The Wyoming Whiz Kid by Alan Barker, green tea

 JOCKEY’S FALL FROM GRACE

I can see it now, the headline in the sports pages and online sites. I’ll go down in Grand National history.

One moment I was in control, the next I was jolted sideways like a rodeo cowboy, staring wide-eyed at the dazzling blue sky and catching gasps from the crowd and the thunder of passing horses, as I plummeted headlong – ouch! – to the turf.

These are my overriding thoughts after I wake up. But how did it come about? What happened exactly?

With an effort, I prop myself against the pillows and try to blink back the throbbing pain running rings round my head. Sunshine slants through the window, which for some reason makes me think it’s Sunday. A medical cart, pushed by a fair-haired nurse, trundles past the open door, and I sniff the familiar tang of disinfectant. I’ve an idea I’ve been in this lousy hospital not so many moons ago.

So my name is Lou. I’m better known as The Wyoming Whiz Kid, although that last word is wearing as thin as the rear end of my breeches. I’m happily married to an English gal, Shona, and we have a five-year-old kid called Kent. I grew up in Rock Springs where the whole family would go to the local race meetings. My ambition to be another Bill Shoemaker or Steve Cauthen changed with my weight, and as a youngster I learned my trade over fences. Before long, I heard folks call me the riding sensation of the twenty-first century! But soon I fell in love with Shona, whom I met while on holiday with friends in Cape Verdi. I couldn’t bear to be without her – I guess it was the same for her – and after much toing and froing I moved across the Pond and found a job as stable jockey for one of the top British trainers.

My reputation grew in the UK, and I was in constant demand. Within a few years I’d won all the top races – Gold Cup, Champion Hurdle, King George – bar one: the Grand National. Failing to win the National – where you have thirty-nine rivals and almost as many fences to contend with – is hardly a disgrace; nevertheless, it’s a whopping hole in my CV.

So yesterday I was riding a nine-year-old mare called Saving Grace, our stable star and the hot favourite at 5-1. Surely my best ever chance of winning the race that has eluded me all these years. (My record speaks for itself: tenth, fell, pulled up, twenty-seventh, unseated rider, refused to race. Ugh!) I sink back on the pillows and try to recall what led to that dramatic fall.

In my mind’s eye we’re approaching Becher’s Brook, named after a jockey whose mount dumped him in the ditch a couple of centuries ago. I ask Gracie, as she’s affectionately known, for a big leap; she launches us over the fence, and we hit the ground running. From behind me there’s a strangled cry of ‘Aaargh!’ – one of the Irish jocks, by the sound of it – but I’m not about to dwell on his or her fate.

Then I’m soaring over Foinavon, where only one runner made it to the other side in ’67. Sure enough, another two crash out, birch flying in all directions, while the jockey on my inside, his orange silks glowing in the sunlight, miraculously comes back down on his horse after being catapulted skywards.

Presently we’re freewheeling towards The Chair. Yikes! At five feet two inches high – with a five feet ditch in front – it seems to fill the skyline and is the biggest fence on the circuit. I’m gonna have to sit tight over this one. There’s a bunch of horses galloping beside me, and we steady our mounts on the approach. I sense a buzz of anticipation from the crowd, then comes a collective gasp as a grey horse to my right somersaults and hurls its jockey into the turf. Gracie does another great leap, taking me safely to the other side, but the horse on my left is riderless – as if a giant hand reached up from the fence and plucked the jockey off – and I angle away from it.

Soon we are on the leader’s tail. I take a pull; Gracie’s bowling along and jumping like Red Rum in his heyday, but I need to conserve her energy for the long run-in. The scent of victory is in my nostrils, even though we’ve only reached halfway …

So, what went wrong?

A female voice breaks into my thoughts, one with a thick Scouse accent. ‘Good morning, Mr Davidson. How are we feeling?’

I crane my neck round to see the fair-haired nurse hovering over me. I gaze at her name badge.

‘Well, Linda O’Shea, I feel like a guy who’s gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, so I could sure use some painkillers.’

‘Punch drunk, are we? I’ll get some right away.’ Her pretty face breaks into a smile. ‘Just so you know, you’ve had concussion after a fall at the races yesterday, so we had to keep you in overnight. But nothing seems broken, so as long as the result of the CT scan is okay we’ll let you go home this afternoon.’

