The Irish King

The ride of your life.

They covered the body and carried it out on a stretcher. The horse, amazingly unharmed, came willingly to McCauley, the trainer. He grabbed the bay stallion's reins and led him to where Jim O’Dowd was standing, mouth agape. “You’ll have to have him on Saturday, Jim,” McCauley said. “Are you up to it?”

“But…?”

“He’s dead, Jim. A good jockey.” McCauley looked down at the ground, too much of the drink, rather, “But he’s dead.” That’s what you get for riding drunk.

The Irish King’s brown eyes looked at Jim’s—deep pools of fine oak, staring him down. Horses carried that unspoken wisdom. They knew more about their riders than they would ever let on. Jim gently moved a hand up the black muzzle, the straight, boney forehead and finished by stroking The Irish King’s black mane. The horse seemed disinterested. “Hello,” Jim said, attempting friendship. “Just you and I now.” Velvety bay ears twitched.

“Reckon you’ll fit in his silks?” McCauley asked. A man of pragmatism, even in tragedy, McCauley was waiting for an answer.

“Pardon?”

“They’re not gonna let you sign on now. You’ll have to be Henry.”

Jim’s blood ran cold. McCauley placed a hand on his shoulder. “Look, son,” he said, “this is my last race, and I need to end on a high—I can’t be ducking out on Lord Wilmsley’s horse now, can I? His odds are standing at ten to one. Can’t pull out on that.”

“I’m just a stable—”

The trainer spoke over him. “I’ve seen you riding him, son. You’ll do fine.” McCauley patted him on the shoulder, almost knocking him off to the left. “You’ll do fine. Just get the silks on.”

---

Jim lay in his bed. The uniform hung on the mannequin in the corner: Henry’s silks, Henry’s helmet, Henry’s breeches. The only things that were Jim’s were the boots, whip and goggles. Henry was dead. Henry deserved it. Henry couldn’t hurt him any more.

Jim looked at the assemblage of clothing for so long that he could swear it moved: its eyeless, mouthless head staring at him as he lay there, the angel on his right shoulder reminding him of what an awful thing he’d done. He looked away, and tried to get some sleep.

He dreamed of the training ground in Cork, and the glossy-haired champions in their stables, nickering and snorting when the stable lads came to prepare them for the day. Jim looked out onto the bright, grassy paradise in front of him, and breathed in the clean, Cork air, mingled with hay, horsehair and sweat. His life as a stable lad was peaceful, until Henry came. It took Jim five years to decide enough was enough.

Somewhere in the darkness, hanging between midnight and the small hours, Jim awoke to the sensation of something circling his bed, brushing against the bedclothes as it passed. He murmured, half asleep, pulled the blankets back toward him, and rolled over. That was when he heard the boots land on the floorboards, patrolling, pacing. Thump, thump, thump. The boots went off to the window, where the curtains hung open, showering the room with brilliant moonlight. The boots came back, they stopped, and they went away again.

No monsters under the bed, Jim. But what if there was one in the room? Jim, his senses sharpening, held his breath. Shuffling. Someone was in the room with him.

Not remembering how he came to be in the position, he was sitting up, his back against the brass headboard, where he saw Henry Moore, standing at the foot of his bed. The jockey stood with his helmet under his arm and his whip lowered in his hand. Jim studied the boots, his eyes coming up past the white breeches, the white silk and the broken neck. Henry’s head, hanging to the right shoulder, had its eyes fixed on Jim, who couldn’t speak.

“That was a cruel trick you got me with there, lad.” The spectre was speaking. Jim’s eyes widened.

“Henry, is that you?” he asked.

“You know it is, Jim.”

“G-good to see ya…”

“You bet against your own friend, Jim.”

“What?”

“You used a woman’s weapon.” Henry tutted, his head shaking atop the disconnected neck. “You see everything in death, Jim. I see the money in your drawer, without having to open it. Handing me that whiskey, Jim. I should have tasted it, but it’s all as plain as water for me.”

“No, that’s—”

“You made me fall, Jim.”

“No. It wasn’t like that—”

“You’re going to kill my horse, Jim.”

“No. King’s fine!”

“You’re going to kill my horse, Jim.”

“No. No I won’t.”

