Iced Read online

  It all sounded so unlikely. Even I wouldn’t have believed me if I hadn’t experienced it.

  ‘You can ask Mrs Dickinson if you don’t believe me. She’s a patient here. She’s the wife of my employer, Mr Jerry Dickinson. She drove all the way to Lincoln to collect me.’ I was speaking so fast that I was hardly taking a breath.

  The doctor glanced down at his watch. I knew he was already running late and each appointment was only meant to last ten minutes. It felt as if he wanted me out so he could see his next patient.

  But I was doing him a huge disservice.

  ‘Miles,’ he said with a smile. ‘Of course I believe you. But I’d like you to see one of the other doctors in the practice. He deals far more in problems of this nature. I’ll go and speak to him now. Go to the waiting room and I’ll call you from there.’

  I went back to the waiting room and, after ten more minutes, just when I was about to give up, Dr Rasheed appeared again, this time with another man who I took to be in his forties.

  ‘Miles,’ said Dr Rasheed, ‘this is Dr Nixon. He’s one of the other doctors here. He would like to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Hello, Miles,’ said the new man. ‘Shall we go to my room?’

  I stood up and followed him along the corridor to the room at the end. He closed the door behind us.

  ‘Dr Rasheed tells me that you need some help.’

  ‘I’m told I do.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Will it do any good?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Dr Nixon. ‘You mentioned PTSD to my colleague. I’ve had some experience of dealing with that from my time spent working with the army. If that is indeed the problem, then we can certainly help. The treatment does work, but it will also take time. There are no overnight solutions. It’s like going on an emotional roller-coaster ride, with lots of highs and lows. But we can try to make the lows as shallow as possible, and then, hopefully, force them to go away altogether.’

  I sighed loudly and almost started crying. ‘Then please help me.’

  * * *

  The next arrival into my room at the Upper Engadin hospital is not a journalist looking for a quote, it is Susi Ashcroft.

  ‘How on earth did you know I was here?’ I ask.

  She seems slightly uncomfortable. ‘After what you told me at dinner last night, I thought about going and watching you in action. I didn’t realise the Cresta Run was so close to the hotel until the concierge told me it was just along the road. So I went but, when I got there, the place was crawling with police. I asked for you and someone told me you’d crashed on the ice and been taken to hospital by helicopter. I was very worried.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She smiles. ‘Are you going to be in here long?’

  ‘I hope not. I dislocated my shoulder but it’s back in place now. They should let me go either later today or tomorrow, but I suspect my Cresta riding days are over for this year. I’ve cracked my shoulder blade as well.’

  ‘But you’ll be back again for more next year?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She smiles again and shakes her head. ‘You’re quite mad.’

  I smile back at her. Little does she know.

  ‘I thought you’d be going home today,’ I say.

  ‘I would have, but there’s a minimum-stay requirement to get a room at the Kulm. Michael had initially intended coming with me. We were going to make a short holiday of it.’ She laughs. ‘He now regrets he didn’t come to see Foscote Boy win yesterday.’

  ‘So how long are you staying?’

  ‘The suite is booked until Friday but I’ll probably go home on Wednesday. I’ll just pay for the extra two nights.’ She pauses. ‘You can use it if you want, it will be paid for anyway.’

  Two nights in a suite at the Kulm Hotel is very tempting, but I feel that I’d have to offer a contribution towards the cost, and I’m already well over my budget.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’ll probably go home myself as soon as they let me out of here.’

  ‘As you like.’

  ‘Have you seen Jerry?’ I ask.

  ‘Indeed I have. He came to see me this morning about nine, as I was having breakfast. He wanted to apologise for missing our dinner last night. And he’s sporting quite a black eye.’

  ‘I bet he is. The clinic must have discharged him.’

  ‘I think he discharged himself.’ She laughs. ‘He kept going on about how expensive it was.’

  Typical Jerry.

  ‘I told him not to worry about the dinner as I’d had a lovely time with you instead.’

  ‘Was he all right about that?’

  ‘Not wild. He seemed very keen to know exactly what we talked about. He kept pressing me to remember.’

  I’m sure he did. He would have been worried that I might have mentioned an overweight breast girth and chain-mail boots.

  ‘He also asked if I knew where you were – said he needed to talk to you. All I know is you’re not staying at the Kulm. I told him that.’

  I lay my head back on the pillow. The last effects of the ketamine are still with me and I’m tired. Susi sees it.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she says. ‘They asked me not to be too long.’

  ‘I’m quite surprised they let you in at all. There have been some reporters outside and the doctor assured me that everyone would be kept out.’

  Susi smiles at me. ‘I told them I’m your mother.’

  * * *

  Dr Nixon arranged for me to attend the Psychological Medicine Service at the Royal Berkshire Hospital in Reading for my full psychiatric assessment.

  I had no idea what to expect and was quite ready to be poked and prodded in every direction, but mostly it was just talking, even though they did take some of my blood and urine at the beginning.

