Is This Yours? (Three)

Jim stood trembling. This was totally unexpected. It had only been 20/1 in the paper. He’d tried tipsters in the past but you were lucky if they offered you something running at double odds. Normally they were short-priced false favourites, talked up so that the clever money was being laid down on a horse with a decent price on its back.
“This can’t be a proper tip can it?” he mused, and again lifted up the mobile phone to read the text. “Unless…unless there’s going to be a huge gamble about 30 minutes before the off”. It seemed logical. “This must be top class information” His heartbeat tripped considering the possible personal financial boon involved.
He was going to back it at £25 each way. At that price a place at a fifth of the odds, 4/1, would have given him £125. Now he faced a dilemma. Sure enough a win at 150/1 would give him £3900 and £775 for the place, but a win at £50 returned £7500, a £3000 difference. All of a sudden he empathised with the impulse that drove those morons on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, when faced with two possible answers to a question they’re stuck on, to take that chance at doubling their money at odds of 2/1.
But this was 75 times that “I must back it each way. I must back it each way” he chanted as if that would be enough to resist the greatest of temptations. “What if it doesn’t come anywhere?” The doubt crawled back into his mind.
He looked at the time on the phone. It was five to three. “I’ll wait” he decided, “I’ll wait to see if the price moves. That’s a sure fire give away. If not I’m going to walk. It’s not worth the risk”
So Jim waited. During that time he read the experts comments against the horse’s name on the apposite race card. It was a maiden race for two year olds, horses that hadn’t won or been handicapped yet. Next to Snake Charmer’s name and colours the guide had opined the following information for those silly enough to consider a wager:
“Leggy stallion by Mystic Merlin out of Lady Morganna Cost 10,000 guineas. Stable not noted for success with their two year olds especially at this track. Best watched unless there are market moves”
Short and brief. The favourite was 9/4 and from a stable with a reputation of producing two-year old winners first time out. Others at 4 and 5/1 were similarly fancied, primarily due to either, a promising first run or, they possessed a high-class pedigree.
Jim had never even heard of Mystic Merlin and Lady Morganna. He grabbed the shop copy of the Racing Post and began to investigate. Their sires or dams weren’t exactly world beaters either. Not a jot of black type between them. “Mandrake Root, Tiresius, Magic Wand and Mestofolese; the pony must’ve been bred on a fucking hippy commune” but Jim wasn’t amused.
He hovered around the shop floor like a detective hunted for clues at a murder scene. He read everything in print on the shop about Snake Charmer and his 10 rivals. “If I was here under my own bidding I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole” he muttered. “The only reason I’m here is because of this”, gazing once again at the cruel text. “I don’t need this now –I’m not likely to forget its fucking name” and with that he erased the message.
Every logical neuron and synapse in his human frame was screaming at him to leave it so he reacted in a perfectly reasonable manner for a gambler and wrote out the bet:

