Chapter 21: The Other Option 29th March 1996

Racing began at two o'clock that afternoon, which left them with hours to relax and talk. Michelle and Clare went down to see Orla at one point, though not all the way to the stables as to not get their heels mucky. Orla was in a different world; they'd never seen her happier. Step Aerobics was long gone… she was practically living, breathing and eating the world of racing. Happy for her, they retreated back to their box as people began to pile into the venue, the stands soon filled ahead of the opener.

"I've never seen so many people". Sarah looked down beneath them at the hordes.

"Should start throwing peanuts at em". Michelle snickered as she tucked into the complimentary food.

Joe gave her a glare, worried she might actually do it, but she refrained from the childish behaviour and continued to eat. They'd brought chairs out onto the balcony, Clare being asleep in one after her lunch and likely feeling the effects of the one glass of champagne. She was the lightest of lightweights after all. The first couple of races went by without too much interest from Sarah, Michelle or Clare but Joe and Kathy were having bets, to little success. They considered phoning the Hospital after the second race, to see if James could give them a better tip for the third but decided against it in the end.

As the third race came to a close, there was just over half an hour until Paul would contest the amateur's Grand National. Orla was getting ready to lead the horse around the parade ring ahead of the race. For someone who wasn't even riding in the race, she probably held more nerves than any of the jockeys. There were so many people at the course, more people than she'd ever seen in her life, far from the occasionally busy shopping centre back home. There were twenty-six other horses in the race, which equally made the stables quite busy. The two girls from the village got the horse ready with Orla, herself getting the honour of saddling him up. The buzz and noise around the stable boxes filled her ears and she felt at home surrounded by the seasoned jockeys, trainers and owners. The decision to go to England in the winter was already settled in her own mind, though a final acceptance from Sarah was still required. It was home.

As the time came, she led QuartzontheFoyle out into the parade ring. He was the third favourite for the race, trading as a 7-1 chance, Ireland's second best behind the 5-1 shot Kerry Orchid, though that was a Southern horse. Or the equine equivalent of Gerry, as Joe helpfully explained to the girls. The favourite for the race was an English horse with a fearsome reputation, having won some of the biggest races for young horses at the start of its career. Despite being thirteen years of age, Rolling Ball, was set to go off favourite. There was plenty of attention for Orla's horse though as she walked around the swollen parade ring, packed ten deep in places just to get a glimpse of the horses.

After a short wait, Paul arrived into the ring from the weighing room, talking to some of the other jockeys as he did. He would go off to Frankie and the owners first, a trick he would be repeating the following day but with Joe and the girls stood in the ring. Orla had briefly met the owners of QuartzontheFoyle one of the days she was riding out back at the stables, and they were nice enough people. She caught a glimpse of the group talking tactics, but having to keep a hold of the horse, she was unable to listen in like she would have done normally. Some of the other jockeys began to mount up and when she came by the group again, Paul was waiting to mount up himself. Taking a firm grip of the horse's reins, she held him in place whilst Paul got his leg up and over and settled on top.

"How ye findin' it Orla?" He asked her as they started off again.

"Ach, there's a lot of people, so there is". She replied, raising her voice to be heard over the crowds.

"Ye'll have to get used to it ye know".

"Aye I know. It's cracker though, everyone's interested in the horses and when I go past people, the craic's usually ace".

Paul chuckled quite loudly at her comment about the crowd. He knew from experience that in passing, the conversations between racegoers could sometimes be highly amusing, especially if it concerned the horse he was riding. He remembered one day at Kelso racecourse in Scotland, when he was scoffed at as having no chance and ended up winning by twenty lengths. The horse he was riding that day was the same horse he was onboard now, but there wouldn't be an underestimation of his mount's talents ever again.

A few minutes later and it was time for the start, Orla leading him to the rails where she would let go of the reins and Paul would gallop him down to the start.

"Are ye confident Paul?" She asked him.

"As confident as ye can be when yer goin' up against these fences!" He jested. "But I reckon we've got a fair chance".

"Take care… don't fall or anythin'". She said in a slightly quieter tone.

"Don't worry…". He put his hand on her shoulder. "… I'll be fine".

He knew that wasn't the smartest comment that a jockey could ever make before the start of race, but he'd never fallen off this horse and it was a safe jumper. Orla herself moved over to the centre of the track once she'd released the reins, ducking under the inside rail and walking up to the landing side of the first fence. The first fence of the race would be the second last in the big race the following day, and she got a good sight of the fence that would often contribute to the drama of the spectacle.