  ‘To eliminate any physical conditions that may be affecting your mental state,’ said the nurse taking the samples, ‘such as a thyroid problem or vitamin D deficiency.’

  After that it was just me sitting in a room for nearly ninety minutes alone with a female psychologist, answering questions about my life and how I felt about certain things. She started by asking me if anyone else in my family had ever had any mental-health issues.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ I said. ‘But my mother did take her own life.’

  She clearly thought that that was a mental health issue and made a note.

  ‘If you feel able, can you tell me about it?’

  So I told her how my mother had found her life very difficult after my father had been killed in a car accident when I was twelve. I explained how I’d come home from school one day to find her lying cold and stiff on her bed. I also described my father’s accident, and how I had been in his Jaguar with him at the time he died.

  ‘And what is your primary emotion as you recount those events to me now?’

  ‘Guilt.’ It just popped out without me really thinking, as if my subconscious was urging the word to escape my lips.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know how to explain it.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I suppose I feel most guilty that my father died in the crash and I didn’t. If I hadn’t been with him in the car, he wouldn’t have had to make the manoeuvre to save me, which almost certainly killed him. I’ve felt particularly guilty about that ever since.’

  ‘And your mother? Do you feel guilty about her death too?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder how I didn’t see it coming.’ I was almost in tears. I took a deep breath and steadied myself. ‘My mother and I didn’t always see eye to eye when I was a teenager. She didn’t approve of much of what I did or wanted to be, so I didn’t even realise that she was so desperate. Sometimes, I used to hear her crying in the night but still I didn’t go and comfort her.’ I took another deep breath. ‘Not a day goes by without me thinking of her, and I so wish and pray that I had behaved differently at that time – but I didn’t. So, yes, I do feel guilty about her
death.’

  ‘And would you say that these feelings of guilt affect your life on a regular basis?’

  ‘Definitely. Every day.’

  I told her about the nightmare I was having – how I could see in my head the brick lorry with its blazing headlights bearing down on me, with people standing around shouting that it was all my fault.

  ‘And how long have you been having this nightmare?’

  I told her about the panic attack I’d had on the way to Newton Abbot in April and how things had gone downhill from there, with the nightmare recurring most nights since.

  ‘But I was unhappy before that. I haven’t really been happy since I moved down here from Yorkshire eighteen months ago. In fact, I haven’t been properly happy for a very long time. Maybe not since I was sixteen. But things have got very much worse recently.’

  ‘And why do you think that is?’

  ‘My current bad form has preyed badly on my mind, together with always having to keep my weight down.’

  ‘Keep your weight down?’ she said in surprise, looking up from her note-taking. ‘But you look absolutely fine to me. Even a bit too thin.’

  ‘I’m a jockey,’ I said, slightly irritated with her. ‘I ride racehorses for a living. I need to be too thin.’

  ‘Is that also what you meant by your current bad form? You mean your racing form?’

  I nodded. I explained how I’d set out to be a living memorial to my father but things hadn’t panned out as I’d hoped, making me feel inadequate and hopeless. I also explained how the recent critical articles in the Racing Post had badly affected me and how I had become increasingly angry at the slightest criticism or perceived failure.

  ‘There has been the odd high point,’ I said, remembering my win on Wisden at Huntingdon, ‘but they’re rare. Mostly, for the past four months, it’s been loser after loser after loser for no apparent reason. I’ve been at my wits’ end.’

  ‘And how have you coped with that?’

  ‘I haven’t. Not really.’

  ‘Have you taken anything?’

  ‘You mean drugs?’

  She nodded. ‘Or alcohol.’

  I blushed.

  I know I blushed, and so did the psychologist, so there was no point in denying it.

  ‘I have been drinking a little to help me sleep.’

  ‘What do you call a little?’

  ‘A couple of cans of beer. Maybe a swig or two of vodka when I go to bed.’

  ‘How big are the swigs?’

  ‘Well, fairly big, I suppose. But not enough to make me drunk.’

  ‘And in the mornings? Do you ever have a drink for breakfast?’

  ‘No,’ I said, emphatically. ‘Never.’ I was quite shocked that she’d asked. What did she think I was, an alcoholic?

  The questioning went on, probing into all aspects of my life, including my childhood and also whether I’d ever had any feelings for anyone else other than members of my family.

  ‘I had a girlfriend once,’ I said. ‘When I first moved to Malton. It lasted about two years but just sort of fizzled out. It wasn’t very serious. Nothing more than a kiss and a cuddle among the hay bales. Her mother didn’t approve.’

  ‘Nobody else?’

  Nurse Valentine, I thought. But that was mere fantasy, not reality, especially with her having kids.

  ‘No. Not that I wouldn’t welcome a romantic liaison.’

  ‘With a girl, or with a boy?’

  Clearly nothing was off limits in this interview.

  ‘A girl,’ I said. ‘Definitely a girl.’ Maybe I was a little too emphatic.

  ‘Do you have a problem with people having gay relationships?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘It’s just not my personal cup of tea.’

  She moved on, getting me to describe in detail what I felt during and in the run-up to my panic attacks.

