Knock Down - By Dick Francis Page 0,41

soften you up.’

‘What?’ I laughed. ‘You can’t be serious.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s possible. They rough you up a little. Nothing you’d make too much of a fuss of. Kick you around a bit. Then they give out with the threats…. Join us or else.’

I shook my head. ‘It can’t be that simple.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not that much of a threat to them. Why should they go to all that trouble?’

He leaned back in his chair, smiling gently through the Cuban smoke. ‘Don’t you know the classic law of the invader, fellah? Single out the strongest guy around and smash him. Then all the weaker crowd come to heel like lambs.’

‘Vic has invaded like the Mongol hordes,’ I agreed, ‘But I’m by no means the strongest guy around.’

‘You sell yourself short, fellah.’

‘Don’t be a nut.’

He shook his head. ‘I back my own judgement. Make my decisions. Buy my horses. Quick. Snap.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘And I don’t get things wrong.’

The circus left Newmarket after the races on Saturday.

By that time relations between Vic and myself were if possible worse. He had instructed me not to bid on five occasions: three of those yearlings I hadn’t wanted anyway, and the other two I bought. The mood of the mob had hardened to the point where I was careful to keep out of lonely car parks.

By Saturday Vic had warned Constantine that I was not a good companion for Nicol. Constantine had warned Nicol, and Nicol, grinning over a sandwich, had warned me.

Wilton Young had become the owner of three more yearlings at near record prices and Fynedale was smirking from ear to ear.

Constantine had pretended not to be mortified, and had cheered up considerably when his horse beat Wilton Young’s in the Cesarewitch.

Eddy Ingram asked to have the On Safari filly after all as he had discovered on his own account that she was undamaged, but I had already passed her on to another client and felt regrettably unsympathetic when I told him so.

On the business side I had had quite a good week in spite of all Vic’s threats, but I drove away down the A. 11 to London with a deep sigh of relief.

The relief lasted until I turned down towards the village at home.

The village was in a turmoil with all the people out of the houses, and the street blocked with cars, bicycles, prams and kids. The time was ten past eight. The cause of the upheaval was a bright glow in the night sky with leaping flames and flying sparks, and I knew at once and without hope that the place on fire was mine.

It was impossible to drive there. I left my car and went forward on foot, competing it seemed to me with every man, woman and wheelchair in the parish. The nearer I got the more I had to push, and it was a six-deep seething mass which was being held back by a portable barrier placed across the gateway. I squeezed round one end of it to get into the yard and was roughly told to get out by a busy fireman.

‘It’s my bloody house,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve just got home.’

‘Oh.’ He paused fractionally. ‘The wind’s against us, I’m afraid. We’re doing our best.’

I looked around me and took stock.

The stables were alight and gone. Bright orange from end to end. Flames shot up high from what had been the roof, roaring and crackling like thunder and lightning shaken together in some demoniacal cocktail. The heat was incredible. Smoke swirled everywhere, stinging the eyes. It was like being on the wrong side of a giant bonfire, and I could see what he had meant by the wind. It was blowing showers of bright splintery sparks like rain onto the still black bulk of the house.

Half the firemen were trying to damp down the stables. The rest, back to back and cramped for room, were focusing on what might still be saved. Silver jets of water swept the tiles and the back face of the house and poured through my bedroom window, which was broken.

There were two fire engines, both of them through the other side of the yard, out in the paddock. I wondered stupidly what they were doing there, and then realised they were pumping water directly from the brook, which ran along one side. Not a very big brook, I thought uneasily.The long narrow yard itself was a sea of puddles and hoses and men in black helmets doing a difficult