Дик Фрэнсис – Flying finish / Бурный финиш. Книга для чтения на английском языке (страница 12)
‘How?’ I asked.
‘That’s your affair,’ he pointed out. ‘And for God’s sake do something about it quickly.’
The back wall of the colts’ box cracked from top to bottom. The pieces were still held in place by the guy chains, but at the present rate they wouldn’t hold more than another minute, and then we should have on our minds a maddened animal loose in a pressurised aircraft with certain death to us all if he got a hoof through a window.
‘Have you got a humane killer[137] on board?’ I said.
‘No. This is usually a passenger craft. Why don’t you bring your own?’
There were no rules to say one had to take a humane killer in animal transport. There should be. But it was too late to regret it.
‘We’ve got drugs in the first-aid kit,’ the co-pilot suggested.
I shook my head. ‘They’re unpredictable. Just as likely to make him worse.[138]’ It might even have been a tranquilliser which started him off, I thought fleetingly. They often backfired with horses.[139] And it would be quite impossible in any case to inject even a safe drug through a fine needle designed for humans into a horse as wild as this.
‘Get a carving knife or something from the galley,’ I said. ‘Anything long and sharp. And quick.’
He turned away, stumbling in his haste. The colt’s hind feet smashed one broken half of the back wall clean out. He turned round balefully, thrust his head between the top and centre banding bars, and tried to scramble through. The panic in his eyes was pitiful.
From inside his jerkin Billy calmly produced a large pistol and pointed it towards the colts’ threshing head.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ I shouted. ‘We’re thirty thousand feet up.’
The co-pilot came back with a white handled saw-edged bread knife, saw the gun, and nearly fainted.
‘D… don’t,’ he stuttered. ‘D… d… don’t.’
Billy’s eyes were very wide. He was looking fixedly at the heaving colt and hardly seemed to hear. All his mind seemed to be concentrated on aiming the gun that could kill us all.
The colt smashed the first of the lynch pins and lunged forwards, bursting out of the remains of the box like flood water from a dam. I snatched the knife from the co-pilot and as the horse surged towards me stuck the blade into the only place available, the angle where the head joined the neck.
I hit by some miracle the carotid artery.[140] But I couldn’t get out of his way afterwards. The colt came down solidly on top of me, pouring blood, flailing his legs and rolling desperately in his attempts to stand up again.
His mane fell in my mouth and across my eyes, and his heaving weight crushed the breath in and out of my lungs like some nightmare form of artificial respiration. He couldn’t right himself over my body, and as his struggles weakened he eventually got himself firmly wedged between the remains of his own box and the one directly aft of it. The co-pilot bent down and put his hands under my armpits and in jerks dragged me out from underneath.
The blood went on pouring out, hot sticky gallons of it, spreading down the gangways in scarlet streams. Alf cut open one of the hay bales and began covering it up, and it soaked the hay into a sodden crimson brown mess. I don’t know how many pints of blood there should be in a horse: the colt bled to death and his heart pumped out nearly every drop.
My clothes were soaked in it, and the sweet smell made me feel sick. I stumbled down the plane into the lavatory compartment and stripped to the skin, and washed myself with hands I found to be helplessly trembling. The door opened without ceremony, and the co-pilot thrust a pair of trousers and a sweater into my arms. His overnight civvies.
‘Here’, he said. ‘Compliments of the house.[141]’
I nodded my thanks, put them on, and went back up the plane, soothing the restive frightened cargo on the way.
The co-pilot was arguing with Billy about whether Billy would really have pulled the trigger and Billy was saying a bullet from a revolver wouldn’t make a hole in a metal aircraft. The co-pilot cursed, said you couldn’t risk it, and mentioned ricochets and glass windows. But what I wanted to know, though I didn’t ask, was what was Billy doing carrying a loaded pistol round with him in an underarm holster as casually as a wallet.
Chapter Five
I slept like the dead when I finally got home, and woke with scant time the next morning to reach Kempton for the amateurs’ chase. After such a mangling week I thought it highly probable I would crown the lot by falling off the rickety animal I had in a weak moment promised to ride. But though I misjudged where it was intending to take off at the last open ditch and practically went over the fence before it while it put in an unexpected short one, I did in fact cling sideways like a limpet to the saddle[142], through sheer disinclination to hit the ground.
Though I scrambled back on top, my mount, who wouldn’t have won anyway, had lost all interest, and I trotted him back and apologised to his cantankerous owner, who considered I had spoilt his day and was churlish enough to say so. As he outranked my father by several strawberry leaves[143] he clearly felt he had the right to be as caustic as he chose. I listened to him saying I couldn’t ride in a cart with a pig-net over it and wondered how he treated the professionals.
Julian Thackery’s father caught the tail end of these remarks as he was passing, and looked amused: and when I came out of the weighing room after changing he was leaning against the rails waiting for me. He had brought the list of entries of his horses, and at his suggestion we adjourned to the bar to discuss them. He bought me some lemon squash without a quiver, and we sat down at a small table on which he spread out several sheets of paper. I realised, hearing him discussing his plans and prospects, that the year by year success of his horses was no accident: he was a very able man.
‘Why don’t you take out a public licence?’ I said finally.
‘Too much worry,’ he smiled. ‘This way it’s a hobby. If I make mistakes, I have no one on my conscience. No one to apologise to or smooth down. No need to worry about owners whisking their horses away at an hour’s notice. No risk of them not paying my fees for months on end.’
‘You know the snags[144]’, I agreed dryly.
‘There’s no profit in training,’ he said. ‘I break even most years[145], maybe finish a little ahead. But I work the stable in with the farm, you see. A lot of the overheads come into the farm accounts. I don’t see how half these public trainers stay in business, do you? They either have to be rich to start with, or farmers like me, or else they have to bet, if they want a profit.’
‘But they don’t give it up,’ I pointed out mildly. ‘And they all drive large cars. They can’t do too badly.’
He shook his head and finished his whisky. ‘They’re good actors, some of them. They put on a smiling not-a-care-in-the-world expression at the races when they’ve got the bank manager camping on their door-step back home. Well, now,’ he shufled the papers together, folded them, and tucked them into a pocket. ‘You think you can get next Thursday off to go to Stratford?’
‘I’m pretty sure of it, yes.’
‘Right. I’ll see you there, then.’
I nodded and we stood up to go. Someone had left an
I smiled inwardly. From the lack of detail or excitement, it was clear the report had come from someone like the trainer to whom Okinawa had been travelling, not from airport reporters sniffing a sensational story. No journalist who had seen or even been told of the shambles on that plane could have written so starkly. But the horse had been disposed of now, and I had helped wash out the plane myself, and there was nothing to see any more. Okinawa had been well insured, a vet had certified that destroying him was essential, and I had noticed that my name on the crew list was spelled wrongly; H. Gray. With a bit of luck, and if Yardman himself had his way, that was the end of it.
‘My dear boy,’ he’d said in agitation when hurriedly summoned to the airport, ‘it does business no good to have horses go crazy on our flights. We will not broadcast it, will we?’
‘We will not,’ I agreed firmly, more for my sake than for his.
‘It was unfortunate.’ he sighed and shrugged, obviously relieved.
‘We should have a humane killer,’ I said, striking the hot iron[146].
‘Yes. Certainly. All right. I’ll get one.’
I would hold him to that[147], I thought. Standing peacefully in the bar at Kempton I could almost feel the weight of Okinawa and the wetness of his blood, the twenty-four hour old memory of lying under a dying horse still much too vivid for comfort. I shook myself firmly back into the present and went out with Julian’s father to watch a disliked rival ride a brilliant finish.