A second horse ambulance was hurtling towards the screens from one end of the course, Chisolm and a sobbing, frantic Tommy from the other. The syndicate (even Shagger at the thought of the money he might have made) was in floods.
Then next moment, to the crowd’s incredulous delight, a dirty white face, also speckled with mud, pushed the screens apart. Mrs Wilkinson looked round for her competitors and rubbed her hooves together. Was it really her? A great bellow of joy split the air as, stirrups and reins flapping, she set out at a cracking pace. The bellow grew even louder and the entire crowd rose to cheer her home as she jumped the last two fences down the straight into the arms of a distraught, tearful Tommy, with Chisolm bleating joyfully round her. The cheers escalated in hysterical relief as Tommy led her back, hugging, kissing her and pulling her ears. Despite losing so much money, the crowds were so relieved and delighted she was safe.
Mrs Wilkinson, on the other hand, was extremely hurt and annoyed not to be allowed in the winners enclosure.
127
Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, a race had been going on. As the runners reached the second circuit, Furious, the horse hater, the unpredictable, the 50–1 underdog, started to look like the over-dog, jumping majestically, unsettling the competition by the gallop he continued to take, never touching a twig, meeting each fence so exactly, landing, galloping, flustering both Ilkley Hall, who was exhausted anyway, and Last Quango, who was hitting every fence.
The crowd couldn’t believe their eyes as Furious’s white star came bobbing towards them like a satellite at night. Lusty must make a move soon, or Wriggoletto, or Internetso, but they were like Minis trailing a Ferrari.
Rafiq couldn’t believe it either.
‘Good boy, good boy. “Singing from Palestine, hither we come!”’ Talking nonsense, Rafiq crooned to him as Furious’s ginger ears flickered back to listen. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nostrils filled with foam, but he kept going faster. As they reached three out, with yellow chevrons and a man with a flag directing them round it, Rafiq noticed the screens and ambulance men but his pace didn’t slacken. ‘Come on, Furious.’
Slowly, slowly Lusty was gaining on him but at three out Lusty’s jockey took a closer look, glimpsing a slumped iron-grey body and crumpled green silks, lost concentration momentarily, but somehow forced himself to carry on.
As Furious stormed up the hill, Rafiq glanced back through his legs. Lusty was still six lengths behind, with Squiffey Liffey, Internetso and Ilkley Hall, who was having the shit thrashed out of him by Killer, even further away. Even if the Mafia got him and Furious, they would die gloriously. Flying over the last two fences like Buraq himself, showing Lusty a muddy pair of heels, Furious stormed first past the post.
Joey’s shout of joy that he’d just won £12,000 was only exceeded by Rupert’s howl of rage when, ten seconds later, Rogue crossed the line, but, able to bear it no longer, tugged Lusty round and hurtled through oncoming runners back to Amber. Reaching three out, he leapt off his frantically blowing horse, hurling his reins to a groundsman.
‘Can you undo his girths?’ he yelled. ‘I’ll weigh in later.’
But as he ran in panic towards the screens – please God, let her be all right – his heart stopped pounding abruptly and most painfully as he caught sight of Amber in Marius’s arms. Changing tack, he escaped into the trees. The Field of Hope had failed him too.
Up in the stands, Valent’s box had erupted. Drunken footballers and WAGs screamed their heads off as Valent’s dusty green and purple winning colours were superimposed over the grass at the end of the course and other jockeys rode all over them before swinging round to shake Rafiq’s hand and congratulate him. Even Killer O’Kagan put his arm round Rafiq’s neck, pretending to kiss him before hissing in his ear:
‘We’ll get you for this, you little shit.’
But Rafiq was too dazed to care. He could hardly stammer out a sentence when Derek Thompson rushed up waving a microphone, except to say that Furious was worth a million horses, and Valent was wonderful owner, and Marius wonderful trainer.
Fortunately Rafiq couldn’t hear the commentators banging on and on about how he and Furious had met in prison and what a triumph it was, Rafiq putting his criminal past behind him.
Next moment Trixie had panted up, sobbing with joy and flinging the