Dead Point

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On a grey, whipped Wednesday in early winter, men in long coats came out and shot Renoir where he stood, noble, unbalanced, a foreleg hanging. In the terminating jolt of the bolt, many dreams died.

Later, in the car, Cameron Delray sat behind the wheel, looked straight ahead and made no move to get going. Harry Strang, head deep in his old racing overcoat, held his knuckles to his forehead. After a while, he said, ‘Act of God, no bloody insurance for that.’

I was in shock, rubbing my hands together, trying to comfort myself. Most of them you can lose easily and there are fifty reasons why. This was the one we couldn’t lose. If the ground was firm. If the horse didn’t miss the start, and this horse was not going to miss the start, it was the best-schooled horse in the world, if it didn’t miss the start, it could street the small field by at least six lengths, probably ten.

And nobody knew that except us.

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