He said flatly, ‘Emotion works against you in the witness box.’
‘Don’t worry. In court, I’m a block of ice.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘You’ve heard too damned much.’
He laughed. ‘There’s an old-boy internet,’ he said. ‘All you need is the password and a whole new world opens up.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Don’t bugger me about. What’s the password?’
‘Archie,’ he said.
I was silent for all of ten seconds, remembering Archie’s eyes the first time I met him, remembering the awareness, the message of knowledge. Archie knew more about me than I knew about him.
I asked, ‘What exactly does Archie do in the civil service?’
‘I reckon,’ Norman said, amused, ‘that he’s very like you, Sid. What he don’t want you to know, he don’t tell you.’
‘Where can I reach you on Monday?’
‘Police station. Say you’re John Paul Jones.’
Kevin Mills dominated the front page of The Pump on Friday — a respite from the sexual indiscretions of cabinet ministers but a demolition job on me. ‘The Pump,’ he reminded readers, ‘had set up a Hotline to Sid Halley to report attacks on colts. Owners had been advised to lock their stable doors, and to great effect had done so after the Derby. The Pump disclaimed all responsibility for Sid Halley’s now ludicrously fingering Ellis Quint as the demon responsible for torturing defenseless horses. Ellis Quint, whose devotion to thoroughbreds stretches back to his own starry career as the country’s top amateur race-rider, the popular hero who braved all perils in the ancient tradition of gentlemen sportsmen…’
More of the same.
‘See also “Analysis,” on page ten, and India Cathcart, page 15.’
I supposed one had to know the worst. I read the leader column — ‘Should an ex-jockey be allowed free rein as pseudo sleuth? (Answer: no, of course not.)’ and then, dredging deep for steel, I finally turned to India Cathcart’s piece.
Sid Halley, smugly accustomed to acclaim as a champion, in short time lost his career, his wife and his left hand, and then weakly watched his friend soar to super-celebrity and national-star status, all the things that he considered should be his. Who does this pathetic little man think he’s kidding? He’s no Ellis Quint. He’s a has-been with an ego problem, out to ruin what he envies.
That was for starters. The next section pitilessly but not accurately dissected the impulse that led one to compete at speed (ignoring the fact that presumably Ellis himself had felt the same power-hungry inferiority complex).
My ruthless will to win, India Cathcart had written, had destroyed everything good in my own life. The same will to win now aimed to destroy my friend Ellis Quint. This was ambition gone mad.
The Pump would not let it happen. Sid Halley was a beetle ripe for squashing. The Pump would exterminate. The Halley myth was curtains.
Damn and blast her, I thought, and, for the first time in eighteen years, got drunk.
On Saturday morning, groaning around the apartment with a headache, I found a message in my fax machine.
Handwritten scrawl, Pump-headed paper same as before… Kevin Mills.
Sid, sorry, but you asked for it.
You’re still a shit.
Most of Sunday I listened to voices on my answering machine delivering the same opinion.
Two calls relieved the gloom.
One from Charles Roland, my ex-father-in-law. ‘Sid, if you’re in trouble, there’s always Aynsford,’ and a second from Archie Kirk, ‘I’m at home. Norman Picton says you want me.’
Two similar men, I thought gratefully. Two men with cool, dispassionate minds who would listen before condemning.
I phoned back to Charles, who seemed relieved I sounded sane.
‘I’m all right,’ I said.
‘Ellis is a knight in shining armor, though.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you sure, Sid?’
‘Positive.’
‘But Ginnie… and Gordon… they’re friends.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if I cut the foot off a horse, what would you do?’
‘But you wouldn’t.’
‘No.’
I sighed. That was the trouble. No one could believe it of Ellis.
‘Sid, come, anytime,’ Charles said.
‘You’re my rock,’ I said, trying to make it sound light. ‘I’ll come if I need to.’
‘Good.’
I phoned Archie and asked if Jonathan was still staying with Betty Bracken.
Archie said, ‘I’ve been talking to Norman. Jonathan is now addicted to water skiing and spends every day at the lake. Betty is paying hundreds and says it’s worth it to get him out of the house. He’ll be at the lake tomorrow. Shall we all meet there?’
We agreed on a time, and met.
When we arrived, Jonathan was out on the water.
‘That’s him,’ Norman said, pointing.
The flying figure in a scarlet wet-suit went up a ramp, flew, turned a somersault in the air and landed smoothly on two skis.
‘That,’ Archie said in disbelief, ‘is Jonathan?’
‘He’s a natural,’ Norman said. ‘I’ve been out here for a bit most days. Not only does he know his spatial balance and attitude by instinct, but he’s fearless.’
Archie and I silently watched Jonathan approach the shore, drop the rope and ski confidently up the sloping landing place with almost as much panache as Norman himself.
Jonathan grinned. Jonathan’s streaky hair blew wetly back from his forehead. Jonathan, changed, looked blazingly happy.
A good deal of the joy dimmed with apprehension as he looked at Archie’s stunned and expressionless face. I took a soft sports bag out of my car and held it out to him, asking him to take it with him to the dressing rooms.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘OK.’ He took the bag and walked off barefooted, carrying his skis.
‘Incredible,’ Archie said, ‘but he can’t ski through life.’
‘It’s a start,’ Norman said.
After we’d stood around for a few minutes discussing Ellis we were approached by a figure in a dark-blue tracksuit, also wearing black running shoes, a navy baseball cap and sunglasses and carrying a sheet of paper. He came to within fifteen feet of us and stopped.
‘Yes?’ Norman asked, puzzled, as to a stranger. ‘Do you want something?’
I said, ‘Take off the cap and the glasses.’
He took them off. Jonathan’s streaky hair shook forward into its normal startling shape and his eyes stared at my face. I gave him a slight jerk of the head, and he came the last few paces and handed the paper to Norman.
Archie for once looked wholly disconcerted. Norman read aloud what I’d written on the paper.
‘Jonathan, this is an experiment. Please put on the clothes you’ll find in this bag. Put on the baseball cap, peak forward, hiding your face. Wear the sunglasses. Bring this paper. Walk towards me, stop a few feet away, and don’t speak. OK? Thanks, Sid.’
Norman lowered the paper, looked at Jonathan and said blankly, ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Is that the lot?’ Jonathan asked me.
‘Brilliant,’ I said.
‘Shall I get dressed now?’
I nodded, and he walked nonchalantly away.
‘He looked totally different,’ Archie commented, still amazed. ‘I didn’t know him at all.’