Citizen. Charlie Brooks

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       16

      Tipper usually looked after the horses in the isolation yard if he wasn’t racing in the afternoons. It was a couple of hundred yards from the main yard and always quiet and semi-deserted. Alison Sinclair also kept her own horse there. She knew he was the only person in the isolation yard when she brought her horse back to its stable.

      ‘Tipper!’ she called out. ‘Give me a hand here, will you?’

      He jogged over to hold the horse’s head as Alison slid from the saddle. She removed her hard hat and shook out her tangled hair.

      He led her horse into the stable and assumed that she’d be gone by the time he’d untacked him. But when he emerged ten minutes later he found that she was still in the yard, standing just inside the open door of an empty stable. It had been made ready with fresh straw for a horse expected to arrive the next day. She crooked her finger at Tipper.

      ‘Come here. There’s something in here I want you to look at.’

      She then retreated to the back of the box as he approached warily. The electric light was off and the air in the shadowy interior was heavy with the sweetish smell of straw dust. Alison was over by the manger with her back turned and her head slightly bowed. Tipper couldn’t make out what she was doing. He took a step towards her and, as if on a signal, she spun round to face him. It was then that he realized she had been undoing her buttons, for she slid her shirt from her shoulders and let it fall on the straw. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

      ‘Well?’ she asked as she ran her fingers over her nipples. ‘What do you think? Do you like them?’

      Some men would have found Alison Sinclair very sexy all right, at least in appearance. But Tipper didn’t. She wasn’t actually fat, but everything about her struck him as being alarmingly, even overwhelmingly large: the mass of brown hair, the greedy mouth, the prominent nose and the broad horsewoman’s arse and thighs. Now, with a mixture of incredulity and abject terror, he found himself being invited to evaluate her naked, swaying breasts.

      Alison took a step towards him.

      ‘Haven’t you anything to say? Try looking more closely.’

      Her eyes were wide, intense like a bird’s, but also green and witchy. She reached out and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling his face into her cleavage. Then she lowered her face into his hair. She was a good six inches taller than he was.

      ‘That’s it. I like the smell of your sweat,’ she purred.

      He couldn’t smell her in return because his nose was flattened against her breast-bone. Nor could he breathe. He struggled in her grip.

      ‘Why are you struggling? Don’t be so shy. You’ll never be a top jockey if you’re shy, you know.’

      Tipper let his knees sag, so that by the force of gravity his face began to slide down from Alison’s thorax towards her belly. For a moment Tipper’s mouth met her puckered navel before it slithered on. She clutched him as his nose snagged painfully on the waistband of her jodhpurs. Tipper dropped down into the straw. Alison took this as a positive sign. The next moment she was on top of him.

      ‘No! No! Mrs Sinclair!’ he protested.

      ‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ she grunted, breathing heavily as she tried to get her hands on the zip of his jeans. ‘You know you want it, Tipper, as much as I do.’

      ‘This isn’t right, Mrs Sinclair. I mean, what if Mr Sinclair—?’

      ‘You know what? He doesn’t care, Tipper. He’s at it too, believe me. Keep still.’

      But pound for pound Tipper was considerably stronger than Alison. He grabbed her by her arms and threw her onto her back. Alison lay in the straw, mistakenly thinking that Tipper was going to jump on top of her. But nothing was further from his mind.

      ‘You ungrateful little pikey,’ she snarled when she realized Tipper was planning a rapid exit. ‘I offer you a good time and you behave like this.’

      Tipper could sense her eyes glaring at him, but he fixed his own on the straw. She was utterly humiliated as she scrambled to her feet. Her face was red with anger and exertion. She was breathing heavily.

      ‘All right,’ she virtually spat out. ‘Have it your way. But let one thing be understood. You won’t be riding any good horses for this yard—never. Now fuck off out of here!’

      Tipper emerged from the stable into the dull late afternoon light. He was trying to brush the straw off him when he looked up. David Sinclair was standing at the yard gate, watching him.

      Tipper called Sam as he left the yard, but there was no response. His phone was turned off for a good reason. It was pay-back time for Shelley. But when Sam walked into the Partridge he had a big smile on his face for more than one reason, and it was the other reason he was bursting to tell Tipper about.

      ‘You’re not going to believe this, my man. But guess which mare came to board at the stud today for a few weeks before she goes through the sale ring?’ Tipper wasn’t in the mood for games. And Sam had a stupid look on his face anyway, he was probably taking the piss.

      ‘No idea.’

      ‘Go on. Think. Which horse would you most like to see in the world?’

      ‘No way.’ Tipper smiled, instantly forgetting his problems. ‘No way.’

      ‘Oh yes. Red’s out at the stud alright. She looks great.’

      ‘Come on. Let’s go and see her. Jesus. She’s being sold here?’

      ‘Can I have a pint please?’ Sam gesticulated.

      Tipper calmed. ‘Okay. But tell me, why’s she with you?’

      ‘Oh some long story. The guy who leases the stud to O’Callaghan knows the owner. I think he thinks if O’Callaghan sees the mare before she goes through the sale ring he’ll buy her. I’d say he will too.’

      ‘Jesus that’s wicked. Then she’ll always be here. Come on hurry up.’

      Sam had a good gulp of his beer. He didn’t want to leave. Shelley would be appearing in a minute. He wanted to have another look at her to remind himself. She was late.

      ‘Hey. How was your first meeting with the Covey Club?’ Sam asked. Tipper didn’t immediately reply and looked at the pattern of the stone floor.

      ‘It was okay,’ he eventually admitted. ‘There was Spud, Jimmy, Chuck, Dobbo, Arthur, Rodney and Ray. Good lads.’

      ‘God, they sound like the seven dwarves, so they do,’ said Sam.

      ‘We’re all in different yards. And we all have a contact that we got to give our phone numbers to. The contacts phone us for the latest news, like.’

      ‘What sort of news is that?’