pack and a new challenger would emerge.

It had been a tremendously exciting season, with Killer and Rogue battling to be leading jockey, Shade pouring in more and more to become leading owner, and Marius, Harvey-Holden, Isa Lovell and Dermie O'Driscoll fighting to become leading trainer.

One of the greatest prizes was the Order of Merit series, which awarded a million pounds to the horse that notched up the most points for wins in the biggest races. Mrs Wilkinson, Furious, Ilkley Hall, Bafford Playboy, Internetso, Dermie O'Driscoll's Squiffey Liffey and Rupert Campbell-Black's l.u.s.ty were all in contention. But as Marius refused to overrace his horses, Wilkie and Furious were unlikely to triumph unless they won the Gold Cup or the National. Fans and press still kept reminding H-H and Shade they had let Mrs Wilkinson slip through their fingers.

The Gold Cup demanded level weights, which meant all horses had to carry 11 stone 10 lb on their backs. This, in turn, meant that Amber, who was light, had to drop into her saddle a deadening amount of lead, which didn't move and thrust like her body, to be as heavy as the other jockeys.

Mrs Wilkinson had gone up 13 lb in the handicap after the King George at Kempton and another 7 lb after a good win at Warwick. She was therefore in danger of being forced to run only in races carrying weight beyond her strength. Like running a marathon when you're giving Jude the Obese a piggyback, reflected Alan.

Syndicates, however, become spoilt, and the more Willowwood won, the more they wanted. They were now looking forward to a trip to Leopardstown where a prep race in early February, six weeks before the Gold Cup, would boost both Wilkie's large Irish fan club and sales of Alan's book, when it was published. Dora had organized interviews with everyone. A special Cheltenham Festival preview had been arranged on Sunday evening to coincide with the meeting, where all the leading Irish trainers, owners and pundits would be holding forth and would in turn be riveted to hear Marius's views on his horses' Gold Cup chances.

Mrs Wilkinson still preferred to travel everywhere with Chisolm in the trailer. On this occasion Marius decided to fly her over to Ireland, believing that this would be less traumatic than a long journey imprisoned in the bowels of a ferry. Mrs Wilkinson thought differently and absolutely freaked out, trembling violently, rearing, las.h.i.+ng out and flatly refusing to join History Painting and Bullydozer on the plane.

When the flying groom got tough on the runway and, moving in between Tommy and Wilkie, tried to drag her on blindfolded, Wilkie completely lost it and most uncharacteristically savaged him.

'Ouija Board did exactly the same thing on a trip to the Far East,' observed Alan. 'Happens to great horses.'

All the same he

Wilkie's defection also meant that Tommy didn't go to Dublin either, which broke her heart. She'd so hoped, away from home, she might learn why Rafiq, after being so angelically loving, had so suddenly rejected her. He had bitten her head off when not totally ignoring her, and seemed terrified of being seen near her in public.

Fuel had been chucked on the fire when Etta, finding Tommy sobbing into Wilkie's shoulder, had again most uncharacteristically shouted at Rafiq for being mean. Rafiq had shouted back at Etta to mind her own business. Everyone was on edge.

119.

Amber was just as miserable as Tommy. Like Mrs Wilkinson, she should have backed out of going to Dublin. She felt dreadful abandoning her father when he was still so ill in hospital, but a distraught Dora had begged her to go. She'd set up so many interviews for Amber, which would really make her name in Ireland, and compensate a little for Wilkie and Chisolm's absence. Furthermore, the generous Irish racing authorities had offered Amber the wonderful Parnell Suite at the Shelbourne Hotel.

What had shamingly tipped the balance was the knowledge that Rogue was riding in five races at Leopardstown. Amber dreamed that on his home territory they might somehow get together, and relieve the dull ache of longing that never left her. But on arrival in Dublin first thing on Sunday morning, she learnt that Rogue too was in hospital having dislocated his shoulder in a fall at Doncaster.

'Poor sod swears he'll be OK for Cheltenham,' said a jubilant Johnnie Brutus, who'd picked up those of Rogue's rides not appropriated by Killer. 'Must be gotted. This'll lose him the champions.h.i.+p. All he cares about these days is winning. Used to be such a fon bloke, now he never laughs any more.'

Seeing Amber's stricken face, Johnnie suggested she come out on the town with them that evening: 'Dare Catswood dropped two v.i.a.g.r.as in Awesome's b.l.o.o.d.y Mary on the plane out. He's had a hard-on since he arrived convinced it's the Dublin air.'

'I can't,' sighed Amber, 'I've got to go to this preview with Marius and tell the audience about Wilkie. Mr Monosyllabic is not going to satisfy them.'

Marius was out looking at horses and the other jockeys were riding in races, so later Amber travelled out to Leopardstown with Phoebe, the Major and Debbie.

As they crossed the Liffey, blue-grey and silver, reflecting the clouds and the sun glinting through them, the taxi driver announced he used to jump off this bridge as an eight-year-old.

