Iced Page 19

  I walked back to the Dickinson house and went straight up to my room to open the letter from the psychologist on my own.

  Dear Dr Nixon,

  Thank you for referring your patient, Miles Pussett, to me at the Royal Berkshire. I spent some considerable time with him earlier this week and I found our conversation most interesting and enlightening.

  It is my considered opinion that Mr Pussett is suffering from a combination of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), together with a psychotic depressive disorder largely brought on by feelings of inadequacy, and by his perceived guilt over the death of his parents.

  He has suffered two major panic attacks, triggered by memories of the accident that killed his father, which are indicative of his PTSD, and I see no prospect of them not continuing without some form of treatment and/or medication.

  However, I believe that the depressive disorder is the more acute problem, and tackling that may also ease the PTSD symptoms.

  I recommend that he be referred immediately to one of our clinical psychiatrists here at the Royal Berkshire, initially as an outpatient, although I wouldn’t rule out the need for in-patient care at sometime in the future, especially if the situation with respect to his alcohol consumption were to deteriorate.

  Yours sincerely,

  Charlotte Le Grand, Senior Diagnostic Psychologist

  I read it through from start to finish at least three times, trying to decipher the true meaning behind the jargon.

  Eventually, I threw the letter down onto the bed.

  Did I really believe it?

  The doctor in Lincoln had said that it was often the patient who was the last to realise they were sick.

  If it were true then, I suppose, it might be something of a relief. There would finally be an explanation for why I had been feeling so dreadful, and maybe a path forward for me to get better. But I was also hugely embarrassed by the letter, particularly about its reference to my alcohol intake.

  My hands were shaking and I was worried that I was about to have another panic attack, right there and then.

  I took the bottle of vodka out from its hiding place under my socks, and had a generous swig.

  Just to calm my nerves.

  * * *

  ‘There’s someone outside from the Cresta club,’ says the security guard, putting his head round my hospital-room door. ‘He says he has your phone. Shall I let him in?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’

  His head disappears again and, presently, the door opens wide, but the new arrival is not who I expect. Far from it.

  ‘Hello, Miles,’ he says. ‘How are you feeling?’

  I am shocked, not least because I didn’t realise my visitor even knew my first name. He had always before just called me ‘Pussett’.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Colonel.’

  The Honourable Colonel David Maitland-Butler, OBE. The very last person I would have expected to bring me my phone.

  ‘You seem surprised to see me.’

  ‘I am. Very.’

  He laughs. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m quite surprised myself. I’ve had quite a day.’

  So had I.

  ‘I was in the Cresta club bar just finishing my second Bullshot when who turns up – one of my old army team-mates from long ago. Couldn’t believe it. Seems he’s still riding the ice after all these years. Bloody mad, if you ask me. Anyway, we have a couple of drinks together and then the police turn up, and they won’t let us leave, so we have a couple more drinks.’ He laughs again. ‘We ended up being in there all day.’

  And, as a result, the colonel is clearly more than slightly the worse for wear.

  ‘I am just leaving when someone yells out that you need your phone at the hospital and will someone take it, so I volunteered.’

  I bet the colonel was always volunteering when he was in the army.

  ‘So here it is.’ He hands over my phone and salutes somewhat unsteadily.

  ‘Please sit down, Colonel,’ I say, pointing at one of the chairs by the bed. I decide not to add ‘before you fall down’, and just hope he hasn’t driven here.

  He sits down heavily.

  ‘You caused quite a stir at the club today, make no mistake.’

  ‘Not intentionally.’

  ‘No. No, I can see that.’ He is trying very hard to be serious, to see through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain. It is almost funny, but I remember being like that, often, and it is really not something to laugh about.

  ‘So what are they saying about me at the club?’ I ask.

  ‘They all reckon you’re bloody lucky to be alive.’

  I agree with them.

  ‘Were there many people there?’ I ask.

  ‘A few, but no one I knew other than my old team-mate. More police than anyone else. Bloody nuisance they were, too, asking questions all day long.’

  Personally, I didn’t think that was a bloody nuisance. Indeed, I had some important questions of my own to ask.

  ‘Well,’ says the colonel, standing up with a bit of a wobble. ‘I’d best be off.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay a while longer? I’ll order some coffee if you like.’

  ‘All right.’ He sits down again. ‘I have a table booked at eight o’clock for dinner, but it can wait.’

  I look at the time on my phone. ‘It’s only six now. You have plenty of time.’

  I use my left hand to push the in-room-service button on the phone by my bed, and ask for two coffees.

  ‘Have they nothing a bit stronger?’ asks the colonel.

  I laughed. ‘No, Colonel. This is a hospital, not a hotel.’ And he’s had quite enough already.

  The coffee arrives and we sit there drinking it in silence, him on the chair and me in the bed.

  ‘Tell me, Colonel,’ I say at length. ‘Why would a trainer purposely make his horse lose a race?’

  ‘There might be several reasons.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, for one thing he might have bet against it.’

  ‘I thought that was against the Rules of Racing.’

  He cocks his head and looks at me, as if to say, Don’t be so naïve.