‘So I’ve been out for almost twenty-four hours? No kidding. Any idea who won the Grand National?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. It’s all football with our family: Everton and Liverpool.’ The way she says ‘Liverpool’ makes it sound as if there are a dozen ‘O’s in it.

Nurse Linda smiles again and breezes out of the room. I turn my thoughts back to the previous day, wondering which fence I came a cropper at. Valentine’s, maybe, or the Canal Turn, where you have a ninety degrees turn to make, if you’re lucky enough to get to the other side.

Now we’re nosing into the lead. The mare hasn’t put a foot wrong – yet. We cross the Melling Road then take the sweeping left-hand bend towards the packed stands, which are bathed in sunshine; I adjust my goggles a fraction. Gracie’s name is called over the tannoy, prompting a roar from the crowd. I try not to think how much dough is riding on her.

But are we on the final circuit or have we got to go round again? You only have to jump The Chair once and we’ve done that so … that means we’re on the home stretch, right? And there are only two fences left. Right?

So what the hell …?

If I came down at the last, and I was clear of the field, I’ll tell Nurse to go get me some stronger painkillers. Preferably ones that’ll send me to sleep forever.

‘Here we are,’ she says in that hoarse tone of hers, placing two tablets and a glass of water in front of me.

As she moves away a familiar figure dawdles in, and I groan inwardly. Ronny Barnett. Gracie’s trainer, my boss and general pain in the butt. I wait a beat, hoping he’ll speak first, but he merely gazes at me in a dispassionate way.

I hold up my hands. ‘I’m sorry.’ What else can I say?

He jiggles coins in his pocket. I have no idea what’s coming. ‘Don’t do it again,’ is all he says.

‘What happened? I remember going out the side door, but I’m sure Gracie jinked to the left.’

Ronny gives a mirthless smile and moves to the window. ‘Always the horse’s fault, eh? Luckily for you, she had the sense to pull herself up, before she came to any harm.’

I figure I’m screwed. Too tired to argue, I lean back in bed and close my eyes, slipping back in time again.

Gracie takes me over another fence and I know there’s only one more. The last obstacle between me and victory in the Grand National. I peek over my shoulder, calculating I must be twenty lengths clear of the field. My rivals are all hard ridden, while Gracie has barely come off the bridle.

We come to the last. I keep my hands steady on the reins and … we’re up and over!

A deafening cheer from the stands. Gracie pricks her ears, as if she’s already won. Now I’m having to cajole her along, keep her going.

Suddenly, a horse lopes up alongside us and I gasp. Then realise there’s no jockey on it. Phew!

Now we’re approaching the fork known as the Elbow: bear right to the winning post, or left to do another circuit. It seems to be rushing towards us and I need to move over …

‘So, how’s my brave soldier then?’

My heart is thudding as I blink my eyes open to find Shona leaning over to kiss me. Kent is beside her and I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing Ronny won't kick my sorry ass in front of them.

‘All set to jump in the Mersey,’ I quip.

‘That wouldn’t be very clever, would it? Just because you fell off a horse. It happens all the time to you jump jockeys.’

I look away, reliving that ghastly moment when I realised I was slipping out of the saddle. Then the dreaded nosedive and – what? I imagine myself prostrate on the ground, medics rushing to my aid. Disgruntled spectators watching as I’m carted off in an ambulance, their money down the tubes. Another beaten favourite, they’ll say. Another ‘unseated rider’ for the Whiz Kid’s form figures.  

‘We’re proud of Daddy, aren’t we, Kent?’ That’s what I love about Shona: her I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude.

I turn to face them. ‘So, where did Gracie get rid of me? At the Elbow, I bet. I needed to go right but she went left. Or was I cleaned out by that loose horse pestering me on the run-in?’

Shona and Kent burst out laughing. Even the boss manages a quizzical smile.

‘Darling, you are such a twit!’ Shona says. ‘You came off after the finishing line, right in front of the grandstand.’

‘You punched the air in celebration. That’s why the horse jinked and you baled out,’ Ronny adds.

With the biggest grin I’ve ever seen, Kent holds up the Racing Post which has a picture of Yours Truly careering past the winning post, right arm waving to the crowd, presumably a second or two before the horse and I parted company. The headline reads: GRACIE WHIZZES TO VICTORY!      

About the author 

Alan lives in Epsom with his wife, Judy, who came up with the idea for 'The Wyoming Whiz Kid'. He writes short mystery fiction and feel-good stories, and has been published in various magazines in the UK and Ireland. He is also a certified proofreader. 

