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guilty on a drink driving charge, and all his success as a jockey had counted for nothing. Though the death of fifteen-year-old Alan Kirkstall was not deemed to be murder, this was one accident whose consequences thèkid' could not avoid. Jamie had been sentenced to three years, which had come down to a year and a half on remission.
    Pippa's resentment about the whole business still burned - she couldn't help it. Throughout his sentence she'd been the one on the outside trying to be a rock, keeping Jamie's morale up while ushering their mother through the swift and hideous progress of lung cancer.
    Now her rancour touched on the one topic she had sworn to herself she would not raise on this supposedly joyful journey to freedom. `So,' she asked her brother, `have you got your memory back then?’ 'What?'
    Maybe he was startled by the question or by her tone, which was sharp, pitched higher than she had intended. The accusing tone of the aggrieved elder sister.
    `Do you still not remember the accident?'
    She had not raised the issue in any of her prison visits. It would have been impossible in that crowded and undignified room. But she'd assumed he'd come to terms with his crime during his year and a half inside. For God's sake, he'd pleaded guilty! He must have owned up to himself.
    He was a long time responding, as if he was searching within himself for the right answer. Or maybe he was just trying to think of the right way of putting it. `No, Pippa,' he said at last. Ì feel shame and remorse and regret.
    But the truth is, I can't remember what actually happened.' She still didn't believe him.
    Though regarded as one of the least attractive in the country, Jamie had a soft spot for Wolverhampton racecourse. He'd had his first winner there as a green apprentice of sixteen, squeezing home by a neck in a sprint on a 12

    summer evening. He'd been so nervous beforehand that he'd spent most of the time in the toilet. He'd gone down to the start dazzled by the floodlights, his head in a spin. It was a miracle he'd even started, let alone finished. But once his mount was settled in the starting stalls, drawn on a lucky low number, he'd tuned out all his problems. He'd gunned up the inner like a speeding bullet and never saw another horse until he looked over his shoulder when he was past the post.
    So, all things being equal, he'd have been happy to spend his first day of freedom at this urban track with its multi-tiered panoramic restaurant and all-weather surface that so offended the purists. But this course, like all the others where he'd once performed so successfully, belonged to a past now closed to him. Though it would surprise many, including Pippa without a doubt, he had not planned his return to racing while serving his time. The accident had changed everything. He'd not ridden in anger since the crash and he wondered if he still could. Racing had been the best thing in his life but maybe he deserved to lose it. A boy had died because of him. He couldn't just climb back into the saddle and carry on riding winners as if that had never happened.
    But he was young. He had to do something with his life - that's what everyone told him. And he didn't know much else apart from horses. His mind was in turmoil as Pippa parked the car and he followed her towards the stands. At least they weren't heading to the weighing room. He wasn't looking forward to meeting his former colleagues. They'd showered him with letters after the trial and he'd not replied to one. Some guys had asked if they could visit him and he'd said no. Maybe now they'd forgotten him.
    He hoped so - it was no less than he deserved. It was early, there was nearly an hour to go before the first race, but the lunchtime clientele were beginning to gather in the restaurant, eager to get the eating out of the way before the serious business of the day.
    `Where are we going?' he said to Pippa as they walked down a corridor and stopped in front of a chipped wooden