Riggs Crossing (13 page)

Chapter 33

I took the wrong bus, so I’m late getting to the Randwick Racecourse. I guess it’s just as well I’m late, otherwise I’d have to pay admission. I didn’t realise they charged just to get through the gates.

Nobody knows I’m here. I thought that Lyyssa might not want me to go to the racetrack for some reason, so I didn’t bother asking permission. I just wrote ‘gone shopping on University Road’ on the whiteboard. On the way back, I’ll buy something from a shop on University Road, even if it’s only an ice-cream, so it won’t really be a lie.

I don’t know where to go or what to do, so I just walk in the general direction everybody else is going. As we get closer to the big stadium entrance, the crowd gets thicker and I kind of fall in step with everyone else.

I don’t really know why I’m here. Daddy always said horseracing was a mug’s game. But that
Clarissa Hobbs
episode about her horse winning the race started whirring around in my head. Then the ads for the Autumn Racing Carnival started: models wearing floaty dresses, strappy shoes, and wide-brimmed, flowered hats; gleaming blacks and bays thundering across the finish line, tastefully dressed couples toasting their wins with champagne.

Maybe I went to the wrong racecourse. The people here are nothing like the elegant, laughing people in the ads on TV. I start getting the same uncomfortable feeling I get whenever I have to go out in public with Lyyssa and the other Refuge kids: These people aren’t the sort of people I want to be around.

Like the couple in front of me. They’re maybe nineteen or twenty. The girl is wearing a shimmery pink halter top that shows the rose tattoo on her right shoulder blade, a crotch-length leopard-print miniskirt, red fishnet stockings that end at the ankle, red spike-heeled shoes, and a cheap gold chain around her right ankle. She’s really skinny and pale.

‘I saw this outfit at Dotti that I might buy, and a rose gold bracelet at Proud’s . . .’ she’s saying in a nasal voice. She’s holding hands with a guy who’s wearing a lavender nylon shirt, lime green synthetic trousers, and thongs.

I speed up and pass them, looking over my shoulder discreetly. The view from the front isn’t any better. He’s got spots and she’s wearing way too much eyeliner.

I peel off from the crowd and head to the women’s loo, nearly bumping into the back of a girl in a purple lace dress who’s stopped abruptly just at the entrance to the toilet block.

‘Hallooo, you gorgeous thing!’ she squeals at a girl wearing a tight white tube dress and fifteen bangles on her arm coming out of the ladies, and they air-kiss each other. They’re both wearing silly feathered hats and really high heels. The girl in the lace dress loses her balance and grabs the tube dress girl; they both think this is really funny and start shrieking with laughter.

‘Soozanne’s?’ Tube Dress asks Lace Dress, pointing at her hat. ‘Me too!’ More shrieks and giggles.

Soozanne’s. That’s almost as classy as Dotti.

‘Excuse me, could I get through?’

They both look at me like I’ve passed wind, then put their noses in the air and move away. ‘You’ve got something on the back of your dress,’ I say over my shoulder to the girl in the tube dress. She does, too, chocolate or something.

After I come out of the toilet block I try not to look at the crowd around me as I’m walking. How do I get close to the horses? At least I’m closer to the main action.

There’s a big stadium entrance that everyone’s going into. There are stalls everywhere selling food and drink.

‘Gentlemen, collect your reward,’ someone says loudly.

I bring my eyes back to earth. It’s a very young man, soft and pink-faced, handing cans of Jim Beam and cola to his mates. They’re all wearing grey suits with waistcoats and proper shoes. There’s something annoying about the stuck-up way he’s smiling.

Gentlemen. Ladies. You gorgeous thing!

I’m getting a headache. I find a place out of the sun and get two aspirin from my backpack. Two painkillers and half a Gatorade later, I feel ready to press on.

There’s a dark-haired woman wearing a red jacket with a badge who looks to be some sort of guide. She sees me coming and smiles.

‘Excuse me. Can you tell me what’s up there?’ I’m pointing toward the highest place in the stands. I have no idea what’s behind that tinted glass, but I think it’s probably the best place to see the race.

‘Those are the private and corporate boxes,’ the guide explains.

In other words, people like me and the girl with the rose tattoo and those two girls in their silly feathered hats aren’t allowed there. That bothers me. I wonder if it bothers them.

‘Oh. Well, where is the closest I can get to the horses?’

