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  And more fool her, I think, if she lets them do so by intimidating her friends.

  ‘Perhaps you need a reminder that it is the owners of the horses that pay the money and therefore it is they that call the shots, not some snivelling trainer and his hanger-on ass-kissers like you.’

  There are not many racehorse trainers I’ve come across who would agree with that assessment of the relative hierarchy, and I also rather object to being referred to as Jerry’s hanger-on ass-kisser. But I keep quiet about it because I am far more worried by what he means by ‘a reminder’.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘the fact that your grandmother’s horse didn’t win has absolutely nothing to do with me. I was just asked by Mr Dickinson to help out by leading a horse over from the stables. If you have any problems, you’ll have to take them up with him. Now, I’m going back to my hotel.’

  I try to walk forwards but they throw me back heavily against the wall. ‘Not so fast.’

  They are smiling as if they are enjoying themselves. One of them is even cupping his fist in his other hand, as if warming it up ready for action. Beating people up is clearly fun for them. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it, with odds of two against one, especially as they love their boxing.

  How did I get into this mess? More to the point, how do I get out of it?

  I can hear voices speaking German, getting nearer. Two men come round the corner deep in conversation. Ronnie and Reggie both step back from me a fraction so as to not look too threatening.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ I call loudly to the newcomers, drawing deeply on my very limited knowledge of their language.

  The men stop walking and look across at the three of us. One of them says something lengthy that I do not understand, but that doesn’t stop me. ‘Jawohl,’ I say, and push past the twins, walking towards the men with my right hand outstretched and, as everyone would, they shake it. Indeed, I greet them warmly, as if they are long-lost family, and I position myself between them, facing back. If Ronnie and Reggie are going to hit me now, there will be witnesses.

  But the twins don’t even try. They simply smile at the newcomers, wave farewell in my direction, and walk nonchalantly away. But not before one of them turns back to threaten me. ‘Our business is unfinished here,’ he says. ‘You’d better watch your back.’

  The twins finally disappear around the corner and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘Danke,’ I say to my new best mates. ‘Danke schön.’

  ‘Bitte schön. Wer sind diese Männer?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘I don’t actually speak German.’

  ‘Who are those men?’ he asks again in perfect English. ‘Are they your friends?’

  Hardly.

  19

  At eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, Newark-on-Trent town centre was, as the Bard himself might have said, as dead as a doornail.

  Even the pubs were shut.

  I wandered aimlessly around the empty streets, not knowing where I was going or what I should do.

  Was this what it was like to be homeless, as undoubtedly I would be when I failed to turn up for work in the morning?

  I fleetingly wondered if I should call Jerry and explain my predicament, but I dismissed the notion almost as soon as I thought of it. For a start, he would be asleep by now, and secondly it would give him another reason to shout at me, and I didn’t think I could take that.

  Instead I started looking for a place to bed down for the night, and somewhere more appealing than a shop doorway.

  At least I still had a few pounds left in my pocket, and a debit card with which I supposed I could increase my overdraft. But I worried about the bank coming after me for that money now that I wouldn’t be earning.

  They would force me to sell my Golf. So I worried about how I would get around. But maybe I wouldn’t have any need to get around, and I worried about that too.

  In fact, I worried about everything, but top of my immediate agenda was finding myself a proper bed for the night. And that was a lot easier said than done, because the only hotel I could find in the town centre was closed for renovation, with scaffolding covering the frontage.

  It felt like the whole world was against me.

  I was cold, I was hungry and I was tired, at rock bottom, and the night seemed to stretch ahead of me like a long dark tunnel with not even the slightest glimmer visible at the end.

  I sat down on the edge of the pavement wondering what the hell I should do.

  I thought about going back to the railway station. Maybe a waiting room would be open. But what was the point? There weren’t any trains – not even one to step in front of to end all this misery.

  And then things got even worse.

  A car swept into view, catching me slightly unawares. As it turned, its headlights illuminated me briefly and my mind jumped back again to the M5 near Taunton all those years ago, and the brick lorry.

  There was a warning tingling in my fingers, but that accelerated rapidly into a full-on panic attack, similar to the one I’d had when driving to Newton Abbot, but this one was far more intense.

  I lay back onto the cold stone as a searing pain spread across my chest and down my arms. I was in such agony that, at one point, it caused me to arch my back so only my feet and head were in contact with the ground.

  I couldn’t breathe. I was convinced I was dying and just hoped that the end would come quickly.

  Gradually the pain eased a fraction and I rolled over onto my side and lay in the road, shivering uncontrollably, with my head down on the tarmac.

  Part of my brain was in turmoil and part was working normally. I seemed unable to master my own movements yet I was aware of what was happening, and the lack of control was terrifying. But my mind was also racing with images of impending doom and dread, of tearing metal and broken bodies, of sleeping-pill overdoses and rigor mortis.

  A second pair of headlights appeared in my limited arc of vision and I was convinced that this was the brick lorry, coming back to claim my life as well as that of my father. I tried to scream but no sound emanated from my mouth – I didn’t have the breath.

