Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker Read Free Book Online Page A

laughs.
    â€˜How d’you mean?’
    â€˜Summer holidays,’ says the girl. ‘We get no end of kids rocking up here, looking for a holiday job or a bit of weekend work.’
    â€˜Yeah, the big adventure of the horses.’ There is a sneer in Ferretface’s voice.
    â€˜I just want to get into racing.’
    â€˜Good luck,’ says the man.
    I tuck into my hamburger, aware that they’re both watching me.
    â€˜Are you running away from home?’ the girl asks suddenly.
    â€˜No,’ I say rather too quickly. ‘My parents are picking me up later. I wanted to do this by myself.’ The lie hangs in the air for a few moments.
    â€˜Get them to ring round,’ the man says eventually. ‘Someone will probably need a kid to do some mucking out over the summer.’
    He stands up and the girl drains her tea. ‘Racing’s not as glamorous as you think, love,’ she says to me, a little more friendly now. ‘I’d go home and wait until you’re a bit older.’
    And they’re gone, before I can even ask if Mr Stafford is looking for lads.
    I leave the café and walk up the high street. A big clock tower tells me that it is almost six o’clock – too late to look for a job today. I reach for the purse in my back pocket. The train ticket and the hamburger have left me with just over £183. It is enough to keep me going for a few days in Newmarket, but not if I have to pay for a bed.
    A sign pointing to Newmarket Heath gives me an idea. I start walking. On my way out of town, I pass closed iron gates with a sign in gold lettering, which reads ‘Elvedon Stud and Stables’. Beyond the gates are neat hedges and lawn, and a drive leading to a big house and stables.
    I walk on, past the gallops. There is a small wood at the top of a hill with enough cover to hide me from the world outside. It is early evening but I have been up since dawn and I feel tired to the marrow of my bones. I make a little den in a clearing in the undergrowth, put on a second jersey and make myself as comfortable as I can.
    It is a clear, warm night and, as the sun goes down, I can see the gallops of Newmarket Heath sloping down towards the lights of the town. Cock pheasants are calling in the wood, giving it one last shout before they go to sleep. In the distance, I hear a fox barking.
    â€˜
Racing’s not as glamorous as you think.
’ The words of the girl in the café this afternoon come back to me.
    Perhaps she is right. Maybe I am just another silly runaway in love with a crazy teenage fantasy. I had expected Newmarket to feel like home. It would be a place where anyone who loves racing would belong.
    Instead, there are neat lawns, trimmed hedges, iron gates closed to the world.
    One hundred and eighty-three pounds. I can survive here for a week, ten days at most. I think of Coddington Hall. The panic about my disappearance will have calmed by now.
    I’m almost a grown-up. It is the summer holidays. Will Uncle Bill get in touch with the police? Only if he is truly desperate. The past two years of illegal pony-racing and bunking off school would be bound to come out.
    Over the summer, memories of me will fade. Michaela will have her new friends. Aunt Elaine will no longer have to worry about what I am doing to the family reputation. Uncle Bill will go back to his deals. Life without me will be simpler for all of them.
    â€˜I can’t go back.’ Sitting, my arms wrapped around my knees, I say the words out loud. An owl, in a nearly tree, hoots his reply.
    I lie down, pull my spare clothes over me, close my eyes, and soon I am asleep.
    Cheek.
    Against.
    The.
    Turf.

M AGIC
    I AM AWOKEN by the sound of cantering hooves, horses blowing, the occasional human voice.
    From my den, I watch as a string of racehorses canter by. It is cold and my clothes are wet with dew. Steam billows from the nostrils of the horses with every stride they take.
    I wait for