The guide points straight ahead. ‘If you walk straight through the Betting Auditorium, you can see the horses being walked in the Winner’s Circle before the race. You’ll be close enough to get a good look at them.’

I thank her and start walking.

The Betting Auditorium. Punters. If these are punters, I don’t ever want to be one.

One fat man stands with his glazed eyes glued to a TV monitor displaying odds. A drop of sweat rolls down his bald head. He’s too fixated on the screen to mop his brow. His mouth turns down at the corners.

No one seems to move in the Betting Auditorium, except the people behind the counters. Even the air doesn’t seem to move. It’s like a garden of sad, breathing statues. I hurry through without looking at anybody else. Just before I escape I see a sign, something about a Gambling Addiction Hotline on a free 1800 number. Yeah, right. Like any of the sad statues are going to stop pissing away money on the ponies and take up lawn bowls instead.

When I leave the Betting Auditorium, I exhale all that horrid sick sorrow and breathe in some fresh air. Some horses are being led out and paraded in a circle. I’m almost close enough to touch them. There’s plenty of room at the railing. Why don’t any of the sad statues want to come and have a look at the horses they’re blowing their wages on?

I’m so busy watching the horses that I don’t notice the jockeys coming out. All of a sudden, there’s a person to the side of each horse who throws each jockey into the saddle, like he weighs nothing.

‘Oooh!’ I hear myself squeal, and feel embarrassed. But it doesn’t matter. No one’s paying attention to me.

There’s a TV crew behind me and to the left. A reporter is asking someone about which is his favourite to win, but it’s pretty boring so I don’t listen.

I drift off into a daydream where I’m in a private box with Clarissa Hobbs and Wade, wearing a silk dress, sipping champagne and watching the race from up high. When I snap out of it, the horses are gone. I follow everybody else’s eyes to where the starting gate is.

There’s suddenly less room at the railing. My elbows are being pressed on both sides. To my right are two Westie boys; to my left is a stumpy little man wearing a bowling shirt and polyester trousers. He’s carrying a little radio tuned to the racing channel.

The next couple of minutes makes me wonder what’s wrong with everybody here. Or is there something wrong with me?

‘Racing!’ someone calls.

You can’t really see what’s going on from where we are, and all the horses look alike at a distance, anyway. But some people must be able to tell what’s going on, the ones listening to the radio or the ones up in the stands watching through binoculars.

The guy with the radio squints at the track. The two Westie boys are yelling ‘Go, Go, Yes, YES!’

A roar erupts in the stands; shouts and cheers ring out around me.

‘Kingston Rain!’ the radio voice announces triumphantly. ‘Kingston Rain by a nose!’

‘NOOO!’ one of the Westie boys howls, turning away and burying his head in his hands. The other one just closes his eyes and groans like someone hit him in the stomach.

The jockeys canter the horses around a bit, then slow to a trot before bringing them back to the Winner’s Circle at a walk. Then only three horses are left, and the jockeys dismount and people come to hold each horse.

The winning jockey is really young, with blond hair and a smooth, pink face. He looks really happy, but I guess you would be if you just won a race, even a small-time one. He’s also a lot taller than the other two jockeys.

‘A real achievement for an apprentice jockey to win a race like this, up against veteran jockeys like Steve Moran and John Price,’ an announcer says.

Those must be the two guys who came in second and third. They don’t look very happy. In fact, they look like they’d like to kill that baby-faced kid who beat them. They also look like they haven’t had a decent feed since they were about twelve. Their heads are too big for their bodies, and their faces look old and lined. They probably hate that apprentice jockey’ cause he won the race without starving himself and taking speed.

The Racing Queen gives the blond apprentice jockey his medal. Her hair is bleached a uniform colour of blond, ironed straight, and fixed at the ends with some kind of styling wax. Her makeup must be for the TV – thick foundation and heavy eyeliner. She’s wearing high heels that make it difficult to walk in the grass, and a flowered dress with a little black lace shawl that keeps slipping off her shoulders. The black lace shawl is part of the ‘Italian Widow’ look that’s in this season. Probably you can buy the whole ensemble at Soozanne’s.

I look around and sure enough, the Soozanne’s pink logo is one of the signs fighting for attention with all the other logos on display.

I don’t know why I’m having such nasty thoughts about the Racing Queen. It’s not like she gets a say in what clothes or makeup she wears.