  But these particular headlights stopped before they hit me and, suddenly, there were two sets of voices above me.

  ‘Is he drunk?’ one of them asked.

  I tried to shake my head but, such were my trembles, they probably wouldn’t have realised. True, I’d had a couple of stiff drinks, but that had been hours ago. I wasn’t drunk. Maybe I wished I was.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said a different voice. ‘He’ll have to go to hospital.’

  Good idea, I thought.

  Hospitals are warm. They also have beds.

  * * *

  I stick like glue to my new-found friends as I make my way back towards my lodgings in St Moritz. Fortunately they are going my way, not that I don’t also keep a keen eye open for the terrible twins.

  ‘What did those men want?’

  It is a good question. What did they want? Do they have any evidence that Jerry had fixed the race or were they just spoiling for a fight with whoever they could find, and on any pretext?

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say. ‘But I’m very grateful to you both for coming to my rescue. Goodness knows what would have happened otherwise.’

  They seem quite shocked by my intimation.

  ‘Are you saying they might have hurt you if we hadn’t arrived?’

  I force a laugh. ‘I don’t expect so.’ But I don’t believe myself for a second, and nor do they.

  ‘Was it to do with drugs?’ one of them asks boldly, and, instantly, the atmosphere changes. ‘We don’t want foreign drug dealers in Switzerland, and certainly not in our town.’ His tone is suddenly quite hostile and maybe he’s wishing they’d left me to fend for myself.

  ‘No,’ I assure them, pulling the pockets of my jacket inside out. ‘No drugs. Those men are just upset that their horse didn’t win the race this afternoon.’

  They laugh. Our friendship is restored.
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  I make it to my Gasthaus unscathed and I ensure that my bedroom door is well and truly locked, because I can’t watch my back and sleep at the same time.

  * * *

  Ironically, the ambulance took me back to Lincoln, to the emergency department at Lincoln County Hospital, little more than a mile from the station where I’d narrowly caught the fateful train only two hours before.

  By the time the ambulance arrived to scoop me off the tarmac in Newark, I’d recovered somewhat and had also discovered that the voices above me belonged to two policemen who’d been on a late-night patrol through the town centre in their squad car.

  I was assessed at the scene by the paramedics, who concluded that I’d simply had a panic attack – a mental aberration, as they called it. However, after consultation between themselves and the two policemen, they decided it would probably still be best if I went with them to hospital, just to be on the safe side. I didn’t argue. I was all for it, laying on my concern, especially over the dreadful pain that I’d experienced in my chest.

  And it wasn’t all pretence. I still considered it remarkable that a ‘mental aberration’ occurring high up in my brain could have such devastatingly painful physical effects lower down in my body.

  I remained seriously worried about my heart.

  One of the paramedics drove the ambulance while the other took my blood pressure and then rigged me up to an electrocardiograph machine as I lay on the stretcher in the back.

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Pussett,’ he said, scanning the readouts, ‘you’ve not had a heart attack. Everything is quite normal.’

  That was a relief. Something had finally gone my way.

  But why was I so pleased by the news? Indeed, why should I care about my health at all? Less than an hour previously, I’d seriously considered the possibility of killing myself by walking in front of a train. A fatal heart attack would surely have saved me the trouble.

  I was clearly confused.

  Did I want to die or not?

  Not just at that moment, I decided.

  But tomorrow would be another day.

  * * *

  Mornings on the Cresta start early, not least because, by noon, the warmth of the sun’s rays will soften the surface of the ice, and that will make you go slower. The early birds catch more than the worm here, they catch personal bests, and that’s what I’m seeking, day in and day out.

  Mondays are for practice, with competitions occurring mostly at weekends or on Wednesdays. But practice is still a competition as far as I’m concerned.

  I’m competing against myself.

  Go faster – go faster. Every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

  There is a lightening of the eastern sky as I walk up through the town towards the clubhouse. According to the almanacs, the sun rises at about half past seven in St Moritz in the middle of February, but it’s always a long while after that before the fiery globe makes a warming appearance above the surrounding peaks.

  As I walk, I keep my eyes peeled for the pugnacious twins, but no one in their right mind would be out in this freezing air unless they had to be – except me, of course, but then, I’m not in my right mind anyway.

  A crystal-clear sky overhead has let the mercury drop rapidly overnight and a flashing neon sign informs me that it is twenty degrees below zero. At least the track will be nice and hard.

  The St Moritz Tobogganing Club is a tiny slice of England set in the middle of Switzerland, with its Union Jack flying high above the control tower. It was the British that first started this high-risk foolishness and, while other nationalities are welcome and numerous as members, the president is almost always a Brit, as decreed by the club founder, a Swiss, back in 1887.

  Practice starts at eight o’clock, just as soon as it is sufficiently light for the total course length to be seen from the tower. It’s now seven-thirty so I go into the clubhouse for a quick coffee and a croissant.

  A number of other crazy people are there ahead of me – new wannabe riders already kitted out in borrowed boots with rakes attached, plus knee and elbow pads and tough gloves, some even dressed in tweed jackets and plus-fours, reminiscent of the early pioneers of the 1880s and 90s.