 

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The Eldritch Visitor

 

by Alan Barker

Red Bull

‘Hi, Lisa!’ I chirp as my sister’s face appears on-screen.

‘Kate, how are you?’

We exchange girly waves into our iPads and I say, ‘You’re looking tired round the peepers. Are you sleeping?’

Lisa makes a show of holding her eyes open with her fingers. ‘Gradually getting the hang of it again.’

‘Is Ged still harassing you?’

She rakes a hand through her hair. ‘A couple of weeks ago he turned up one evening hammering on the door, shouting he was going to fight for custody of Ben. I’m sure he’d been drinking; it really shook me up. The weird thing is, I haven’t heard a dicky bird from him since. I don’t know what’s worse: aggressive Ged or quiet Ged.’

‘Perhaps he’s busy looking after that mad mother of his.’

Lisa grimaces. ‘At least I haven’t got her on my case anymore, telling me how to bring Ben up. Blooming cheek—it’s not as if Ged’s exactly a role model.’

‘How is Ben?’

‘Upstairs taking a nap; you Facetimed me at the right moment. He seems a bit better now his daddy’s not around. I just want to see a smile back on his little face.’

‘Ah, bless. Gutted I can’t come over though. If this lockdown doesn’t end soon I’m going to miss his first birthday.’

Lisa manages a smile. ‘So how are things with you?’

I shrug. ‘Same old, same old. Going for a walk each day. Exercising at home. Missing my aikido lessons, that’s for sure.’

‘I hear they’ve made face masks compulsory in public.’

‘Yes, Steve’s been wearing his all week, even at work. He …’

I break off as Lisa cocks her head and says, ‘I think there’s someone at the door. Hold on a mo.’

She disappears from sight and I glance at the clock: two thirty. From outside there comes the distant sound of sirens, and I wonder if there’s a surge in people falling ill with the virus.

I hear a door bang and look back at my iPad, frowning; Lisa hasn’t returned yet. Then a scream rings out, followed by what sounds like a thud.

‘Lisa, what’s happening?’ I shout, but there is only silence, save the renewed wailing of sirens.

I continue to stare wide-eyed at the screen – all I can see is a bare wall. Presently a jacketed arm appears; it hovers momentarily, then reaches down. The screen goes blank.

I swear vociferously. Lisa’s been attacked in her own home, almost certainly leaving little Ben in danger.

I think of Ged, Lisa’s intimidating ex-partner and Ben’s father.

I need to act.

Now.

                                                                        *                                                                     

‘Police. Quickly!’

I clench my teeth as I wait to be put through. Come on!

After what seems an eternity a man asks for the nature of the emergency and the location.  

‘My sister’s been attacked at her home,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I was speaking to her just now when someone came to the door and forced their way in. She’s in serious danger along with her toddler. Please help.’

‘All right, madam,’ the man replies in a raised voice. ‘I’ll get someone there as soon as possible. But we’ve a serious incident on our hands at the moment, so we’re stretched to the limit.’

Once I’ve provided the details he asks for, I end the call and ring Steve, my husband. As usual, he’s “unavailable”, and I’m invited to leave a message.

‘Steve, please get over to Lisa’s. Someone’s attacked her – I think it’s Ged – and I’m worried about Ben. Hurry!’

                                                                        *                                                                     

I swing my Fiesta out of Stoughton and turn left at Dennis roundabout, picking up speed on the dual carriageway.

The roads are virtually deserted. On the local radio station a report comes through that a group of youths has gone on the rampage in Guildford town centre, breaking shop windows and stealing goods.

The lights at Stoke Crossroads are red but I ignore them. On my left, a blue light flashes. I gasp and slam on the brakes as a police car sweeps through, heading for central Guildford. Undeterred, I set off again, speeding past the Spectrum and the green expanse of Stoke Park before crossing the AA roundabout to Merrow.

Soon I pull up outside Lisa’s house; the journey has taken only ten minutes. I climb out of the car, not bothering to lock it, and take a deep breath. All seems quiet.

I let myself in through the front door and close it softly behind me. I’ve no idea if the intruder – who I assume is Ged – is still in the house. Equally, I don’t know where Lisa or Ben are or whether they are safe.

I consider calling out their names but decide against it. I step into the sitting room which is unoccupied. Toys are scattered around the carpet and I notice Lisa’s iPad on the coffee table, the lid closed. I backtrack and try the kitchen but again no one is there.