'Wasn't it polluted?' shuddered Debbie.

'Filthy, it was so clean you could see the mullet going through it.' As they drove past faded russet houses, Debbie shuddered even more over the litter and the graffiti.

'They've got daffies and the blossom's much further out than in England.'

'That's because the air's gentler, like the people,' said Amber, who was surprised how much she'd enjoyed her morning's interviews. All the journalists were so friendly and enthusiastic.

'Where the Pony Club's concerned, you're a bigger icon than Jordan,' the Irish Independent Irish Independent had told her. had told her.

'I must try and keep my pedestal clean,' Amber had replied.

Phoebe was now grumbling about the security at Birmingham.

'We had to strip everything off. Painswick was down to her Damart thermals and Poc.o.c.k to his long johns.'

Suddenly she shrieked with laughter as they pa.s.sed a signpost to a place called Stillorgan. 'That can't be Rogue's home town. He's never kept his organ still in his life.' Amber wanted to throttle her. The Irish, the soft caress of their voices, reminded her so much of Rogue before he had become angry. She hoped he wasn't in too much pain.

Arriving at the racecourse with its big grey stand, she noticed the owners' and trainers' entrance, next to the ambulance gate, a constant reminder that danger, accident and death were never far away from jump racing. Outside, with prams full of goodies, one woman was selling slabs of chocolate for a euro.

Up in the stands, Amber looked down at the most beautiful course, ringed by blue mountains and woods through which, like rosy-faced children, more russet houses peered. On the rails were ads for Deloitte, Betchronicle, Party Poker and Irish Stallions, which brings us back to Rogue, thought Amber wearily.

Typically Irish, with horses at the heart of things, the stables were in the centre of the course. The runners, legs on springs like greyhounds, could be seen dancing across the track and returning more slowly after their race.

A large crowd had turned out in antic.i.p.ation of cheering on Rogue, their favourite son, and to catch a glimpse of Mrs Wilkinson. People were soon bombarding Amber with questions: 'Is she thirteen or fourteen hands?'

'Did she miss a vocation as a footballer?'

Marius's day started well when History Painting won a handicap chase for Awesome Wells, but deteriorated when Playboy p.i.s.sed all over the big race, the Hennessy Cognac, for a revoltingly triumphalist Shade. At least Marius had been spared a gloating Harvey-Holden, who'd stayed at home, obsessively chasing winners, because Irish victories didn't add any points in the leading English trainers' champions.h.i.+p. Instead he had sent Mich.e.l.le and Vakil, who, because a desperately uptight Rafiq was riding Bullydozer in a novice handicap, missed no opportunity to mob up their former horse. Killer, riding a new French gelding called Voltaire Scott, had been sledging Rafiq equally viciously in the weighing room.

Here, for the first time, Rafiq had put on Valent's new colours, purple covered with dusty green stars, green sleeves and a purple and green cap, inspired by an African violet Etta had once given him.

Watching Bullydozer in the parade ring, Amber thought he didn't move or look as well as usual, perhaps because Tresa was too busy tarting herself up to get her horses gleaming like Tommy did. The big horse trembled and cringed but didn't leap away when he saw Vakil. He really didn't look right. Amber was tempted to say something to Marius, but he'd only bite her head off. Marius himself was looking funereal, wearing his dinner jacket, which he'd need for the preview tonight, over jeans because he couldn't be bothered to bring two coats. Next door a trio of pretty women, however, were drooling over him.

'That's Marius Oakridge, who trains Mrs Wilkinson. Isn't he handsome? His wife Olivia ran off with Shade Murchieson, the big fellow over there; looks a brute, I'd have stayed with Marius. He looks much gentler.'

Marius was belying this by telling a s.h.i.+vering Rafiq to 'Go to the front, and lynch that f.u.c.ker Killer,' as he legged him up. Valent had just called Marius from China, wis.h.i.+ng him, Rafiq and his adored Bullydozer good luck, saying he was sorry he couldn't be with them. He was up-country and couldn't get to a television.

'Safe journey,' called Amber in Urdu as Rafiq pa.s.sed but beyond glancing round in terror he ignored her and rode on.

'That's JP's plane,' said one of the trio of pretty women, as a helicopter chugged over. 'He's coming to the preview tonight. He'll be flying back to Limerick to change.'

Unlike Marius, thought Amber.

Up in the Owners and Trainers to watch the race, Amber was horrified to find herself rammed by the crowd next to Shade. Oiled up by champagne and watching Bafford Playboy's victory again in the hospitality room, he was revving up to cheer on Killer and Voltaire Scott.

As his hot-chocolate brown eyes wandered over her, Shade smiled evilly. 'How's the wrist?' he murmured.

'Fine,' snapped Amber.

'You could put it to interesting use later.'

Blus.h.i.+ng but totally ignoring him, Amber concentrated on Bullydozer going down to post. Again, she was puzzled he wasn't pulling at all, even when Killer and Voltaire Scott thundered past, deliberately trying to unsettle him and Rafiq.