After she’s presented the jockeys with their medals, she wobbles over to a table and picks up a trophy. It isn’t anything like the one Clarissa Hobbs got, made from real silver. This trophy is a sort of clear plastic egg glued to a particleboard base.

The Racing Queen steps carefully over to a clutch of people who are wearing suits and fancy dresses and looking bemused. They don’t seem to notice that Kingston Rain is getting stroppy, in spite of the two handlers trying to keep him in line, and is close enough to kick them. Who are these stupid people?

Oh, they’re the syndicate that owns the horse. The Racing Queen figures out which one of them to give the Plastic Egg on Fake Wood to. The syndicate people chatter and mill around on the grass until two older men in dark suits round them up and escort them to a door that says Members Only. Then the handlers lead Kingston Rain off to wherever he’s going. Before they get him out of the Winner’s Circle, Kingston Rain aims a little kick at a track employee who’s crouched down to pick up a flag or something that’s fallen on the grass. The kick didn’t come anywhere close to connecting, but the track employee stops what he’s doing and gives Kingston Rain and his handlers a long look.

There’s one more race after this, but I think I’ve had enough.

I follow the crowd leaving the Winner’s Circle and manage to wander into a pub that’s four storeys high. No one stops me, despite the signs with the stern warnings about how no one under the age of eighteen blah-de-blah-de-blah. There’s a guy wearing a shirt that says ‘Free Dick’ with an arrow pointing downwards. He stops talking to his mates and stares at me. I turn and walk back down the stairs.

I don’t know where I’m headed anymore. I go through a tunnel where people are travelling in little motorised carts. One of them is carrying a little girl with long curly dark hair sitting in between her two quietly dressed parents. ‘Hello, people!’ she yells to me and some of the other walkers as the cart whizzes past us.

‘Emma!’ her mother scolds.

‘That’s showing off,’ her father tells her, with an embarrassed smile in my direction.

I think they’re the closest to ladies and gentlemen that I’m going to see here.

When I get to the end of the tunnel, there’s nothing but a big car park and someone collecting for the Salvation Army. I say hello to the Salvation Army man, then turn and walk back.

The races are over and lots of people are leaving, so there’s a bit of a bottleneck happening close to the gate. Some people are happy and loud, some people are aggro and loud. I keep getting jostled. Something is going to . . .

‘GRONK!’

. . . happen.

A bottle smashes. ‘WHAT’D YOU CALL ME?’ In between the shoulders and handbags I see an angry, bug-eyed, young-old face on top of steroid shoulders. ‘STEV-IE!’ a fat chick whines, but he still throws a punch and men wearing orange vests come running and I’m being pushed forward by people who want to see the fight.

I turn and run back against the crowd, bumping into people. Some of the people I bump into don’t notice, some look surprised, some look concerned, and some mean girls yell at me to ‘WATCH IT.’ I run until it’s not crowded anymore and I can’t hear the fight. I don’t realise until I slow to a walk that I’ve been crying.

I wipe my face and stop next to some sort of building. There’s a fence that has a sign saying ‘Members Only’ past this point. A large, happy-seeming woman holding a long pole with a copper pan on the end of it is leading a horse toward the building. I think it’s the horse that won that last race. Kingston Rain. He’s calmed down now.

‘Excuse me.’

The woman looks in my direction and smiles.

‘What’s that pan for?’

‘It’s to collect his urine. All the horses have to have urine tests.’

Oh. For drugs and stuff. ‘What if he won’t wee?’

‘He’s got an hour to have a wee. They almost always do. But if he doesn’t, the vet takes a blood test.’

‘Can I watch?’ Kingston Rain turns his head toward me like he understood what I said and thinks it’s funny.

The woman shakes her head apologetically. ‘Sorry, love. It’s members only in the swabbing room. Come on, boy,’ she says to Kingston Rain, and they disappear into the building.

Members Only. I bet Clarissa Hobbs is a member of anything that’s worth being a member of. I’m not a member of anything.

The crowds have thinned enough for me to get out of the racecourse, but there are still long queues for the buses. I start walking along the footpath in the opposite direction, up a hill, and come to a piece of land that has a little house that doesn’t seem to quite belong there. I don’t think anyone lives there anymore, but just to be safe I keep away from it as I walk past.