In his mother’s bedroom, Christmas Day. He puts the cup of tea and mince pie by her. She stirs. ‘Thank you, son. You look after me, don’t you?’ Then she’s asleep again. Worn out, she lays there like an old sack, split, on the verge of falling apart.
His mind shifts. Boxing Day races tomorrow, eleven venues, seven races at each. Kempton, 2.30pm, Energy Supply. That boy’s a flyer. He opens the top drawer of the dresser, takes out the credit card, hesitates. Guilt like a barbed wire suit pricks him. He hates these tricky moments.
Another mental timeslip to a bygone winter when the heavens are tipping snow on the town, and he’s imagining the flakes are betting slips, a skyful of dead certs. He places his first bet soon after, Blue Shoe, ten to one. It romps home. He avoids the bookies for a decade until the break with Stella. ‘You won’t let me get close to you.’ Her words drum again like galloping hoofs. ‘You’re all ice inside, you need to thaw out, Jim.’
A regular betting habit thereafter until his involvement with Molly pauses it. At work she’s been making eyes at him so hard, she’s practically boring into his forehead. A couple of years of on and off, another woman, but it’s the same old tune: ‘I can’t reach you, you’re so distant.’
Back to the betting, and some runs of moderate success. This last year though his luck has deserted him, he can’t pick a winner to save his life. He stands gloomily at the window. Snow is imminent, a blast of cold air is coming across the bay from Port Talbot. He takes out his smartphone, puts on his bet, £100, using the card. He’s not sure when precisely he started dipping into her bank account. Just a little now and then. He’ll pay it all back when he gets on a winning streak. He knows he ought to stop, but he’s trapped, somehow.
The next day, Boxing Day, his sister comes with her daughter, and she’s straight upstairs to see her bed-ridden mother. When she returns, she’s holding the card.
‘I just checked her internet bank account. A hundred pounds is being taken out every couple of days. What-have-you-done, Jimmy?’
The race is due to start. ‘Mum will soon be dead; does it really matter?’ he mutters, his attention on the outcome at Kempton. Why don’t they go, so he can follow the horses and will his horse into first place?
‘You sicken me,’ Christine says. ‘Her account’s empty. At least you won’t be able to steal any more to fuel your addiction.’
‘Don’t expect anybody at your deathbed,’ her adult daughter barks, as they leave. ‘Tosser!’
Outside snow is falling. A white fur is covering the town, the hills beyond, and is heaping upon the roofs. He turns on his smartphone. Energy Supply finishes fifth. He thinks of discarded betting slips on a bookmaker’s floor. Yes, his luck is right out.
