Part Seven: THE RACE IS RUN

In a few minutes Driscoll was standing at the entrance to the bookies, next door to the Guild, fishing in the pocket of his regimental blazer for the sacrificial wad of cash, when a wave of humanity propelled him through the door.

This was not how he had planned it. Where was the dignity here, for pity's sake? He took a moment to collect himself and throw a dirty look over his shoulder before striding manfully up to the cashier's desk, employing what he liked to think was full military bearing as he did so. Meanwhile his throng of admirers stuck like a rash to his back.

"Sun King. 3.40. Kelso," said Driscoll in a clipped military tone, laying the money in the cashier's tray. Just to underline his nonchalance he ran his hand languidly through his wavy, grey and nicotine stained hair.

Marie counted the money and asked in an incredulous squeak, "All of it?"

"Every last penny, my dear", said the hero of the hour, turning to his audience and leering at them like a politician waiting to kiss a baby.

He thought there might have been a burst of hip hoorays or a manly clap on the back but, instead, there was just a deafening silence.

Every man in the room looked as if he had just been punched hard in the solar plexus by a mailed fist as the implications of Driscoll's deed struck home for the first time. Every man in the room had just put the rent money, his wife's wedding ring and their children's future on the back of a 100-1 no hope monkey.

Driscoll was the only one within those four walls who was completely unconcerned when the race started on schedule.

At first, things went according to his masterplan. The only possible explanation for Sun King's performance was that no-one had explained to the animal the importance of the occassion. It seemed for all the world as if it was out for a canter in the Spring sunshine - possibly on doctor's orders.

The room was, therefore, full of contorted faces frozen in masks of horror. All were suffering the extreme pangs of "Gambler's Torment". All hearts were pounding in unison. Each man felt that, at this very moment, the money was being siphoned out of his own pocket and that they would soon be trudging a weary path home to tell a tearful wife why the rent/mortgage would not be paid this week/month and why the family diet might be a little monotonous for a while.

Driscoll, however, as he knew he would, had escaped to a higher plane. He was not exactly smiling but his features had fallen into a sort of sweet repose. The proverbial great weight had been lifted from his shoulders and his rheumy eyes moistened with tears of relief.


His way was clear now. No need to hide. No need to walk around looking over his shoulder any more. Tonight he would sleep in a police cell. His sins would be someone else's problem. He would have his absolution.

Sure that the race was now a foregone conclusion, he turned to leave and start out on his road to martyrdom but, before he could lay a hand on the door knob, the radio crackled with the sound of the commentator's hysterical voice.

"Incredible. Just incredible", he screamed. "I've never seen anything like this in all my year's at the races!"

Driscoll froze, stricken, in his tracks.

Sun King seemed, albeit belatedly, to have finally understood what the words "horse race" actually meant and was proving most eager to make up for lost time. In fact, right at that moment, the animal was "eating up" the opposition in a demented dash for the finishing line.

The radio man quipped that perhaps Sun King had just remembered an urgent appointment. Then, on a more serious note, he criticised the jockey for the amount of whip he was using.

The other punters laughed with nervous excitement at this.

Driscoll wasn't laughing though and, before he could stop himself, he bawled out "Aye, leave the poor beasty alone. You'll lay its ribs bare," but no sooner had he said it than the race was over. The deed was done and he was stuck with it.

Yes, the race was won and Sun King was heading for a glorious reception in the Paddock as the bookies office erupted in a roar that must have been heard in Kelso itself.

Driscoll slumped against the wall, staring ahead, hollow eyed like an infantryman with the "2,000 yard stare".

When the cacophony subsided all eyes turned to the man of the moment who by this time had managed to pull himself together and was now standing fully erect, though rooted to the spot.

After an awkward few minutes silence, little Eck Munro who lived above the Pie Shop around the corner and who had not had a win since "last Pancake Tuesday" stepped forward, took gentle hold of his new hero's arm and led him through the crowd which silently, and respectfully, parted so that they could make their way triumphantly to the cashier's window.

Thomas McBean Driscoll had just been canonised the patron saint of hopeful losers by this gathering and, as such, was led in a reverent procession back to the Guild Bar next door where he set the seal on the proceedings by buying each of his "congregation" a drink.

He was their man now. He was the man that had proved that, sometimes, two and two can make five. He was their man all right and that wouldn't change even if they had caught him kicking a day old kitten the length and breadth of the bar.

In every corner of the Guild his legend was being embellished by his grateful followers who had been given a brief holiday from the universal truth that "YOU CAN'T GET SOMETHING FOR NOTHING!!!!!!!"



Everyone in the bar was relaxed now and unconcerned with the twists and turns of fate - everyone except Driscoll. In a few short moments one of those twists had placed the burden squarely back on his shoulders and he sat staring at his own morose reflection in a brass beer font His anguished features were, in turn, a perfect reflection for the torment that now raged within him.

He wept silent tears for his lost absolution. The thing that twisted in his gut was the fact that he really HAD intended to hand himself in but who would believe that now. Part of him was beginning to doubt it himself. Fate had prevented him from making one of the few worthwhile gestures he had made in his whole miserable life.

He had wanted, with an earnestness that he longer thought himself capable of, to lay down his burden and find himself a new skin that would fit him better than the one that he was currently being forced to inhabit.

He wanted to sleep now. That was all. He wanted to go home and sink into that tainted bed and sleep. If he could not have absolution, he would settle for a small measure of oblivion.