The wind was upsetting the horses, filling their sensitive ears with strange noises. They could hear everything that was going on in the adjoining streets — dustbins falling over, gates banging and trees creaking. To these highly strung creatures it sounded like a riot was coming their way.
Another race was due to start but the jockeys couldn’t get their mounts into the starting gates. The wind was making them rattle. To the horses it sounded like the metal bars would collapse on top of them. It was too much for their taut nerves.
When the jockeys tried to whip the horses in, they wheeled round and reared. The jockeys pulled them up, turned them back and urged them towards the gates again. The horses rebelled and tried to gallop away. Now they were all spinning in circles, dust kicking up from their hooves, looking at the gates with terrified eyes.
The stand was next to the starting gates, filled, even on a weekday, with a couple of hundred people. Most of them were racing professionals — trainers, owners, potential buyers, newspaper reporters and bookies. All of them watched anxiously as the young thoroughbreds spun round and round. Those graceful legs were so easily injured — and that might write off an expensive horse. But these seasoned racegoers had seen plenty of equine tantrums before. If the horses got into the starting gates they could run the adrenaline out of their systems safely.
All eyes in the spectators’ stand were on the horses. No one noticed the deadly cinders that were blowing in from the golf course next door.
At first a few flaming leaves flew over. They landed on the roof of the stand and on the piles of rubbish that had fallen out of the bins. The greasy papers from the nearby burger stall caught in seconds.
The smoke reached the sensitive nostrils of the horses below, but they were already so upset that it made little difference.
Some burning twigs blew as far as the car park. Many of the grooms had tied haynets to the horse-boxes for the horses to eat while they were being rubbed down. The hay was dry and glowing embers set it alight in no time. The burning debris blew in easily through the open ramps. The horseboxes, already hot as ovens from the sun, were soon ablaze.
In the spectator stand, the organizers were discussing whether the wind meant they should cancel the rest of the day’s racing. At first no one spotted the fires taking hold all around them.
Out on the track, a big black yearling had had enough. It leaped into the air with a twisting buck. The jockey didn’t have a chance of staying in the saddle. He pitched straight over the horse’s shoulder. The loose horse now took off in a flat-out gallop away from the rattling gates. It crashed through the white rails as though they were matchwood.
On the other side was a row of cars parked tightly together. The horse saw there was no gap, so it tried to jump a green Ford.
It misjudged and landed on the car. The impact made a sickening noise. The horse crashed to the ground, twisted up onto its feet like a cat and carried on fleeing, sparks flying off its shoes.
The car was a write-off. Its bonnet was crushed, its roof staved in. Being hit by half a ton of horse travelling at 65 kph had the same result as a head-on collision with another car.
While everyone’s eyes were on the galloping horse, the roof of the stand had reached flashpoint. Inside, a reporter from the Adelaide Herald heard part of the roof collapse behind him. He turned round and saw that the back of the stand had disappeared behind a pall of thick black smoke. Little tongues of orange flame were flickering all around him.
‘Fire!’ he screamed. ‘Get out! Get out!’
The spectators could only run in one direction — under the white rails and onto the racecourse.
Meanwhile the loose horse was heading towards the car park. Just then, one of the horseboxes exploded as the fire reached its fuel tank.
The loose horse immediately whirled round and fled back towards the other horses, which were still milling around by the starting gates. When they saw the terror in its eyes, they panicked, and the jockeys lost all control of their mounts.
There was only one way for the petrified horses to go: through the rattling gates.
But because the race hadn’t yet started, the exit doors were bolted. The galloping horses crashed into the gates, pulling them right off their foundations.
The spectators who had fled from the burning stands reached the grass and paused for breath. Behind them, the stand was a mass of flame.
Too late they felt the ground shaking, as it does at the start of a race. Ten horses, imprisoned in the closed gates, were charging towards them.
Chapter Ten
It was bad being on the ground, but it was just as bad being off it. The air was seething with thermals.
So far, Ben’s first experience of flying had been the kind that would put most people off for life. Since they’d taken off from the vineyard it had been like riding a rollercoaster — an extreme rollercoaster that didn’t even stop to let you get your breath.
Kelly didn’t stop for breath either. She yelled instructions relentlessly:
‘More throttle!’
‘Stick right!’
‘Stick up!’
‘Stick up now, Ben, now!’
He didn’t think, he just did what he was told. It was like they were one creature. She was the brains and he was the body.
A body that was feeling exceedingly sick.
The microlight dropped 20 feet. Ben was lifted out of his seat: the seat belt cut into his legs and his head bashed against the window frame.
Kelly screamed and the sound drilled into his ear drums. She must have banged her hands — she kept doing that. Judging by the level of discomfort, she probably had some second-degree burns. Those would need medical attention soon.
As suddenly as the plane had dropped, Ben found that they were flying smoothly along again.
He glanced at Kelly. The map was on her knee. She was leaning over it, holding it down with her elbows. Her hands were clasped out of the way so they wouldn’t touch anything inadvertently. She was also very quiet.
Ben kept expecting the plane to start plummeting again but for now they seemed to have escaped the turbulence. He peered out of the window. Below was an unbroken mass of smoke. He couldn’t tell if they were over vineyards or suburbs — or even the outback. There were isolated patches where the wind had cleared the smoke and he could see bright fires burning below. He got his mobile out of his flying suit. ‘Is it safe to use this here? My mum’s down there some-where and I want to see if she’s all right.’
Kelly nodded towards a slot on the dashboard, like a hands-free set in a car. ‘Put it in there.’
Ben set up the phone, then pressed a speed dial.
A recorded voice came through on their headsets: ‘Lines are busy. Please try again later.’
‘Could you try my dad?’ Kelly was pointing at the zip pocket on her trousers. ‘My cell phone’s in here. Increase height by about fifty feet before you do.’
Ben opened the throttle a little, then fished her phone out and slotted it into the dashboard cradle.
‘He’s on speed dial, under “Dad”.’
Ben pressed the navigation key. The picture of Kelly dangling from the power chute glowed briefly, then was replaced by her speed dial menu. He cursored down and dialled.
The response was the same: ‘Lines are busy …’ Ben cut the call.
Kelly checked over the instruments. ‘Bit more left rudder,’ she said.
Ben obliged — though he could see that her mind was elsewhere.
She voiced what they were both thinking. ‘Your mom and my dad were in the same place, so I suppose it makes sense that neither of them was contactable. We’ll try again in a while, huh?’ She winced as she talked.