  ‘Laying a horse is certainly against the rules, such as on an online betting exchange. But simply placing a bet on another horse in the race that you think might win if yours doesn’t is not against the letter of the law.’

  ‘But is it against the spirit?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  I do.

  ‘For what other reason would you want one to lose?’

  ‘To improve its handicap. We all do that to some extent by entering horses into races when we know the opposition will be too strong. There’s nothing in the rules against that. But, years ago, some trainers would enter a horse in a race simply to assist with its conditioning, or to school it over fences. They would tell the jockey to give the horse an easy race, and not expect or want it to win. That’s all now been banned. We are not allowed to say anything remotely like that to a jockey any more, and some of them would report me to the stewards if I did, for fear of getting into trouble themselves.’

  ‘But it still goes on?’

  Another sideways glance.

  ‘ “A trainer is responsible for ensuring that a jockey who rides a horse trained by them in a race is given instructions that shall allow the jockey to ensure that the horse is given a full opportunity to achieve the best possible position.”,’ he says.

  ‘Is that a direct quote?’

  He nods. ‘Rule F.39 of the Rules of Racing. It’s one all trainers live by.’

  ‘But could you ensure that the horse loses without the jockey even knowing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How?

  ‘You could dope it. Give it a breakfast of crushed-up tranquillisers in its bran. But they will almost certainly show up if the horse gets tested.’

  ‘Other than that, then.’

  ‘You could not train it properly, or give it a very hard work-out muc
h too close to the race, like the day before or even the morning of. Or don’t feed it enough for a few days beforehand. Things like that will generally slow them down.’ He makes it sound like he has tried all of those.

  I wonder if he has ever slowed one down by making it carry a huge amount of unofficial overweight.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No real reason, Colonel. I’m just interested.’

  Very interested.

  26

  Jump racing restarted thirteen days after my awful day at Market Rasen, coincidentally with an evening meeting at the same racecourse, not that Jerry had any runners on that occasion.

  Whereas the jump season was technically back under way, the number of meetings was small, sometimes only two or three in a week spread across the entire country. Not like in October or November, when there could be as many as twenty jump meetings during the same period.

  Flat racing, however, was in full swing throughout August and Jerry was not averse to entering his predominantly jumping horses in flat races. He especially targeted the long-distance flat handicaps, such as the Chester Cup in May, the Northumberland Plate or Ascot Stakes in June, and the Cesarewitch at Newmarket in October, but he had runners elsewhere too.

  So the yard was busy all year round, preparing the hundred and fifty horses for racing, to say nothing of the fact that they also all needed to be fed, watered, mucked out, groomed and exercised every single day.

  On the Monday evening, two weeks after I’d moved in to the Dickinsons’ house, the three of us sat down, as usual, at their kitchen table for supper at seven forty-five on the dot. Jerry had obviously had words with Sabrina about how much she was giving me to eat, as my portion sizes had reduced dramatically over the past seven days.

  I suppose I was grateful, even if I was now back to constantly feeling hungry.

  ‘I’ve declared you to ride Wisden,’ Jerry said. ‘This time at Stratford on Thursday.’

  ‘What weight does he carry?’ I asked quickly. He’d been handicapped to carry only ten-stone-two when we’d won at Huntingdon and, with my allowance, and Sabrina Dickinson’s food, I wasn’t at all sure I could do that weight again.

  ‘The bloody handicapper has put him up seven pounds.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief, and took another mouthful of my meagre meal. That was OK then.

  ‘You’re also going to ride Gasfitter again, on Saturday. I’ve entered him in the three-and-a-quarter-mile handicap hurdle, at Newton Abbot, so don’t make a mess of the start this time.’

  Sabrina gave Jerry a very stern glare, which he ignored.

  ‘Norman will be looking after you because I’ve got one running in the two-mile handicap at Chester, and I’ll be going there instead.’

  Norman was Jerry’s travelling head lad, who would deputise for him when he had runners at more than one racecourse on the same day, as he usually had.

  ‘OK,’ I said, trying to keep calm.

  At least I was getting rides again.

  We finished the meal and, with the early start required in a racing stable, especially in August, we all went up to our rooms about nine-thirty.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and re-read, once again, the letter from the diagnostic psychologist and wondered what I should do about it, if anything.

  Then I had four or five large swigs of vodka as a nightcap, stuffed the letter into the bedside-table drawer out of sight of the eagle-eyed cleaner, and went to bed.

  Gasfitter – at Newton Abbot. The perfect storm for my mental health.

  * * *

  True to his word, Dr Kaufmann at the Upper Engadin hospital arrives in the morning with some clothes for me to wear for my discharge.

  ‘They’re mine,’ he says, laying out some underwear, a shirt, ski salopettes and an anorak on my bed. ‘So I’d quite like them back.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll make sure I return them this afternoon.’

  ‘No hurry, whenever you’re ready. I won’t need them until the weekend as I’m on duty here every day this week.’

  He helps me into the clothes, doing up the shirt buttons over the sling.

  ‘I’m sure I can manage,’ I say, even though I can’t. ‘You must have more important things to do than dressing your patients.’

