those nearby gasped in horror as they realized his hind leg was swinging loose as if to drop off and he was running on three legs. When an official managed to catch his reins, Furious bit him.
Ilkley Hall, who’d been the horse writhing on the ground and who’d been raced three times in three weeks, chasing the Order of Merit for Harvey-Holden, had not got up.
The screens went round both horses. Rupert’s assistant Lysander, having grabbed an official car, was at the scene as quickly as possible, by which time a course vet had decreed that Furious must be put down and moved to the side of the course before the runners came round again. Furious, who’d been initially sedated by an injection, was for once standing docile.
Next moment a screaming, hysterical treader in a woolly hat and dark glasses had shoved aside the screens and, sobbing wildly, flung his arms around Furious.
‘Don’t shoot him. We can save him, Martin Pipe saved Our Vic, please don’t kill him, please don’t.’
‘Rafiq,’ gasped Lysander as he and a security man and two spotters managed to tug him away. Rafiq immediately struggled free, clutching Furious, smoothing back the blond mane, at which Furious whickered lovingly to see him.
‘Look, he know me, he’s OK. He’s all right.’ Rafiq looked beseechingly up at Lysander. ‘We can mend him.’ His sobs increased. ‘I’m going to give you a wonderful home.’ He dropped a kiss on Furious’s white star.
‘Please be quiet, you’re upsetting the horse,’ snapped the course vet. ‘We’ve got to get it out of the way.’
This time it took two security men, two spotters and Lysander to drag Rafiq off and restrain him as a horse ambulance man held Furious while the course vet put a gun to his white star and pulled the trigger.
There was blood everywhere as, with maddened strength, Rafiq fell back on to Furious’s body.
‘You kill my horse, he shouldn’t have died,’ he howled at the course vet.
A shadow fell across them. It was Valent, who put a hand on Rafiq’s shoulder.
‘Nothing they could do?’ he asked Lysander, who was also in tears as he shook his head.
Ilkley Hall, meanwhile, who was whimpering in the most pathetic way, had struggled to sit up like a dog. Putting his ear to the horse’s back, the vet heard a crunch.
‘Back’s broken. We’ve got to get them to the side of the course.’
Eddie Alderton, spitting out mud and grass, had staggered to his feet. Johnnie Brutus lay still. Glaring wildly round, utterly deranged, Rafiq watched Harvey-Holden, with a strange, almost excited look in his reptilian eyes, approaching to see his horse dispatched. This time there was no whickering of recognition from Ilkley Hall. As the trigger was pulled he writhed, kicked violently and went still.
As the horse ambulance men winched the two horses to the side of the course, Rafiq turned like a viper on Harvey-Holden.
‘At least you get the insurance like you did after that fire you started. I know everything about you, you evil bastard.’
As he whipped out a knife, everyone jumped back, except Valent, who stepped forward: ‘Give that to me, lad.’
But Rafiq only wanted to cut off a lock of Furious’s mane.
‘They’ve killed my horse,’ he yelled at Valent, then dropped a last kiss on Furious’s shoulder, covering himself in blood.
‘I’m awful sorry, Rafiq,’ muttered Eddie, who, supported by an ambulance man, had joined the group.
For a moment, Rafiq fingered his knife.
‘I’d have kept him out of trouble,’ he hissed. ‘He hate any horses round him, but it was Wilkie’s fault, she hung left. She brought him down.’
‘They’re coming. Get off the course,’ yelled a security man as the runners on the second circuit came thundering towards them. By the time they had gone and new fallers were waiting to be picked off the floor, Rafiq had vanished.
139
News had flashed round the course that both Furious and Ilkley Hall had fallen and the screens had gone round but few knew the outcome or could hear the commentary because of the roar of the crowd.
Only fifteen horses were left. Ilkley Hall’s stable mate was faring well. On the big screen, Playboy could be seen beginning to work his fatal magic on the race, eating up the miles, sweeping past the field as though they were standing still. Killer on his back was hunting him round – a day out with the Beaufort.
Sir Cuthbert was up with the leaders, in with a chance. To the joy of the crowd, Mrs Wilkinson, tongue