The Price of Blood (35 page)

"Steno seems to be directing this as much at Hutton as at me, and when I look round, there’s Hutton all fired up, glaring, eyes boiling, like a bull at a gate.

"Steno fucks off then, but before he does, he takes my phone, and gives me a little warning about what he’ll do if I double-cross him. I can remember it, but I’m not going to repeat it, ’cause there’s a chance I might forget it one day, but not if it lodges in my head.

"We hang on for a while, then twelve-twenty, just before the first race, that’s our cue. We go in and present our passes and head for the changing rooms and grab a spot. Hutton has a bag with his silks and riding hat and his whip and some street clothes. There’s a bit of muttering from the other lads. But Hutton doesn’t care, he just changes into his colors, cool as you like. And then a couple of lads come up and give it a bit of remember me, I was a boy in Tyrrellscourt when you were riding. Hutton smiles at them, and nods away big-time, and maybe they’re a bit disappointed he’s not chatting to them but they’re not really surprised, and they seem to go away happy. Any jockeys I ever met, either they wouldn’t fucking shut up or you couldn’t get a word out of them, so maybe he’s coming across as normal. I can see all eyes are on him though—the fucking head on him man, even without knowing about his tongue: he has that complexion street drinkers have, like he’s been boiled. Not to mention he’s the comeback kid to beat the band, a fucking legend in the making.

"We go around to the weigh room, which is on the lower deck of the grandstand just across from the parade ring. Same story here, everyone having a squint. Hutton’s not bothered, the opposite actually, like he’s missed it, the attention, and I have to say, it is pretty class now, all the riders in their silks, the colors, the shine of the boots, the roar of the crowd for the first race, I’m getting into it man. While he’s queuing for the scales, I grab a race card, maybe I’ll get a chance to slap a bet on. No time like the present. And the first thing, looking at the card for the third race, what jumps out is Bottle of Red’s owner: Mr. G. Halligan. Looks like it’s going to be quite a circus out there in the parade ring this afternoon.

"The weight’s ten-stone-nine, and Hutton makes it with three pounds to spare, fair play, and he is in good shape, and we’re off to hang in the changing room again. The boys are in from the first race, winners and losers, and Hutton gets a bit more attention and handles it the same, and then the second race is called, and we’re out to saddle up. While we’re on our way around the parade ring to the saddling stalls, Steno falls into line with us and tells me to get lost. I linger though, long enough to see him draw Hutton aside and slip something to him, something Hutton slips inside his silk top, something that glitters in the faint sunlight that’s still trying to break through.

"The parade ring’s where it’s happening now. I can see Vincent Tyrrell in his dog collar and his long black overcoat and his black fedora, looking like a priest in a Jimmy Cagney movie, and there’s George Halligan in his Barbour jacket and his tweed cap, looking like a cunt, basically, giving F. X. Tyrrell an earful, and there’s Brian Rowan in the middle of them with one of those women George collects from Russia or Brazil who all look like they’re waiting for the operation. She’s a foot taller than Rowan, snow-blond hair, wearing a white fur coat, a lynx it must be, Rowan’s talking into her fake tits and she’s looking out across the crowd pretending she hasn’t noticed every eye is glued to her.

"Mind you, there’s a lot of money here today, a lot of new tits and teeth and holiday flesh and fur being waved; it’s been a while since I was racing and the biggest change is, fair enough, there’s the usual crowd, the old boys in their trilbies and wool coats, the country farmers, the Barbour jacket crowd, all the middle classes in their Christmas best, then there’s the betting-shop boys giving themselves a day out from the bookies, scruffy lads in jumpers and jeans like, like me, to be honest, but then there’s also a lot of young people, young fellas with estate-agent hair and cheap suits and young ones in skimpy dresses and high heels, like it’s a nightclub they thought they were going to, working-class kids out for a big day. And some politician getting his photo taken with your one off
You’re a Star
on the telly. And Bono and Ali here too, someone said, up in one of the boxes, I suppose. Even a few Butlers are here, picking pockets and rolling drunks. Everyone’s here, relieved the big freeze never came. Everyone’s here!