  They are all waiting for their first-day ‘death talk’ from the club secretary about how dangerous it is, and the X-ray montage of members’ injuries is getting plenty of attention. One or two of the group have gone rather pale, perhaps thinking that this may not be such a good idea after all, in spite of having already paid a large, non-returnable deposit.

  I remembered back to my first day on the Cresta.

  Just like these here today, I was apprehensive and a little bit scared, but not so much of injuring myself, more of being seen to be a fool.

  Perhaps I still am.

  On that first day I had ridden a club toboggan from Junction, as beginners and novices always do. Junction is the name given to the section of the run as it passes the clubhouse. It is about a third of the way down from Top, from where only those who have qualified with fast enough times from Junction are permitted to start.

  It took me two whole seasons to become a Top rider, and every year I have to do a qualifying time from Junction when I first arrive, in order to maintain my status.

  The Cresta Run is one of the few sporting activities where people can go faster with increasing age, and there are some long-standing club members, now in their sixties, who are still producing their personal-best times. The current record time from Top was set by someone in their mid-forties.

  Nowadays, I am seen as one of the more seasoned riders, but even the most stalwart of us would have to admit to being a touch afraid every time we are called by Tower to ‘the box’.

  Practice today will initially start from Top, meaning those anxious beginners will have a little longer for their nerves to fray before they are permitted onto the ice.

  It is a quiet morning at the club.

  Last evening, while I was enjoying the culinary delights of The K with Susi Ashcroft, members of the Shuttlecock Club were elsewhere in the Kulm Hotel for the annual Shuttlecock Dinner, and many are still sleeping off the effects.

  Membership of that particular club is restricted to those who have crashed at Shuttlecock, and that means most who have ever ridden the Cresta.

  Although I qualify many times over, I have only been to the Shuttlecock Dinner on one previous occasion, in my first season. I tell myself that it is too expensive and that is why I don’t go but, if I were being honest, it is actually because of the vast amount of alcohol that is expected to be consumed by all attendees.

  Lead me not into temptation – so I now stay away.

  I change into my protective sliding gear, collect my toboggan and helmet, and take the camion up to Top. I am one of only three riders in the transport so it’s looking promising for multiple runs today.

  On a good practice day there can be as many as two hundred total rides on the ice, including those from both Top and Junction, and it is not unheard of for some riders to get in six or seven runs just for themselves, that’s if they are exceptionally brave – or stupid.

  ‘Miles Pussett to the box,’ is announced through the Tannoy.

  I drag my toboggan onto the ice.

  ‘Take it easy,’ I tell myself. ‘This is a practice not a competition and, remember, last time down you fell at Shuttlecock. Just use this run to get your confidence back.’

  But will I take any notice of my own advice? Unlikely.

  Out of sight, down at the control tower, the bell is rung to indicate that the track is clear. The start officer lifts the wooden barrier and I’m away, the familiar surge of adrenalin again coursing through my veins.

  Boy, am I living my life to the full!

  20

  The accident and emergency department of Lincoln County Hospital was surprisingly busy for so late on a Sunday night.

  Rather than taking me straight in for treatment on the stretcher, as I had hoped, the paramedics decided
I was well enough to walk in through the main door and join the throng of others sitting patiently – or not so patiently – in the waiting room. That way, they explained, it released them to go and help someone else in greater need.

  At least it was warmer in the waiting room than out on the streets of Newark, and I found a corner where I could lean up against the wall and go to sleep, all the while clutching my holdall to my chest.

  ‘Mr Pussett?’ called a female voice, rousing me from my slumbers. ‘Mr Miles Pussett?’ An attractive young woman in blue scrubs stood in the middle of the waiting room, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘Here,’ I shouted, standing up.

  ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘Follow me.’

  She led me through a door and into a cubicle, where she pulled the curtains around us.

  ‘I’m Rachel,’ she said, turning and smiling broadly at me again. ‘I’m one of the emergency night nurses here. I’m so sorry you’ve had to wait. It’s always rather busy in here after the pubs close, even on a Sunday.’ She laughed. ‘Now it’s your turn, so how can I help you?’ She smiled at me again and indicated towards a chair for me to sit on.

  It was too much.

  My outer veneer cracked and I couldn’t stop myself from crying, huge sobs wracking through my body. Perhaps it was just relief at feeling safe, or maybe it was because there was finally someone else who seemed to care.

  ‘There, there,’ Rachel said, placing a comforting arm across my shoulders. ‘You have a good cry. It will make you feel better.’

  After five minutes or so the weeping eased and I really did feel better. And, throughout, Rachel had just stood there quietly, not placing any pressure on me or urging me to ‘pull yourself together’, as my grandfather had always done whenever I’d cried as a young boy.

  ‘I’ve looked at the paramedic’s report,’ Rachel said finally, pulling up a second chair for her to sit down next to me. ‘It shows your blood pressure is fine and your heart trace is normal. But it also says that you had some sort of panic attack.’