“Three days, Jim. You win The Grand National, or you die.”

“What?”

“Three days. Win the Grand National or die.”

---

Jim had never competed in any professional race, never mind a steeplechase. The knowledge of the benefits of sleep served him little over the course of the following three days. The rings formed under his eyes, the lines in his forehead deepening with age not yet meant to meet him. No matter how many times he splashed his face with fresh rainwater, or closed his eyes, the spectre of Henry Moore was there. Shoulders parted in crowds, only to make space for his ghastly, phantom face.

Win the Grand National or die.

Saturday came. The ride of his life.

“Four and a half miles, Jim,” he said to himself, leaning forward. The sickness tried to overwhelm him, but somewhere, stubbornness came to the rescue. He would not be sick. He would not spook his horse. They waited in the stall, Jim holding the reins with tight palms and white knuckles, concealed in gloved hands. He tried to relax the muscles in his legs, so King wouldn’t feel the fear. He didn’t want King to know anything but the excitement that came with trying to win a race. “Who’s that?” He heard someone ask. He looked away. The whole thing would be over soon.

To his left, he spied the rider out of the corner of his eye. It was a bigger man, all in black. Jim kept his eyes down and looked at the horse. The Irish King, conscious of the change in his rider’s temperature, struggled nervously in the small space.

His neighbour’s horse, at least twenty hands high, looked on ahead, eyes blazing red with fire. Its mane, ghostly white, seemed to float as though submerged in water. A skeletal hand patted its neck. Jim, the faintness in his gut loosening his grip on the reins, looked at the rider.

Where was his head?

Win the Grand National or die.

The crack of the gun penetrated the air, sending stall doors crashing open. They were off to a thunderous start. Hooves hammered the green grass before them, sending mud and turf flying in their wake. Some horses pulled up, others fell. Ditch water splashed up, coating the lenses of riders’ goggles—riders, who were hellbent on winning, sight or no sight. Chestnut, grey and bay bodies flew across the hurdles, mixed colours flying above them in the wave of the chase, coming down the track like an avalanche.

The Irish King is coming up from the left side, overtaking Marlborough, coming for Drogheda—Drogheda falls back to third place and here comes Empress from the right—Empress edging in on Marlborough—Here comes the Duke and The Duke is pushing through! Pushing through! But it’s no match for The Irish King! The Irish King is widening the gap with a speed we’ve never seen before. Only two more miles to go! The Irish King is leaving them in the dust but there are more miracles to be made in this race—Comeuppance and God’s Promise in sixth and seventh—Comeuppance is making gains! It’s not over until the fat lady sings, is it Mr Wagner? Ha. Marlborough holding on tightly but The Duke is—Oh what a jump. Seventeen horses left and they all made that one. Closing in on the final fence now.

“Christ, he’s really going for it,” McCauley said, watching The Irish King from the stands.

Win the Grand National or die.

Jim did not look up once. He leaned in to The Irish King, wind whipping him across the face as they raced for their lives and leapt. Either side of him, he heard horses coming and going, falling and refusing. He had no time to look, but he could feel the chill, soulless wind that the horse chasing him stirred. The headless rider was at his flank, stealing the space between Jim and the end of the track. Jim whipped and whipped, begging The King to give it all he had. The horse did not disappoint. The last Jim saw was the hand, holding the reins of the monstrous horse as it fell behind.

“He’s goin’ like the devil’s chasing him!” someone said, observing the leader outrun his competition.

The punters could not see the headless horseman riding behind Jimmy O’Dowd, its beast galloping with unnatural, ground-swallowing strides as it nipped with its hideous, dead teeth. They couldn’t see what was thrashing The Irish King into an unnatural, foam-mouthed frenzy. Only The Irish King could feel the whip made of human spines, lashing against his rump. Jim, on the other hand, felt the freeze of death’s hand on his failing heart.

The punters knew nothing. They could only see the screaming horse as it jumped the final hurdle, the firs brushing against his belly. That jump was the last thing Jim O’Dowd felt before The Irish King fell, throwing him into the ditch, head first.

The commentator, his mouth dry, brought the loudhailer to his lips for the final time. “The Irish King is down! The Irish King is down! Comeuppance takes the trophy!”