‘Sure,’ he said to stop her. Then, ‘You said you were going to show me the other clothes you bought.’
‘What’s the use? There’s nowhere to go. I can’t go shopping around here wearing stuff like that. The butcher’s, the newsagent. They’ll take me for a tart.’
‘We’ll go somewhere,’ said Hood, but he could not think where. They had only ever been to the park on Brookmill Road together and once to Greenwich to see the Cutty Sark and the Royal Observatory (he told her about Verloc; she said, ‘The fucker sounds like Ron’). ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘How about the flicks?’ she said. ‘I can sit in the dark wearing my new gear.’
‘Come on, think of a place.’
She said, ‘What I’d really like to do is go to the dog track, like I used to — not with my girlfriends, but my father. He’d find me a seat where it was warm and tell me which dogs to back. He’d have a cup of tea with me and he’d put his arm around me and keep the teds away.’ She smiled softly. ‘Sometimes we used to win. He always gave me half.’
‘We’ll do it,’ said Hood. ‘Where is it — Catford? We’ll win a bundle!’
‘Not a chance,’ she said. ‘What about the kid?’
‘Get a babysitter,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the money. Remember, sister? You won the pools.’
She sat back and sighed, then she said, ‘I’d love to go. There are races tonight. It’s Thursday.’
‘We’re going,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ she said, but she added quickly, ‘I didn’t win no pools. It’s their money. Ernie said, “We’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” And then, the next day, this thing came from the bank — fifty quid deposit. I don’t care, and maybe they ain’t such fuckers after all. But they probably stole it off Ron.’
17
The railway arches in the half dark — the black brick spans — were shaped like the crust of a burnt-out cloister. They ran parallel to the poorly lighted road all the way from the station at Catford Bridge to the dog track. And there were dead monks underneath — or so it seemed to Hood, who preparing himself to enjoy the dog races had smoked a joint in the train — discarded cartons, peaked like the cowls of monks’ habits, lay on the ground, holy casualties in the broken place, feet and hands and covered heads, and an odour of ruin. Ahead he saw the greyhound motif, a starved lunging dog picked out in lights, but between the stadium entrance and where they now stood was this shadowy rising brickwork mottled with football slogans, CRYSTAL PALACE, CHARLTON RULE, SPURS, barely legible, like the last messages of heathen raiders. The highlights were unexpected — rubbish that had the appearance of thick bushes and an impression of autumn foliage that was no more than the suggestion of darkness and the smells, verifying the dead cloister and giving it a further authority, the veiled aspect of a brittle engraving. And when the train rumbled on the spans and shook the yellow lamps on the line — but was itself hidden from this road — the sound raised the tattered smell again and corrected the engraved dimension the silence had imposed: the noise loosened it all and gave it brief life for the duration of the passing train.
Lorna said, ‘I always used to be afraid of this road.’
‘I like it,’ said Hood.
‘Well, maybe because I saw a bloke nobbled here,’ she said. ‘I mean killed.’
It had a name, this puddly two-hundred yards: Adenmore Road, London, was closely mapped. No city he had ever seen had been so examined. The darkest corner had an inaccurate caption, and even the wild place, the sudden hill of hiding trees above Peckham where he’d dumped Weech’s body — that, too, had a name.
Hood was surprised when Lorna chose the second-class enclosure instead of the more expensive one. At the turnstile she said it was the one she had always used with her father. The stadium was gaily lit with strings of coloured bulbs, and Hood could see the smoke drifting up from the various enclosures to the floodlights on tall poles, as if the whole circus was cosily smouldering. There was no shouting, only a low roar of voices.
‘There’s the dogs,’ said Lorna. ‘Way over there.’
The first race was about to begin. Across the track, on the far side of the stadium, six girls in hunting clothes marched in single file. Each held a sleek dog on a leash, and the sharp snouts and thin bodies were silhouetted in the lights like black metal cutouts in a row, shooting gallery targets. Then they turned under the lights and came towards the near grandstand, and up close Hood could see how young the girls were, how skinny the dogs — tottering on bony paws, panting in their tight wire muzzles.
‘Aren’t you going to bet on this race?’ asked Hood, looking down at his programme.
‘Too late,’ said Lorna. ‘I always watch the dogs in the paddock before I bet. Here, they all look the same, but out back you can tell which ones are fast. That’s what my father used to say.’
They stood talking under the first-class enclosure which, glassed-in and high, was at the brow of the grandstand. The steamy windows were full of red-faced people who sat at tables, eating, holding pint glasses, watching the track. ‘Ron always went up there, so he could act big,’ said Lorna. She led Hood to the side of the grandstand, where people were marking programmes on the terraces and hurrying up and down the stairs. Hood found Lorna a seat near the bookies, at the rail. The bookies worked rapidly at blackboards, some on stools signalled the odds with gloved hands to the far side of the stadium — pointing and clapping like deaf-mutes, while the men beside them spat on their fingers and wiped numbers from the columns on the boards and added new ones. They gave a hectic motion to the race that was like the instant before panic. Each one had a satchel with his name on it, Sam & Alec, Jimmy Gent, Pollard Turf Acc’ts, and as the starting-time grew near the activity around these men became frenzied as cash was exchanged for tickets. In this excitement Hood saw the pleasure of risk; the very sight of the men gambling heightened his desire for Lorna.
On the track, men in white smocks were heaving the metal traps into position.
‘You’re going to win tonight,’ said Hood.
‘If I won a lot of money I’d take a holiday,’ said Lorna. ‘Not to Spain, but maybe Eastbourne or Brighton. Check into one of them big white hotels on the front and look at the sea from the balcony. I always wanted to do that, live in a posh hotel and look at the sea.’
‘We’ll do it,’ said Hood.
‘First we have to win.’
The dogs were being unleashed and helped into the traps, one by one, and Hood could hear them whimpering. They didn’t bark; because of their muzzles they gave low curiously human wails, an odd lonely sound in that festive crowd of gamblers. Then the lights went out in all the enclosures and in the darkness there was silence, a hush that amplified the moans of the dogs. In the black stadium the only light was the yellow gleaming sand of the track. And over the moans a murmur that grew to a whine: the mechanical rabbit speeding towards the traps. As the rabbit shot past the traps sprang open and the dogs leaped out, stretching themselves after it. The race itself brought a new hush to the grandstand. The only distinct sound was the rabbit singing on the wire, a humming heightened by an occasional twang.
‘Five’s ahead,’ said Lorna. Hood heard her clearly. Instead of shouts there was intense concentration. It was not like a horse race where spectators screamed at the jockeys and jumped and waved their arms. This was studied enthusiasm, a kind of breathless suspense. A man behind Hood said in what was nearly a whisper, ‘Come on you two dog.’
The dogs sprinted past, and it was still so quiet in the grandstand that Hood could hear their toiling gasps and the scrape and skid of their paws on the track. When they rounded the last bend there was a little cheer, scattered shouts of anger or glee which ended the moment the dogs crossed the finish line: relief, jostling and some laughter — and a flurry of losers scattering tickets at their feet.