The Hunters. Kat Gordon

      ‘You’re too sweet, Sylvie.’

      ‘You know what to do with monkeys who steal?’ Carberry said.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Chop their paws off. Same with the natives, they won’t do it again.’

      Sylvie looked sickened. Freddie raised an eyebrow.

      Carberry jerked his thumb in my direction. ‘Speaking of natives, don’t you think this one here could almost pass for one of them? He’s got the thick lips and the crafty eyes.’

      ‘Is that meant to be an insult?’ Sylvie said icily. She put her hand up to touch her thick, dark hair, and I wondered if anyone had ever made the same comparison with her.

      Carberry leered at me. ‘I bet I know what happened. Grandfather probably fucked a slave-girl.’

      I’d heard this sort of thing from boys at school, but never from an adult, and my ears burned in shock. I saw Carberry’s face crease up with laughter. Maia looked embarrassed.

      Freddie put his hand firmly on my shoulder. ‘See you around, Carberry.’

      There was a moment of silence. I could feel Freddie’s fingers gripping me hard.

      ‘Pompous Brits,’ Carberry said at last. He took Maia by the elbow and steered her away. She looked back at us and mouthed ‘sorry’ over her shoulder. I felt Freddie relax.

      Sylvie swung around to face us, eyes black in anger.

      ‘I know, I know,’ Freddie said, although she hadn’t said anything. ‘I feel sorry for Bubbles.’ He took his hand off me, and I felt a surge of relief – Freddie was still my friend, he’d saved me from Carberry.

      ‘Are you alright, Theo?’ Sylvie asked.

      ‘Is he alright?’ Freddie said. ‘I had to physically restrain him, or he might have beaten Carberry to a pulp.’

      I looked down and saw my body was shaking, and my hands were in fists. I hadn’t even realised.

      The races started just after one pm, by which point my head was pounding from the gin and the closeness of the air. I’d no idea what excuse I could give my mother for staying out so long – that was a problem some other Theo would have to deal with. This Theo sat between Nicolas and Freddie in the grandstand, with Sylvie on Freddie’s other side. First up, Nicolas told me, was the divided pony handicaps. I could barely watch. The thundering of the horses’ hooves as they swept past made my headache a thousand times worse, and I closed my eyes so their blurred forms wouldn’t make me feel too sick. I desperately wanted some water, but no one had offered me any, and it seemed childish to ask.

      Next was the jumps racing. Nicolas and Freddie argued good-naturedly over whether it was called steeplechasing or National Hunt racing. I dozed off in my seat, and woke even thirstier than before.

      The feature race was the Jardin Lafitte Cup, a 1400m course. Wiley Scot was running.

      ‘What about a bet on him, Theo?’ Freddie asked. ‘A simple win-bet?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ I said, still sleepy. ‘What are the other horses like?’

      They laughed.

      ‘Very smart,’ Nicolas said.

      ‘A disgusting level of pragmatism,’ Freddie said. ‘Where’s your faith?’

      ‘Will they let me bet?’ I asked.

      ‘I’ll place it for you,’ Freddie said. He stood up and held out his hand. I gave him the notes my father had slipped me on Christmas Day. Freddie counted them, then slapped me on the back.

      ‘You’re either a bloody idiot or a confident genius,’ he said.

      Sylvie leaned over and put her hand on my arm. My skin tingled where she was touching me. ‘Don’t do it if you don’t want to,’ she said.

      ‘It’s just a bit of fun, darling,’ Freddie said to her.

      ‘It’s fine,’ I said.

      She moved closer to me to let Freddie pick his way out of the grandstand, and her thigh came to rest against mine. I prayed I wouldn’t make a fool of myself, and tried to think of distracting images – suet pudding, my grandmother’s bunions, my father in his undergarments.

      ‘I hear you had a run-in with Carberry, Theo,’ Nicolas said on my other side.

      ‘I don’t think he liked me.’

      ‘He was despicable as usual,’ Sylvie said. She took out a cigarette and Nicolas lit it for her.

      ‘Maia’s pregnant, you know,’ he said.

      ‘Oh God. The poor woman.’

      ‘What did he say to you?’ Nicolas asked me.

      ‘He was talking about my appearance.’

      ‘He did that to me as well,’ Nicolas said. ‘The first time we met, he insinuated I was a closet homosexual. I said, if only I were that interesting.’

      He smiled at me and I returned it.

      ‘You’re a hundred times more interesting than John Carberry,’ Sylvie said.

      Their easy conversation confused me, knowing what I did about Sylvie feeling trapped. Nicolas was the nicest person I’d met, I thought, and I wondered what it was about him that was wrong for her.

      Freddie returned with more pink gin for everyone and a ticket for me. ‘They’re leading them on now,’ he said.

      I looked over and saw the eight horses being walked onto the course, saddled and draped with rugs to keep their muscles warm. I recognised Wiley Scot immediately. Even from a distance he seemed to be quivering.

      ‘Bonne chance,’ Nicolas said.

      I made the effort to tear my eyes away from the animals to look at him and offer a smile, although it felt more like a grimace. The blood was thundering through my body as loudly as the horses had sounded earlier, but otherwise everything was strangely quiet. The crowd was waiting, tense. When the grooms removed the rugs and the jockeys sprang up into the saddles, I was convinced I could hear the creak of the leather, and the murmurs as the men tried to calm their mounts. Wiley Scot bucked and did a side-step, looking like he was trying to shake his rider off.

      ‘He doesn’t want to race,’ Sylvie said.

      ‘Of course he wants to race,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s all he knows how to do. He’s just picking up on the atmosphere.’

      The jockeys were lining up on the other side of the course now like coloured specks of dust; red, green, yellow, and Wiley Scot’s in dark blue. Nicolas handed me a pair of binoculars and I trained them on the figures with wet hands.

      ‘They’re off,’ someone called. People were clambering to their feet around me and I jumped up too. The horses were all clumped together at first, but soon they separated out and I picked out Wiley Scot in third place.

      Now I saw the elegance in the horses’ movements. Their bodies hardly seemed to move at all; heads and chests thrust forward they cut a streamlined shape through the air as their legs curled and stretched out below, each hoof only touching the ground for a fraction of a second before they were flying again.

      ‘Come on, Wiley Scot,’ Freddie shouted near me.

      He was coming up on the outside of the horse in second place. Now they were closer I could see the sweat darkening his brown coat, and his muscles rippling with each stride, and my throat began to close up with a lump of excitement and fear. I was keenly aware of the ticket between my fingers, the enormity of the money it represented for me. The ground was shaking and the wind that had sprung up blew back the jockeys’ jackets like sails. I tightened my hold on the ticket, half-hoping, half-afraid it would be carried away.

      Wiley