out Tresa, who’d also jumped down from the platform.
But Rafiq had vanished into a night as dark as himself.
‘My God, there was murder or rather suicide bomb in his eyes,’ said Dare.
‘I’d commit suicide if I had a bum as big as Tommy’s,’ Tresa said, giggling nervously as they climbed back up to the table.
‘Well well well,’ Josh shook his head, ‘I thought Rafiq was hopelessly hooked on Amber.’
‘Amber’s well fit, I’d love to shag her,’ mumbled Eddie, grabbing a napkin to stem the blood pouring from his mouth.
‘Tommy’d look better if you hid her face and that frizzy hair under a burka,’ said Michelle bitchily. ‘Are you OK, Eddie?’
‘It’s your turn to choose a trog to snog, Vakil.’ Jamie got out his stopwatch.
But everyone had lost their taste for the game, particularly Michelle, when the geek with the mullet and the fiancée sidled up and asked for her telephone number.
117
Tommy and Rafiq were silent on the way home. Brilliant stars glittered through the bare trees, gardens were lit with snowdrops. Rafiq was desperately analysing his feelings, his volcanic burst of rage … Was he merely defending his dear friend whom above all things he didn’t want hurt, or could it be jealousy, a lightning strike, sudden excruciating pain to see her smiling up at the effortlessly handsome Eddie?
‘Is Wilkie OK?’ muttered Tommy.
‘She wasn’t cast, I made it up. I am sorry, Tommy. We have another early start tomorrow. I kept you waiting, I don’t want you to get too tired.’
Slowly Tommy’s heartbeat grew slower.
Back at Throstledown, they found Furious and Wilkie flat out and snoring. Furious looked particularly sweet, his hooves curled round his nose. Chisolm, snuggled up against Wilkie’s belly, opened a long yellow eye.
Rafiq looked at Tommy. It was as if he’d seen her for the first time, through newly polished spectacles. How dare those pigs call her a trog? He walked her upstairs to her room.
Outside she stammered, ‘That was such a brilliant win.’
‘I learn Furious could win the Gold Cup today,’ said Rafiq softly, ‘but tonight I learn something much more important. I have been barking up wrong treat.’
He took her round, anxious face in his hands, flattening the fuzzy hair, seeing how long and dark were her eyelashes and how bemused with love her eyes. Unable to stop himself, he dropped a kiss on her trembling lips, which tasted faintly of champagne.
Tommy shuddered then kissed him back, keeping her mouth shut then opening it timidly as her hands crept very slowly up his chest.
‘Oh Tommy,’ mumbled Rafiq and kissed her much harder. ‘It is truth, I dragged you away because I was jealous.’
‘Jealous,’ squeaked Tommy in amazement.
‘I want you to be just mine.’
Then he let her go and opened the door further.
‘You need sleep,’ he smoothed the purple shadows beneath her eyes, ‘and we must take this very slowly because you are so precious to me. I cannot bear anything to go wrong.’
Afterwards, Rafiq couldn’t sleep. He felt huge happiness and confusion. Sweet Tommy, how could he have wasted so many opportunities when they’d been alone together?
As he prostrated himself in prayer on the white fur rug Tommy had given him for Christmas, he thanked Allah first for Furious’s amazing win and then for Tommy. Then he groaned. ‘Oh God, when I begged for someone to love, I forget to tell you what colour and what faith.’
Reeling with ecstasy and shock, Tommy, once her door was shut, was brought down to earth by a message to ring her father whatever time she came in.
‘Young Rafiq was in a fight at Electric Blue tonight,’ were his first words.
‘Jockeys are always having fights,’ protested Tommy.
‘Knocked out Rupert Campbell-Black’s grandson’s front tooth.’
‘How d’you know this so fast?’
‘We’re watching him. His cousin Ibrahim is rumoured to be back in England. Find out what you can. If he says anything it’s your duty to tell me.’
‘I love him, Dad,’ said Tommy.
In a corridor of the Marsden, Amber slumped against the wall, desperately pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
Her father, all wired up in bed, had just told her he’d got lung cancer but in his usual sweet way had belittled any horrors.
‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll lick it. God, I could murder a fag or a drink now.’ He had started laughing and coughing, then couldn’t stop.
‘Does it hurt terribly?’
‘A bit – just had a shot of morphine – like Oliver Twist asking for morphine.’ Billy laughed again, triggering more coughing. He reached for her hand. ‘Darling – oh shit –