The Horse With My Name Read Free Page A

Aye. I was. The thing is, Dan, I’m having trouble with the IAR.’
    I took a sip of my drink. I ran my eyes over him. He was in his early to mid fifties and despite what I knew there was no obvious crack in his head. He wore a faded black trenchcoat and had dirty silver hair. He had stubble to match mine, although on both sides of his face. He did not appear to be any more inebriated than I was.
    ‘That’ll be the IRA,’ I said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The IRA are after you.’
    He glanced behind him. ‘Are they? Why for?’
    I glanced behind him. Clearly they weren’t. They’d all retired anyway and taken up gardening, although they were careful not to dig where the bodies were buried. I took another drink. ‘Perhaps we could start at the beginning again. You’re having trouble with . . .’
    ‘The IAR.’
    ‘I think that is the source of our problem. The I . . . A . . . R . . . ?’
    He nodded, then smiled abruptly. ‘Dan, for Jesus’ sake, you of all people should know. Dan the Man.’
    ‘Why thank you.’
    ‘Dan . . . Dan the Man.’
    ‘Why thank you again.’
    ‘For fuck sake, Dan the Man .’
    ‘Can we get back to the subject of this concussion, Mark? Did you think of asking for a second opinion?’
    He looked at me, shook his head, then took another drink. ‘Dan. For fuck sake. Do I have to spell it out to you?’
    ‘Thus far your spelling hasn’t––’
    ‘Shut up, would you? Listen. What do you know about horses?’
    ‘ Horses? ’
    ‘Horses.’
    I thought for a moment. I shrugged. ‘Brown. Four legs. Eat grass. Sleep standing up. Lester Piggott. Champion. Trigger. Dick Francis. Princess Anne.’
    ‘And gambling on horses?’
    I shrugged again. ‘Nothing. When I was eight my dad put a couple of shillings on Fearless Fred for me in the National and he fell at the first. I was inconsolable for days. I haven’t had a bet since.’
    ‘You lucky bastard. What about Geordie McClean?’
    ‘What is this, twenty questions?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘What about Geordie McClean? You know what I know. You gave me most of my info when I was doing my book on Fat Boy.’
    ‘I mean, what about him these days?’
    ‘Nothing. Still runs some boxers, but his big chance has come and gone. Strictly small potatoes. Or croquette potatoes. Or should that be crooked po–– Sorry, this could go on all day. What should I know?’
    ‘That he got out of boxing because there were too many fucking meaningless titles to make it worth his while. Because half his boxers are either thick as shite or have had the sense knocked out of them.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘So he got into a sport where once you have a winner you not only make a fucking fortune off him, you can also bottle his sperm and make ten times as much selling it on.’
    ‘He’s into football?’
    ‘Dan.’
    ‘Okay. He’s into horses. What’s the big––’
    ‘He’s making millions. He’s the man behind Irish American Racing––’
    ‘IAR. At last.’
    ‘You have heard of Irish––’
    I shrugged. ‘I’ve been lying low.’
    ‘He’s been shaking up the system. He’s been doing a Murdoch. He’s been making enemies left, right and centre.’
    ‘Okay, but what has this got to do with the price of fish?’
    ‘Dan, you didn’t happen to see the racing on Channel 4 on Saturday?’
    ‘I was probably on the other channel. Nature documentaries, that kind of thing.’
    ‘One of Geordie McClean’s horses won. An eight-year-old gelding called Dan the Man. He named it after you.’
    We adjourned to the Crown Bar across the road. It was one of the oldest pubs in the city. The National Trust owned it. It was all snugs and big mirrors and liked to promote the fact that the James Mason IRA movie Odd Man Out had used it as a location way back in the fifties, whereas anyone who cared to check would find that the movie had actually been made in a London studio with a set mocked up to look like the Crown. Not that it mattered. Not that anyone cared. Not