Snake Charmer
3:50 Sandown
£25 E/W

With this action his nervousness seemed to abate somewhat. It was as if he’d made a commitment now; the Rubicon had been crossed. “I’m still tearing it up if the price doesn’t shift” he declared, but secretly knew that when push came to shove, the choice between losing £50 or potential thousands meant he’d place the bet.
It was 3:15 now and he forced himself to sit down next to one of the regulars. He was more abhorrent than most. He was going to move again but he felt his detestation would become too conspicuous. So he stayed put and tried to relax. Underneath the table his legs were break-dancing. He felt exhausted, emotionally and physically spent. “I’d be better off as one of the runners” he groaned “At least I’d have some say in it”
He stared at the screen. The runners for the 3:20 at Sandown were at the post. As they were waiting to load into the stalls the presenters were commenting on the following race. There was a big gamble going on. He perked up. A ton of money had been hitting the on-course Bookies for Adventurous the 9/4 favourite who was now into 2/1. Not Snake Charmer then. “Fuck, fuck , fuck”
“Gotchaselfahothorsesonny” crackled a throaty voice, far too close for comfort.
“Sorry?” Jim answered bemused at his inability to decipher what appeared at first to be something akin to English, and stared into his neighbour’s face. His face had more lines than an O/S map, and more blackheads than the African continent. What teeth remained were nicotine yellow and black and his breath was beyond bad, it was diabolical. His eyes had no colour at all as if somebody had blown into his ear and blew out the light behind them.
“Whatchabacking?” the old guy continued. Jim wondered if he could complete a lengthy sentence without a pause or a breath, but after examining his fleshless frame he rather doubted it.
“I haven’t decided yet” he lied, overprotecting his outsider tip as if a sudden rush of money from within this limp establishment would even dent the starting price.
“I’ve got one” he leered like a prospective corpse.
“Crikey your lungs must’ve seized mate I caught every word of that” Jim spat defensively. Hope it wins” he added with minimum enthusiasm.
“3:50 Sandown” the old man elaborated “Wannaknow?”
“Here we go again” he sighed
“Nope, that’s not it” the crone grinned.
“I don’t bet on tips. I prefer to pick my own horses”
Those aged blank eyes drew out Jim’s lie like a poultice extracts toxins.
“I’ll give you a clue” he smirked mischievously and then mimicked what appeared to be somebody playing a flute.
“Snake Charmer” Jim guessed but stayed silent. “I bet it’s all round the fucking shop. They’re all waiting to get on. But that couldn’t be so, surely, they’d all pile in now at 150/1; surely they can’t be waiting for it the price to go up?”
Jim moved away from the table. He was desperate to place the bet now, but being manipulated by a seedy old git restrained him for the moment. “Wait it out” He countered his impulses “Stick to the plan”
The race at Sandown was over and all attention moved to the 3:50. Jim stared at the screen dedicated to the starting prices. Occasionally the screen would flicker as a price change came through and his head would jerk uncontrollably in response. But Snake Charmer’s price never moved.
It was nearly 3:40 and Jim’s fervour was dissipating. “It was probably the last desperate throw of a failed tipster” he reckoned “Probably picked the bloody nag with a pin like a housewife choosing a runner in the Grand National” He ripped up the bet. “At least I can guarantee one thing. I can buy tonight’s dinner” and he left the Betting Shop. Outside the weather was bland. “Perfect” he thought “I’ll walk around the old Cathedral for a couple of hours and decide at which point during the Chinese I tell her I’ve lost another job”
He was about a hundred yards away from the Bookmaker when he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket. “Here we go” he said drawing his phone out “What did you buy? Are you wearing it? Can I see it tonight?” he whinged. But his phone was turned off; he remembered doing that when he left the school for just that purpose, to prevent her from calling him to nag. He then took out the other mobile. It was another text:

Snake Charmer
3:50 Sandown
Win

This was too much. It was if a phantom arm had extended from the Bookies and tugged him back by the collar. Why the extra information? The first text consisted of only the horse’s name and the time of the race. Now it was telling him how to place the bet. It could mean only one thing: A flood of money was even now cascading into every betting shop up and down the land and into every greasy satchel swinging from the board of the on-course bookie.
“Bollocks” he choked and raced back to the shop. Inside he scoured the television screens expecting the price on Snake Charmer to have tumbled to single figures. But no it remained 150/1. But the horses were at the post and being loaded. He’d have to be quick. He ripped a betting slip from its housing and made out the slip but his hand was shaking so badly it was illegible. He inhaled so deeply that for an instant he was giddy, nevertheless he managed to calm himself to write the bet so at least it resembled the mother tonque.
He went toward the cashier. As he did so a melee of gamblers descended on the counter from all corners of the shop like rats to a bin outside MacDonalds, and Jim was left zigzagging in an attempt to join the shortest. “Excuse me” he begged to the two men in front of him “Could I just sneak in front I need to get this on”
“Is it running now?” said one
“Yeah any moment”
“And so is mine mate, now fuck off I’m trying to put a tenner on a dog running at Perry Barr”
Jim backed off. He’d seen that look before: one rabid dog desperate to lose his money on another.
Nervously he took another look over his shoulder. Two horses left to load. “Come on you pair of bastards” He gritted his teeth - he made sure that little thought didn’t surface. Then suddenly the way cleared and he was through. He pushed the slip and the money at the clerk. She counted the notes and looked askew at Jim. “There’s only £40 here”
Her cynicism was understandable. Punters never tired in their methodology in attempting to swindle the cashiers. Last second dashes before the ‘off’ were prime favourites for the con artists. Some would tear a fiver in half and screw up the two parts into balls and sling them across the counter with a slip for a £10 bet.
“Shit” Jim cried as his hands began diving in and out of his clothing like a malfunctioning fairground claw. He couldn’t find it.
“Down there pal” said the guy behind him pointing at the floor.
It was lying by his foot. He couldn’t believe that the man had been so honest and it was a shocked thank you that crawled out of his mouth. “Cheers mate” Jim’s gratitude bled from him like salty tears. He quickly scooped up the wayward banknote and threw it at the cashier. The last horse had moved into its stall. She rang the bet through as the gates opened and the pack flew out.