CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tell me, Herbert, are there similarities between credulity and, say, an elastic band?

Yes, Marco, there is a similarity. Credulity is like an elastic band. You can stretch it only so far, and then it breaks.

Are there any other parallels, Herbert?

What do you have in mind, Marco?

Well, you can ping an elastic band across the room into a waste basket if you practice for long enough. Can you ping credulity into a waste basket?

I honestly cannot say, Marco, but if anyone can do it I am sure it will be you.

I now had proof that millionaire industrialist Elijah Bow possessed a huge bronze of a naked Lola Kellog. Might he have framed Herbert Quarry for her gruesome murder? To save Herbert from frying in the chair, and to furnish the remaining chapters of my book, I had to find the answer. But how?

I decided to write a few flashbacks to pad another thousand words while I thought about the next bizarre and improbable plot-twist. The flashbacks could explain Herbert’s role as my coach, the role that had led me to the pinnacle of so many spheres of sporting greatness.

Flashback One

Marco is hunched on his stool in the blue corner, his silk gown emblazoned with the words ‘Marco the Magnificent’. The ring is ablaze with light and surrounded by chattering commentators from across the world. Herbert kneads Marco’s shoulders and shouts advice into his ear above the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd…
“Don’t forget what I told you, Marco. A boxing match is like writing a book, remember?”
“Yes, round one is like chapter one, round two is like chapter two, round three is like chapter three, round four is like…”
“That’s it. Give me your gown- it’s seconds away.”
Ding ding. The bell calls the two warriors to the fray. Marco leaps to his feet, tapping his gloves to his temples in his famous pre-fight gesture. Suddenly he spins around to his coach: “Herbert, remind me what the rule is for using a semi-colon.”
“Use it to join two sentences; now go and fight.”
“Join two sentences. Right.”
With his coach’s advice to the front of his mind, Marco bounds for the centre of the ring…

Flashback Two

Marco is squeezed in the cockpit of his Mercedes Formula One car, checking the fit of his Kevlar gloves. Around him on the grid, the world’s greatest driving talent is assembled to contest the Monaco Grand Prix, waiting to unleash thousands of horsepower in a screeching torrent of automotive excess along the elegant rues of Monte Carlo. Above the revving of the engines Herbert shouts his last words of advice into his young acolyte’s face.
“Don’t forget what I told you Marco. A Grand Prix race is like writing a book, remember?”
“Yes. Lap one is like chapter one, lap two is like chapter two, lap three is like…”
“That’s it, now start your engine- not too much choke- and close your visor.”
Herbert steps back just as the starting lights blaze green, and tyres and torque torture the Monaco tarmac, accompanied by a gargantuan crescendo of noise. Suddenly he hears the grind of gears, and Marco’s car screeches back in reverse, skidding to a stop right alongside.
“Herbert, remind me- what was your advice about the exclamation mark?”
“Don’t overuse it! Now get out of here! There’s a race to be won!!!”
“Don’t overuse it. Don’t overuse it. Don’t overuse it.” Repeating his mentor’s mantra, Marco mercilessly slams the lever into first, releases the handbrake with reckless determination, checks his rear-view mirror, and tears off in pursuit of his hapless competitors.

Flashback Three

At the iconic Aintree course on the outskirts of Liverpool, Marco circles the paddock with the other jockeys as he prepares himself mentally and spiritually for the ordeal of the world’s greatest steeplechase- the Grand National. All the signs bode well for victory. The going- soft to very-soft- ideally suits his experienced hunter ‘Best-seller’, a tireless veteran of a thousand races. In the morning’s trial jumps over the National’s monumental fences Best-seller had flown like a screaming jet fighter. Trotting alongside the horse, Herbert beckons for his attention. Marco leans down from the powerful roan shoulders of his superb mount…
“Don’t forget what I told you Marco. The Grand National is like a book, remember?”
“Yes. Fence one is like chapter one, fence two is like chapter two, fence three is like…”
“That’s it, now loosen your reins. Don’t forget to hold your reins like you would your pen. Too tightly and you will get writer’s cramp, too loosely and your writing will be illegible.”
Herbert stands at the rail and watches with anxious pride as his prodigy canters to the start with the rest of the majestic field. Behind him the excitement of the hundred thousand spectators builds as the starter raises his gun.
And they’re off.
In the distance the gleam of sunlight on fifty silks, overarched by a cloud of dust, shows where the mighty field is thundering away. Nearby, huge screens show the action in close-up. His distinctive gold and silver colours show that Marco has already established a commanding lead. Herbert clenches his heavily annotated copy of the Racing Post in an excited fist and yells encouragement. Come one Marco! Come on Best-seller! His words and sentiments are echoed ten thousand-fold as the huge Aintree crowd cheers-on Marco and Best-seller, the punter’s favourites.
Anxiously the bookies watch the unfolding race, mentally calculating the huge hit they will take if the favourite continues to dominate the field; but suddenly, as the bullets of horseflesh thunder past the stands for the first time, a gasp of astonishment rises from a hundred thousand throats as Marco Ocram stands back in the stirrups to heave his splendid mount to a skidding halt where Herbert is crushed against the rails.
Leaping from the saddle onto the soft Aintree turf Marco begins a hurried consultation with his mentor.
“Herbert, what was that you were saying about a book never ending?”
“I said a book never really ends Marco. It is like a race. A race never really ends Marco, because even after it has been run in the physical world it is re-run in the minds of the bookies, the tipsters and the punters. Now get back out there and win, Marco!”
Gathering his reins and his wits Marco leaps once more into the lightly weighted saddle of Best-seller and kicks his mount on to overtake the now-straggling field of tired horses. One by one, like chapters in a book, the mighty Aintree fences are jumped. Barring a slight stumble after the precipitous drop of Beecher’s Brook Best-seller runs like the wind. Horse after horse he overtakes, like chapters in a book, the scent of victory in his flaring nostrils. Marco whips him on, until at last all are behind him and the post alone is in front. The massive Aintree crowd roars a single inchoate chord of triumph and adulation as Best-seller tops the National chart, romping home a hundred pages, sorry, paces ahead of the trailing pack.

Phew!