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Felix Francis

Bloodline

With my special thanks to

Mike Cattermole

race commentator and TV presenter,

to all my friends at

Channel 4 Racing

and

BBC Radio Five Live

for their help and encouragement,

and, as always, to Debbie

1

‘They’re off!’

I looked down at the image of the horses on my TV monitor and shielded my eyes from the bright September sunshine. An unremarkable seven-and-a-half-furlong sprint for maiden two-year-olds at Lingfield Park with twelve runners — just another horserace, one of more than fifteen hundred such races I would watch live this year.

But this particular race was to change my life for ever.

The horses broke from the starting stalls in a fairly even line and I glanced down at my handwritten sheet that showed the runners in their draw positions as they faced me almost a mile away.

The seven-and-a-half-furlong start at Lingfield was slightly obscured from the grandstand by some overhanging trees so I leaned closer to the monitor to get a better view.

‘They’re running in the Herald Sunshine Limited Maiden Stakes and Spitfire Boy is the early leader,’ I said, ‘with Steeplejack also showing early pace. Sudoku is next on the rail tracked by Radioactive with Troubleatmill running wide. Postal Vote is next, then High Definition and Low Calorie with Bangkok Flyer on the far outside in the green jacket, followed by Tailplane with the white cap and Routemaster in the orange hoops. The backmarker at this stage is Pink Pashmina, who is struggling and getting a reminder as they pass the six-furlong marker.’

I lifted my eyes from the monitor and looked down towards the horses using my high-power binoculars. At six furlongs I could now see them all clearly as they raced directly towards me, the foreshortening effect of the binoculars making the horses’ heads seem to bob up and down unnaturally.

Races like this, with the horses running headlong down the straight track, nearly always made life difficult for commentators and this one was no exception. The twelve runners had split into two groups with eight horses running close to the nearside rail and the four others making their way right down the middle.

The punters on the grandstands understandably wanted to know which horse was leading but the angle from which I was looking did not make it an easy task to decide.

‘The red jacket of Spitfire Boy leads the larger group on the nearside with Radioactive making a challenge. Troubleatmill and Bangkok Flyer are running neck-and-neck in the middle of the course with half a mile to go.’

I looked intensely at the field as they galloped towards me. It may have stated in the racecard that Bangkok Flyer’s colours were dark green but, silhouetted in the sunshine, they looked very black to me and I didn’t want to confuse them with the navy jacket of Postal Vote.

No, I was sure. It was Bangkok Flyer with his sheepskin noseband and he was living up to his name.

‘Bangkok Flyer, with the sheepskin noseband, now stretching away on the far side. He has opened up a two-length margin over Troubleatmill, who seems not to be staying the distance. And on the nearside Spitfire Boy has finally been caught by Radioactive but here comes Sudoku between horses under Paul James in the white jacket, who has yet to move a muscle.’

I lowered my binoculars and watched the horses unaided.

‘Sudoku now sweeps to the front on the nearside as they pass the furlong pole but he still has the short-priced favourite, Bangkok Flyer, to beat. Sudoku and Bangkok Flyer come together as they move into the closing stages. Sudoku in white and Bangkok Flyer in dark green, it’s a two-horse race.’ The tone of my voice rose higher and higher as the equine nostrils stretched for the finishing line beneath me. ‘Bangkok Flyer and Sudoku stride-for-stride. Sudoku and Bangkok Flyer.’ My pitch reached its crescendo. ‘Sudoku wins from Bangkok Flyer, Low Calorie runs on gamely to be third, Radioactive is fourth, followed by the long-time leader Spitfire Boy, then Routemaster, High Definition, Troubleatmill, Steeplejack, then Tailplane and Postal Vote together, and finally the filly, Pink Pashmina, who has finished a long way last.’

I pushed the button that switched off my microphone.

‘First number ten, Sudoku,’ said the judge over the PA. ‘Second number one, third number four. The fourth horse was number eight. The distances were a neck, and two and a half lengths.’

The PA fell silent.

The race was over. The excitement had come and gone, and the crowd would already be looking forward to the next contest in thirty minutes.

I looked out across the track and felt uneasy.

Something there hadn’t been quite right.

It wasn’t my commentary. I hadn’t confused the horses or called the wrong horse home as the winner — something that every race caller had done at some time in his life. It was the race itself that hadn’t been quite right.

‘Thanks, Mark. Great job,’ said a voice in my headphones. ‘And well done mentioning every horse and thanks for the finish order.’

‘No problem, Derek,’ I said.

Derek was a producer for RacingTV, the satellite broadcaster that was showing the racing live. He would be sitting in the scanner, a large blacked-out truck somewhere behind the racecourse stables with a bank of television images in front of him, one for each of the half a dozen or so cameras, and it was he who decided what pictures the people at home or in the betting shops would see. The TV company didn’t have their own commentator so they took the course commentary — me. But they liked it if all the horses were mentioned at least once and they were pretty insistent on the full finishing order being given. It was fine with twelve runners but not so easy when there were thirty or more, especially in a sprint like this when the whole thing was over in less than a minute and a half.

‘Derek?’ I said, pushing a button on the control box.

‘Go ahead,’ he replied into my ears.

‘Could you make me a DVD of that race? To take home. Every angle.’

‘But she didn’t win.’

‘I still want it,’ I said.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘It’ll be ready.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll collect it after the last.’

‘We’ll still be here.’

There was a click and my headphones went silent once more.

‘But she didn’t win,’ Derek had said.

‘She’ was my sister — my twin sister, to be precise. Clare Shillingford — top jockey with more than six hundred winners to her name.

But that race had not been one of them. She’d just come second by a neck on Bangkok Flyer, and, I thought, it was her riding that hadn’t been right.

I looked at my watch. There were at least twenty minutes before I needed to be back here in the commentary box for the next race so I skipped down the five flights of stairs to ground level and made my way round behind the grandstand to the weighing room.

I put my head through the open doorway of the racecourse broadcast centre, a small room just off the main weighing room that was half-filled with a bank of electronic equipment all down one wall.

‘Afternoon, Jack,’ I said to the back of a man standing there.

‘Hi, Mark,’ said the man, turning round and rubbing his hands on a green sweater that appeared to have more holes in it than wool. ‘Everything all right?’