"And here comes Patrick Hutton on Bottle of Red being led by her groom into the ring, and such a roar goes up you’d swear it was one of the Carberrys or A. P. McCoy, one of the crowd’s favorites anyway, and you can see George Halligan is still bulling but F. X. Tyrrell has moved away from him, and George has tugged on his shoulder to turn him back, and suddenly Steno is at his side, looking as if he has every right to be there in his long coat and his big hat, looking like an Australian. George is still looking gnarly and aggravated, and then Steno prods him in the side, and George looks at him straight on, and Steno nods, and George nods back. Deal for now.

"Patrick Hutton is leaning down to listen to whatever F.X. has to say to him, taking instructions, fair play to F.X., he looks like he’s making the best of it. Hutton is beaming, and there’s a chant going up:

"The chant builds and builds, and he’s taking the horse around the ring now, and as it hits a big crescendo Hutton touches the peak of his riding hat, and the crowd erupt in cheers.

"Now I’m watching Vincent Tyrrell, who’s staring at Hutton, never at the horse, always at Hutton, like he’s trying to hex him or something, and Hutton looks across every now and again, and looks away as quickly. And then I get a dig in the ribs and a hand on my collar and I’m pulled out of the crowd by Leo Halligan.

“What the fuck is going on?’ he says, and I look around, and see that Steno is still in there, and I tell Leo Halligan as much as I know of what the fuck is going on. He nods at me, and then he vanishes into the crowd. The next thing, Steno is at my side.

“We’ll go down onto the turf to watch the race,’ he says.

"Fair enough. Down we go, through the tunnel beneath the private boxes, and Madigan’s bar is heaving with half-dressed young ones, it’s like one of those Club 18-30 holidays. Out we come and it’s good to feel grass beneath your feet, even if it is sopping wet. The grandstand is behind us, with the Dublin mountains towering above, but we head down past the line of bookies’ pitches, and Steno salutes Jack Proby of Proby and Son, who doesn’t look very pleased to see Steno.

"It’s not the best place to watch a race if you want to get the whole picture, but it’s the business if you want the atmosphere, and the atmosphere is only brilliant. Bottle of Red was favorite anyway, and the Hutton thing has added a whole other level, the chant’s going around in waves:

"Rocking back and forth from the grandstand down to the barrier and back, impossible not to get caught up in the motion of it, absolutely classic.

"There’s a field of thirteen, and Hutton keeps the horse back all the way around the first time, buried in a pack. Contrariwise and Vico Fancy lead from the off, and you just know they’re not going to have the legs to make it, and when they’re on the road side for the second time, they fall away, and Hendre takes up the lead and holds it until they hit the last jump and turn into the final furlong and here comes Bottle of Red, Hutton has to use the elbows a bit, he’s boxed himself in, but he breaks out and he breaks clear and now he’s coming, past Columbine, past Kelly’s Hero, past Dodger, and as they turn he’s neck and neck with Hendre, Hendre and Bottle of Red, and then Hutton lets her go and it looks like he was holding her back all along, and Hendre has nothing left and Bottle of Red, Bottle of Red, Bottle of Red by a mile, and the chant would raise the hairs on your neck:

“Beautiful!” Steno yells in my ear, and I’d swear there were tears in the fucker’s eyes.

“Parade Ring, come on,” he says, and we boot up there. Some courses have a separate winners’ enclosure; at Leopardstown, the horses go back round to the parade ring they started in.

There’s a huge crowd gathering, and Steno brings me into the parade ring, maybe to keep me close, maybe to use as a shield. Means I get a perfect view of all that happens. There’s TV reporters going around with those huge microphones and cameras and everything, and Hutton rides the horse in to great applause, and someone is talking to F.X., asking him about Hutton’s return, and Hutton tips the hat to even greater cheers, and F.X. mutters something about there being much rejoicing for the one who was lost, and Hutton dismounts as the groom rushes to hold the horse, and as Hutton approaches F.X. a blond female reporter spots Father Vincent Tyrrell and draws him into the group of three for the camera and asks him about the parable of the prodigal son and Vincent Tyrrell says yes indeed, Luke chapter fifteen, but of course there are all manner of prodigals, why he and his brother, Francis, haven’t spoken in ten years, not since the day Patrick Hutton disappeared.