Rafiq hardly noticed. An hour ago he'd received another telephone call, ordering him to pull Bullydozer, but this time he was determined to defy it.

As they raced past the stands on the first circuit, all the runners were bunched up together, so the handicapper had got things right. But Bullydozer, who always led, was last and clearly not right. Rafiq was so terrified that Marius and the stewards would think he was pulling the horse once more, deliberately not trying, he gave him three hefty smacks and dug his heels in. Bullydozer, who normally would have leapt forward, didn't react. He was stumbling and lurching now, clearly in pain.

'All right, Bully,' called out Rafiq, determined to pull him up after the next fence, but it was too late. Bullydozer hit the top, struggled to avoid a chestnut mare fallen on the far side, turned over and crashed to the ground on his head.

Television moves on, following the leaders and the living. The fence that had caused the tragedy was hidden from the crowd. Next moment Amber saw Marius belting down the track. Rafiq, who'd been thrown free, staggered to his feet, and over to a helplessly writhing Bully.

'Don't die, don't die,' he sobbed, collapsing on to Bully's huge shoulder.

But before the screens had closed round them both the chestnut mare and Bully had gone still.

Meanwhile an ecstatic crowd were yelling, 'Go on, go on, go on,' like Mrs Doyle in Father Ted, Father Ted, as Killer eased Voltaire Scott first past the post. as Killer eased Voltaire Scott first past the post.

Amber was so distraught about Bullydozer it was a few seconds before she realized Shade had his hand round her waist, his fat fingers ma.s.saging her breast.

'Come and have a gla.s.s of bubbly to celebrate,' he purred.

'Celebrate what?' exploded Amber.

'A great win and another chance to teach Throstledown not to pinch other people's horses.'

'No!' Amber would have screamed at him to eff off if the 'It is, isn't it?' brigade hadn't moved in again: 'Amber Lloyd-Foxe! Do tell us about Mrs Wilkinson. We specially came to see her.'

Amber managed to be charming for a minute, then she stammered, 'I'm so sorry, a friend's horse has just been killed.'

Turning back to the course, she could see Rafiq walking back clutching his whip, saddle and Valent's purple and ivy-green quartered hat. He was now standing: tall, slim and absolutely motionless, the brilliant sun casting his long black shadow across the deserted track as he watched the rerun of the race, including the hideous fall, on the big screen. He stayed so long, tears was.h.i.+ng the mud from his face, that an official ran up saying he was so sorry about the horse but Rafiq had better move on, as the runners would soon be coming down for the next race. When Rafiq gazed at him in bewilderment, the official took his arm and led him back to the weighing room.

Marius loved Ireland and the Irish, who put him at his ease. Trust him to have given up drink in February, quipping it was the shortest month, only to be confronted with such a tragedy.

Bullydozer had been such a sweet horse, so grateful for kindness, so full of promise and Valent's pride and joy. His body would now be on the way to the nearest hunt kennels, but there was something especially poignant about a horse dying abroad. And there was still the empty box to be faced when he got home, and Valent in China to be rung.

Not an unkind man, Marius was just ham-fisted in his dealings with people. He had found Rafiq sobbing uncontrollably in Bully's box but had been unable to comfort him. The horse had looked wrong from the off; tomorrow he'd study the video.

Marius was also very fond of Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who had often helped him in his career. Painswick had confided that Billy had terminal cancer, so Marius wanted to comfort Amber. But he had been so burnt by Olivia, he was unprepared to risk a serious relations.h.i.+p. Mich.e.l.le had been s.e.x with no affection, but he was finding himself increasingly attracted to Amber and knew he was foul to her in an attempt to conceal it.

Now there was this ghastly preview to be got through, when everyone would be clamouring for information about his Gold Cup chances and what tactics he was planning to use. He was far too superst.i.tious to suggest his horses were going to win and felt that admitting what tactics he intended to use would be giving the game away.

Previews were all the same: trainers, jockeys, journalists, so called experts, talking d.i.c.kheads, going on and on about which horses were likely to win over the four days of the Cheltenham Festival. Going round and round the mulberry bush when in fact in each race one horse crossed the line before the others end of story.

120.

The preview consisted of a dinner held in a big room at the Shelbourne, with the panel of pundits seated at a long table across the end and everyone else at tables round the room. Those attending were mostly men, mostly in dinner jackets, some without ties, mostly drinking champagne. Marius had put on a dress s.h.i.+rt but not bothered to brush off the mud that covered his dinner jacket from kneeling beside Bullydozer.

Shade, at drinks before dinner, was in his element. 'Bafford Playboy's missing Cheltenham so he'll be fresh for Aintree,' he was telling everyone. As was the Major, who looked about to pop: 'I manage Willowwood. Yes, Mrs Wilkinson, pity she missed her prep race today.' Neither man realized that the charming men hanging on their every pompous word were only interested in selling them horses.