  ‘Do you know what triggers them?’

  ‘Headlights,’ I said. ‘All I can see is the brick lorry.’

  Finally, she asked me to do a few cognitive tests – mental arithmetic, word games, and so on – and then we were done.

  ‘Well?’ I said as she closed her notebook and stood up.

  ‘All very interesting,’ she said. ‘I will be writing to your doctor in a day or two with my diagnosis. You will also get a copy of the letter, through the post.’

  It will go to the wrong address, I thought.

  25

  Dr Kaufmann at the Upper Engadin hospital decides that I should remain in their care overnight.

  ‘Your body has suffered quite a severe trauma,’ he says. ‘And that cracked shoulder blade would benefit from you not moving it too much. We can’t do much else about that. It’s impossible to put a shoulder blade in plaster so you’ll have to keep your arm in that sling for at least a couple of weeks. It may be sore but it will fix on its own. But I think a night of observation here would be wise.’

  I agree but, in spite of what the policeman had said, I’m also worried about my safety.

  ‘How secure is this hospital?’

  ‘Secure?’

  ‘The police have told me that they think this was done on purpose, even that I was specifically targeted. If so, then someone tried to kill me today and I don’t particularly want them coming back in the dead of night to finish the job.’

  The doctor seems quite shocked. ‘I will make sure that one of our security team is permanently posted outside your door. Trust me, no one will get in here without your approval.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I pause. ‘But I also have another problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Apart from this,’ I touch the thin hospital gown I have on, ‘I have nothing to wear.’

  He laughs.

  I explain that I left my anorak in the hut at the top of the Cresta, my ski pants and snow boots in a locker in the clubhouse changing room, and the rest of my stuff is at my Gasthaus.

  ‘I’ll see what I can manage,’ he says. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘My phone is also in the locker at the club, in one of my snow boots. Is there any chance you could contact the club manager and ask for someone to bring it down to me?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll give him a call.’

  I feel somewhat lost without having any connection with the outside world. I reckon that reuniting me with my phone is the very least the club can do, and I will need it to arrange my flight home.

  ‘I presume this puts paid to my riding of the Cresta for this year?’

  ‘Unless you want that shoulder out again.’

  I do not.

  ‘Even though the scan showed no breaks in the joint itself, you will have stretched the muscles and ligaments that hold everything in place. So it’s loose. You need to give everything time to tighten up again. That’s also why you need to wear that sling.’

  ‘But it will tighten up all right?’

  ‘It will, although I have to tell you that it is never as tight afterwards as it was before. Now it’s been out once, I’m afraid it is quite likely to happen again, especially in someone as young and active as you are.’

  That is a worry, not only for my future riding of the Cresta but also my livelihood. Setting up deck chairs may not be particularly arduous but it needs two working hands.

  ‘Of course, you can always have it operated on, but we don’t usually do that unless the dislocation has become recurrent. The procedure shortens the tendons to tighten the shoulder and keep the joint stable. The outcome is generally pretty good.’

  ‘But not guaranteed?’

  ‘No. Some still come out even after surgery, especially if there’s a family history.’

  ‘Surely dislocating shoulders is not hereditary.’

  ‘Inherited instability certainly plays a part. Something like half of those who arrive here from the ski slopes with dislocated shoulders have a parent who’s also had one out at sometime or another.’

  ‘My father dislocated his once.’

  ‘
There you are then,’ says the doctor, spreading his arms wide in satisfaction of a theory well proved. ‘And a substantial proportion have had their other shoulder out too. So be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

  I clearly now have even more parts of me to watch.

  * * *

  The letter from the psychologist at the Royal Berkshire Hospital arrived four days after my visit there for the psychiatric assessment.

  Even though I had already collected all my stuff from the house I’d previously shared with the other two conditional jockeys, I still possessed a front-door key so I’d been popping along each day after morning exercise, to check the post, and there was the letter, lying on the mat.

  I decided not to open it immediately as, at that point, my two former housemates returned from their stables. And they were not happy to find me there any more than I was happy to see them.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ one of them asked accusingly, stabbing me in the chest with his finger.

  ‘Just collecting my mail,’ I said, stuffing the envelope into my trouser pocket, and my anger back in its box.

  ‘Well, don’t. You no longer live here. So give us your key and get out.’

  He held out his hand determinedly and, with resignation, I handed it over. What else could I do? Fight them both?

  They slammed the door shut and I could hear them laughing together on the other side. I wondered why they were quite so nasty towards me. What I would have given to have had a friendship with them, to have had proper mates with whom I could share experiences and discuss problems.

  And all because my father had been a champion jockey and theirs hadn’t.

  Jealousy could be so destructive.

  And it should have been me who was jealous of them, not the other way round.

  They both had fathers who were still living, while mine had been dead for ten years. They also had mothers, and siblings. I had no one left in my family except an elderly grandmother who lived over two hundred miles away, plus an uncle who wanted me to forgo my rightful inheritance.

  Was it any wonder I was unhappy?