"I can see Steno edging closer because Hutton is freaking out now, looking wildly around him, like a robot malfunctioning, whatever the plan was, this wasn’t it, and Vincent Tyrrell is still talking, and someone to one side of the camera is signaling to the reporter to cut the interview dead, but the reporter won’t, she seems mesmerized, so does everyone, and no wonder: while Hutton is shaking his head and blinking and F.X. is standing stock-still like he died ten years ago and forgot to tell anyone, Vincent Tyrrell is saying that the prodigal son is of course at root a story about the father, not the son, and he should know: Patrick Hutton is Father Vincent Tyrrell’s son.

"Patrick Hutton is shaking his head, and suddenly he has a long knife in his hand, and the crowd in the ring turns to flee, and Hutton steps up to F. X. Tyrrell and the knife flashes in the light, but before he can use it, Vincent Tyrrell is in front of F.X., protecting him, and Hutton steps back and stares at them both for a moment, shaking his head some more, then Hutton brings the blade up and slashes a gulley deep across his own throat. Blood shoots from it, and there are screams everywhere, and Hutton topples to his knees and then to the ground, and Father Vincent Tyrrell goes down to him, and as the cries go out for doctors and ambulances, the priest who was his father whispers a last confession in his son’s ear, and above them, like he’s been turned to stone, in the parade ring at Leopardstown Racecourse in the shadow of the Dublin mountains on St. Stephen’s Day stands Francis Xavier Tyrrell, the trainer of the winning horse."

   The screen went black after Vincent Tyrrell’s admission on live television that he was the father of the winning jockey of the 1:30 at Leopardstown. In their confusion, which they no doubt shared with the viewing public, RTE replaced the racing altogether with a concert of Christmas music from Vienna.

"Why did Vincent Tyrrell say that? What was he thinking of?" Miranda cried.

"What were you expecting Hutton to do? Kill F. X. Tyrrell live on air?" I said.

No sooner had I formed the words than I realized that yes, that was exactly what had been planned for Tyrrell. Miranda’s phone rang, and she took the call out in the hall. When she came back in she was crying, but through her tears her words were hard with rage.

"That was Leo. Patrick is dead," she said. "He wanted to die. He killed himself. But for nothing. F.X. is still alive. Patrick went for F.X. and Vincent saved his life. No one can put an end to the Tyrrells. Oh God, poor Patrick."

She shook her tears away, apparently uncertain what to do next.

"The Guards will be coming, then," I said. "By now, F.X. will have told them Regina and Karen are being held hostage."

"Yes," Miranda said. "They’ll be coming for me. There’s not a lot of time left."

"You can say you were forced into it by Hutton and Steno," I said. "That’s certainly how Vincent Tyrrell must see it. The victim. That’s what you were. A tragic set of circumstances, the child of incest, an incestuous marriage, a child of your own who…nobody could have anything but sympathy for your plight, Miranda."

"You know that’s not exactly how it happened. Real life kept intruding, getting in the way. I’ve never looked for anyone’s sympathy. I’ve never been anybody’s victim. And I’m not going to play the part now."

Miranda suddenly burrowed in the sports grip she had brought and produced a Stanley knife. With it, she cut the ties binding Regina to her chair and then cut mine. There had been no sound from Karen’s room for a while. I assumed Regina would go to the child instantly. Instead, as if set free by the silence, Regina suddenly spoke in a voice that she had kept silent for a long time, a voice that seemed to come from a younger place within her, and what she said carried the intensity of a dream.

"It was in the stables," she said. "The last one, you could see the river from there. And the paddock with the trees, and the two ponies sometimes. There was always the rustle, but not of straw. Francis was an innovator there, straw could carry all manner of bugs and ticks and rot, parasites and spores that would cause the horses illness. Francis pioneered the use of shredded paper. It was so white there, the bright white that fills up a room, like when you wake up and it’s been snowing, and everywhere there’s soft bright light, like the first day. That’s what it was like in all the stables, but most especially this one. There was a ledge above the door, and you could see the river from there. That winter, it snowed. A thick blanket. Makes the sound different in the air, as if you don’t have to speak so clearly. As if everything was understood.