Back in the hallway, I gaze up the stairs and listen. I detect a faint noise from one of the upstairs rooms but am unable to decipher it.

Steeling myself to be as calm as possible, I climb the stairs slowly, trying not to make a sound. As I reach the landing, the noise repeats itself and I can tell it comes from Ben’s room.

Tentatively I push the door open.

‘Ben!’ I exclaim and rush to his cot where he stands pressed against the side.

He stares at me blankly, as if I’m a stranger.

I reach out to him but sense movement behind me. Before I can turn, an arm is thrust round my neck, almost pulling me off the floor. In the window’s reflection I see a figure wearing a white face mask, baseball cap and dark leather jacket. He is brandishing something that looks horribly like a syringe.

Instinctively I grab his left forearm and we tussle as if arm-wrestling. At the same time I force my right hand between his elbow and my neck and twist my body sharply. Summoning all my strength, I roll him round my left side and am astounded when he loses balance and pitches against the side of the cot.

I pick up Ben and rush out of the room, noticing a case half-filled with his clothes. Was Ged trying to kidnap the poor boy?

Panting, I hurry downstairs and out through the front door. Ged doesn’t seem to be following – yet. I dash across the road and knock on the first door I come to.

No one appears.

I try the next door. After a few seconds an upstairs window is flung open, and a man wearing a vest shouts, ‘What d’you want? Don’t you know there’s a deadly virus going round? And why aren’t you wearing a face covering?’

I start to speak but he slams the window shut. In desperation I hurry back to my car and dump Ben on the back seat, murmuring reassurances to him.

This time I lock it. I glance along the road but there is no traffic at all and certainly no sign of Steve or the police. I’d like to wait for someone to turn up but I’m worried about Lisa.

I stride back to her house. Presumably she’s still in there as is Ged, armed with a syringe containing … what? Ketamine, perhaps? I read somewhere that a substantial dose in your bloodstream can render you unconscious for at least an hour. Whatever has happened to Lisa, I desperately hope it’s nothing more sinister.

I step inside, leaving the front door wide open. All is quiet again. Now I notice the door to the cupboard under the stairs is slightly ajar; I open it and peer inside. Lisa is lying in a foetal position and isn’t moving. Kneeling down, I check for a pulse and breathe a huge sigh when I find it. I shake her by the shoulders, hissing her name in her ear, but she doesn’t respond.

I hear a creak from the landing. Instinctively I close the cupboard door, immersing us in darkness. I’ve fended off Ged once but am not sure I have the strength to do it again.

The sound of unhurried footsteps comes from directly above me, descending the stairs one at a time. I stare upward, unseeingly.

I hear the front door being closed and then there is silence, save for a faint murmur from Lisa’s lips.

Has Ged gone out or is he still inside? I imagine him staring through that faceless mask at little Ben, perhaps tapping the car window. Ben will be terrified, but at least the car is locked.

But my eye is drawn to the narrow gap between cupboard door and floor – a faint shadow falls across it.

Silence. I hold my breath.

Then my mobile phone bursts into life, making me jump. I snatch it from my pocket.

Steve. I hit the green button hard.

Before I can speak, the cupboard door is yanked open and Ged grabs me by the arm and hauls me out. I scream but he knocks the phone from my hand then stamps on it and kicks it down the hallway.

He clamps his hand on my throat and eyeballs me. ‘Give me your car keys. Now!’

I stare into the black pupils of his eyes. He seems to be pulling something from his jacket pocket but I can’t see what it is. I think of the syringe.

Removing my keys, I hold them out. He releases my throat but his attempt to grab the keys is too slow, and I jab the ignition key into his eye.

He steps back and howls, clutching his face.

He’s dropped the syringe and without thinking I grab it and plunge it into his thigh. Briefly he remains standing, emitting a strange keening sound, but then collapses and is still.

I wait while I get my breath back then pull off the baseball cap and face mask to check it is indeed Ged. But a mass of hair tumbles free and I realise it isn’t.

It’s Irene, Ged’s “mad” mother. And Ben’s grandmother.

About the author

lan has been writing creatively since 2018 following his retirement as a tax accountant. He has had short stories published in various magazines and has some flash fiction published online with Morgen Bailey and 101 Words. Alan is also a member of Godalming Writers Group which publishes anthologies.