  ‘It’s OK. It is fairly quiet today, so far, and you’re a special case. I’ve never had a victim of an attempted murder to look after before. You’re all over the newspapers and on the TV.’

  ‘The TV?’

  ‘Absolutely, and not just the local Swiss channels either. You made the headlines last night on CNN. It’s a big story.’

  Oh, hell! So much for me trying to keep a low profile.

  ‘Are the reporters still here?’ I ask.

  ‘Not today.’

  The news that I was neither dead nor fighting for my life had obviously caused the media interest to wane. Hence, the hacks would have faded away in search of more sensationalist copy elsewhere.

  ‘Do you happen to have any shoes?’ I ask the doctor. I can hardly wear the spiked-front Cresta boots I’d arrived in.

  ‘Didn’t they bring your snow boots down with your phone? I told them to.’

  ‘No. They didn’t.’ Clearly, the doctor’s full message hadn’t made it into the colonel’s alcohol-muddled brain.

  ‘Right, give me a minute. What size are you?’

  ‘Eight and a half. That’s forty-two in European.’

  He disappears out the door and, after five minutes or so, returns with some white wellington-type rubber boots, only much shorter, finishing just above the ankle.

  ‘They’re surgeon’s boots,’ he says with a laugh. ‘To keep out the blood. I took them from the operating-theatre store.’

  I laugh too. ‘I’ll make sure you get them back.’

  ‘Don’t worry. They arrive from the manufacturer in a sterile pack. These won’t be needed again now they’re opened.’

  I slip on the boots and I’m all ready to go.

  ‘Good luck,’ he says, ‘and don’t come back.’

  He holds out his right hand.

  I reach out with my left to shake it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘No need, and thank you. I will be back but, I hope, only to return your clothes. But don’t I have to pay for you or the hospital?’

  ‘Not at all. The tobogganing club have sorted all that.’

  Clearly riding the Cresta Run is not entirely at one’s own risk.

  * * *

  Stratford-on-Avon Racecourse, as it is officially named, is a bit of an anomaly, as the town where it is situated is known as Stratford-upon-Avon. But the missing ‘up’ doesn’t seem to worry the locals, or the visitors.

  More famous as the birthplace of William Shakespeare in 1564, there has been horseracing at Stratford since at least 1755, when the first results were recorded, and David Garrick, renowned actor and playwright of the eighteenth century, and after whom the Garrick Theatre and Garrick Club in London are still named, organised a horse race here as part of his Shakespearean Jubilee celebrations of 1769.

  The fact that torrential rain, plus the subsequent flooding of the river, almost washed out the whole event, and that, as a consequence, Garrick never returned to Stratford from that day forward, has been rather glossed over by the racing historians.

  However, on this particular Thursday in late August, the sun shone brightly, there was no rain in the forecast, and the River Avon was well contained within its banks along the far side of the racecourse.

  I drove myself the sixty miles from Lambourn to Stratford in my Volkswagen Golf because, although Jerry said he’d be coming too, I decided that, this time, independence of travel was the best option.

  I arrived early and, as always, walked the course.

  Stratford is a flat, left-handed circuit, about ten furlongs round, with sharp bends and a short finishing straight. The hurdle course runs all the way inside the steeplechase one, which makes the turns all the tighter.

 
I kept telling myself over and over that, after the summer break, and with a change in my living circumstances, my luck was bound to improve and I would have a new start to my career. Hence, I was feeling more confident as I pulled on Wisden’s blue and yellow silks.

  I checked myself on the testing scales provided in the jockeys’ changing room – ten-stone-six, including my saddle. Perfect. I even managed to smile.

  I then waited for Jerry to appear before weighing out and giving him my saddle to take away and put on the horse.

  ‘Jockeys out,’ came the call over the speaker system in the changing room, so I made my way to the parade ring. Jerry was already there, waiting with the owner.

  ‘Go steady early on,’ Jerry said to me. ‘It’s a long way, so don’t tire him too soon.’

  Nothing this time about keeping him ‘handy’.

  He gave me a leg-up and the stable lad led us out onto the track.

  The start was at the beginning of the back straight and we had more than two and a half circuits of the track to complete, plus thirteen flights of hurdles to negotiate.

  Clearly, all the jockeys had been given the same instruction to go steady early on, and we were hardly at a gallop as we crossed the first flight.

  ‘Come on, chaps,’ one of our number shouted. ‘Somebody take it on.’

  Not me, I thought. I’m not contradicting any of my instructions today.

  The pace only quickened slightly as we turned into the finishing straight for the first time, and there were even a few boos from the grandstands as we passed the winning post with two full laps still to run.

  In spite of not being told to, I was keeping Wisden handy, just a couple of lengths behind the leader, but really only by virtue of the fact that we were all so bunched up by the slow tempo. However, things livened up going down the back straight for the second time and the field began to spread out a little.

  Wisden kept up fairly well at this stage, but on the final circuit he began to tire and was well back as we slowly jumped the last and cantered in seventh of the ten runners, beaten a long way by the very same horse we had overtaken on the run-in to win at Huntingdon.

  ‘Those extra seven pounds made all the difference,’ Jerry said as he helped me unsaddle the horse in the place reserved for the also-rans.