Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker Page A

bit. There is a sharp twinge in my back from the fall yesterday. She has such a giant stride that it takes me about fifty metres before I realise that, even though she is only cantering, we are closing on the horse in front.
    Easy, Hat.
    I take a pull on the reins and she slows, as graceful as a ballet dancer. By the time we pass Mr Wilkinson, standing on the rails, a smile is on my face, the aches in my body forgotten.
    It is only a canter but, at the top of the hill, Manhattan behaves as if she has just won a race. She shakes her head like a two-year-old, jogs sideways.
    You like stretching your legs, don’t you, girl?
    Ahead of me, Liam shakes his head, ‘Are you giving that horse drugs?’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen her do that before.’
    She has calmed slightly by the time we file past the trainer on our way back down the hill.
    â€˜All right, Deej?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Tommy?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    I’ve noticed that when Mr Wilkinson asks how a horse has gone, he is not looking for conversation. Unless the horse has coughed or gone lame, there is only one answer he is looking for.
    â€˜All right, Liam?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜All right, Jay?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    The trainer follows Manhattan with his eyes. He murmurs something to himself, then turns to walk back to his car.
    â€˜All done.’ That’s what I think he said. Or it might have been, ‘Well done.’
    The sun is shining on the heath, skylarks are singing in the blue sky. On our way home, the lads include me in their chat. I’m Bug, I’m one of them. Quietly, so that no one except my horse can hear me, I sing one of the songs that my mum used to love.
    Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream.
    I’m still humming as we walk down the horse path towards the main yard. I loosen Manhattan’s girths and give her a pat on the neck but, as we get closer to the stables, her ears flicker back and the spring goes out of her step.
    There is a movement in the shadowy passageway leading into the back yard. Briefly, I see the outline of a figure carrying a pitchfork.
    Eyes.
    Watching.
    Us.

R ED FIRE
    THE WOUND ABOVE my eyes grows crusty. The scab comes off. The scar grows paler until it becomes a slash of white on my sunburned face. Summer passes.
    Now and then, when I’m feeling lonely, memories of the past appear in my mind like uninvited guests. Drawing back the curtains in my room to see Dusty looking up at me from the stable yard. Riding across the fields with Michaela. Being driven home from pony-racing by Uncle Bill. The voice of Aunt Elaine from the next-door room.
Jay might as well
be
a horse.
It is strange how distant it all feels.
    Because now I am a real stable lad in Newmarket. Somewhere along the line, the idea that I am a kid on trial has faded like the morning mist on the heath. This is my new life.
    My body is getting stronger. These days I ride out with all three lots. I have taken to spending an hour every evening at the Racing Centre in the centre of the town. There is a gym there where I keep fit. I work out on the running and rowing machines. I do weights. I spend time on the racehorse simulator – a mechanical saddle which helps you strengthen the muscles used when riding a racehorse at speed.
    Not that my life is easy. ‘Teasing is part of racing,’ Laura once told me. ‘Having a laugh is how we get through the early mornings, the cold, the long days. And sometimes the laughs are at someone else’s expense.’
    â€˜Particularly if that someone is a girl?’
    â€˜You got it.’
    I’m not only a girl. I’m young, skinny. I’m often annoyingly cheerful when I’m with the horses.
    Soon after the Norewest incident, Tommy tells me that some new protective gear has arrived for the lads. When I open the chest in the tack room, watched by