He was standing amongst the small crowd directly beneath the row of bookies, checking the form for the race, studying times and weights and distances. Yet it would not matter. The dog he decided on would either be placed or not. Which dog did not make any difference. He glanced at the list again. Nothing striking about the names of the five runners. More punters had arrived and he watched them busying about the line, trying to pick off the best price about their selections. And the vet was now on the track checking the dogs. He gazed back at the punters and the bookies but there was nothing catching the interest, nothing of note. He turned and strode off towards the tote windows and joined one of the queues. There was a woman in front of him, smoking rapidly and continually glancing behind to see if the dogs were about to start racing.
He was going to back Trap 4. The dog coming out of Trap 4, this was the one. The woman left the window clutching her tote receipts.
Tammas sniffed. Trap 4 twenty pence a place, he said to the girl. She stamped out the numbers, took his money and gave him the receipt.
Trap 4.
On examining the form he saw that this dog out of the fourth trap had a good chance after all. He was glad he had gone for it. According to the form notes it had been off the course injured for some time but was now back and expected to do okay. He remembered he still had £15 out of the £20 playing about with money and decided to stick it all on. In fact he felt like sticking the other £40 he was keeping for the nap down on it as well. But no, that was wrong, that was the wrong way. The forty had to be for the nap. The quick route to going skint usually lay in changing your mind at the last minute.
The hooter. Tammas thrust the programme into his back pocket and pulled the half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, he struck a match to light it, was exhaling smoke when the traps crashed open.
He kept silent throughout the race but began nodding as the favourite came wide round the last bend to run on past dog 4 up the home straight, with this dog 4 just managing to hang on for second place from the fast finishing Trap 1.
In the large queue at the pay-out window he listened to the folk who had backed the winning forecast. He could have backed the forecast. Easy. The favourite to win from dog 4. He could have dug out that forecast no bother. The fact that he went for dog 4 a place proved it. Yet this was nothing to do with anything. What he had done was back the dog to get placed and it had got placed and he was getting a return for his money, and this was the point.
Once he had the money he went into the bar and bought a carton of bovril, carrying it to a shelf at the side of the area. Including everything he now had 57 pence. This 57 pence was good. Another 3 would see him with 60. Without the bovril he would have had 65 and with 5 pence more the round 70.
Leaving the bovril on the shelf he returned to the counter and bought a packet of crisps. This left him with 51 pence. 50 pence was not bad at all. It had come from nothing, nothing. A 50 pence bet was fine.
Along at the tote window he struck his next bet. Dog 2 50 pence a place, he said to the woman.
With the ticket in his pocket he swallowed the remains of the bovril and crumpled the crisp packet onto the floor, and left the bar. The programme was in his back pocket. But he left it there. No point even seeing if the dog stood a chance. That had nothing to do with it now. The bet was made. The 50 pence on Trap 2, no matter what. If it finished first or second he would receive cash in exchange for the ticket. He got it from his pocket and looked at it, it was green, a green ticket; 2. Trap 2, 50 pence place. A 50 pence was not bad. Even for the nap it would not have been too bad. 50 pence the nap would have been fine, it would have been alright. But no matter. It made no difference. Not at all. Nothing. There might have been no 50 pence. A mistake to even think about things like that.
The hooter.
Again he stayed silent throughout the race but he nodded, he nodded at dog 2 coming inside on the rails rounding the third bend and on round the last bend. And staying on really strong to get up and win its race on the line. Trap 2 winning the race. Trap 2 as the winner. But fuck all to do with it, fuck all to do with it. It made no difference. None at all. To have finished placed was the thing, the bet. To finish in the first two, that is what mattered, to get a return on the stake, in exchange for the cash; this is what it is about. And the next race was the fourth on the card, and the nap was going.
Dog 2 paid 2/1 on the tote a place, giving £1.50 in return for the 50 pence. And if he had backed the dog as a straight win on the tote he would have received more than four quid but so what, it was irrelevant, it had nothing to do with it — a mistake to even think it. He had £1.50 in his pocket and it had come from nothing, and that was the only point.
When it came time he made his way to the line of bookmakers, letting the 1 pence coin fall from his hand, not looking where it landed. He hovered around the crowd of punters waiting to shade the odds and finally dashed in to take the 7/2 to the whole £1.50. And that was not bad. The morning paper had forecast 5/1 for this dog but he had known such a price was out of the question. 7/2 was fine, it was good. And when he was turning to leave the area he saw one bookie scrub out the 7/2 and mark up 3’s. He nodded.
Up at the spot where he had been standing were two middle aged men. He stepped in closer, and another step, until he was in as near as he could manage, without banging into them. He was gripping the programme when the hooter sounded. And the hare trundling off on its way, collecting speed till rounding the bend and now hurtling towards the boxes, and up crashed the trap gates. Dog 1 was the nap, and it walked out its box, and he nodded, there was no chance. It had to get well off its mark to have any chance and it didnt, so it had none. There was no point even giving it a shout.
He watched the dog chasing after the pack, making up a fair bit of ground down the back straight, coming inside the dogs directly in front and eventually running on into third place. If the thing had trapped properly it would have guyed it, no danger. But it had finished third. Dog 2 had won and dog 5 was second. From somewhere behind him somebody cried: That fucking 5 dog should’ve pished it.
Tammas turned and shouted: You fucking kidding! Dog 1 was a fucking certainty — if it’d trapped it’d’ve fucking guyed it. Bastards. He shook his head and strode off and up towards the exit.
An attendant was standing there and he unlocked the door for him. Some boys were waiting outside and they glanced at the man as he closed the door.
He continued striding till beyond the car park and outside the ground he walked more slowly. Approaching the bridge he paused, taking the bookmaker’s ticket from his pocket. He began to tear it up in rectangular sections, and then scattered them over the parapet, watching them as they landed on the river.
•••
On the following Tuesday morning he rose from the bench and walked from the smoke-area, down to the short flight of steps up to the gaffer’s office. He walked up and chapped on the door, and opened it immediately. The chargehand was there, sitting on the edge of the desk. He was talking to the gaffer who was leaning back on his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. The two of them frowned at Tammas. He sniffed and said: Eh I want to leave, on Friday, I want to lift my books — I’m chucking it.
After a moment the gaffer nodded. Fine, he said.
He did not acknowledge the chargehand. He turned and went back out and down the steps. In the smoke-area he saw where he had been sitting previously, and he smiled. He nudged the man next to him: You got a spare fag at all?
The man said, Aye. And gave him one from his packet, and gave him a match.