As the tape went up, the twenty-seven runners bolted off to the first fence. It was quite a scene, though the short run up at the start of this race was nothing compared to that of the Grand National itself. As the leaders scrambled over the first, Orla watched in awe as the beautiful beasts leapt over the monstrous obstacle. However, the awe soon wore off.

There was an almighty pile up on the landing side. One of the leading horses nosedived and pretty much anything in behind it got wiped out without any chance of recovery. It was a chaotic scene, reminiscent of the one Orla managed to avoid on her debut at Enniskillen, and there were horses and jockeys everywhere. Looking into the melee, she saw the familiar colours of Paul's jacket as he sat up from behind his horse. Unfortunately for him, he was sat directly behind the first horse that fell. It was a fall that would leave a lesser man whining about the pain he was in, but a jockey like Paul was made of tough stuff and would just ignore the pain. Relieved that he looked to be okay, Orla ducked back under the rail and around the other fallen horses to grab hold of the reins on QuartzontheFoyle, to stop him charging off. Luckily, he showed no signs of any injury and was nowhere near as stiff as his jockey.

"Ye alright Paul?" She asked him.

"Just a bit bruised Orla. Nothing I can't handle".

They walked back in together, with Paul carrying a limp which she first noticed as they were walking around to the stables. He still insisted he was alright, but Frankie caught Orla's eye and she could see the concern he had for the jockey too.

It was not the start they were looking for.


"Well… that went fuckin' well". Michelle whispered to Clare as they watched Orla leading the horse away.

"Aye". She agreed.

The two of them were back in their own corner of the balcony area, sitting down again once Paul's race was over due to a lack of interest in it otherwise. Michelle's attentions were diverted to the poor waiter, who'd she eyed up most of the day without making her move. Clare was still watching her closely… though Clare Devlin was not a stupid girl by any stretch of the imagination. Michelle was going to snare this lad one way or the other and there was nothing she could do to prevent it when she did.

"He's so fuckin' hot…". Michelle daydreamed as she stared at him.

"Ye know, staring is considered rude Michelle!" Clare angrily whispered back.

"It's rude that God makes a lad so good lookin' but gives him an English accent. I'm ragin'!"

Sometimes she wished she could just slap the sense into Michelle, repeatedly, until she stopped talking about a lad's looks or criticising the country of their birth. A sensitive soul though, Clare could only attempt to use words to steer her friend on the right path, but she was no wordsmith like Erin. And Erin wasn't in a permanent state of cack attack either…

"Why don't ye just… talk to him… nicely!"

"Really? Talk? When have ye known me to just talk?"

Clare didn't need words or violence to tell Michelle how much shite she'd just uttered, the raising of her eyebrows doing the job.

"Alright… fair enough". Michelle surrendered. "I'll talk to him".

Getting up from her seat on the balcony, whilst the crowds oooo'd at every fence being jumped in the race in the distance, she strolled over to the bar, where the young lad was cleaning a couple of glasses. They exchanged pleasant smiles as she approached.

"Can I get you something?"

"Erm…". Michelle oddly hesitated as she spoke. "… just a… water… please".

Smiling, the young man fetched a glass and poured water out of a glass bottle into it, filling it right up before handing it over to Michelle, who still beamed at him.

"I'm Michelle by the way".

"Tom". He replied. "It's nice to meet you".

His accent wasn't a local one, it was more of a refined accent like James's, though not as posh and sophisticated as Harriet's. She nervously sipped at the water, still standing at the little bar, creating an awkward atmosphere in the corner of the room.

"Can… Can I ask ye a question?"

"Of course…". He replied, shifting slightly awkwardly himself.

"What do…". Fucking hell Michelle keep it together! "… what do ye think?".

She ran a hand down in front of herself to indicate what she meant, and he was slightly taken aback by the question.

"I…". He went to answer, nervously scratching the back of his head.

Berating herself inside for being so foolish, Michelle tried to find the words herself to apologise to the lad, but when she looked at his red face again, her mind made a different decision. She fled back out onto the balcony to the curious eye of Clare, who didn't raise a question to her friend at all. They watched the rest of the racing together, Michelle throwing her attention at it and trying to understand certain things about it from Joe. Her aunt Kathy also started up a conversation with her about the stick-… self-adhesive labels business and she did absolutely everything to take her mind off what had happened inside. It stayed that way for the rest of the evening too, not making eye contact with the waiter as they left the box at the end of the racing for the day, and not bringing the subject up with any of the others. Clare was wise enough to back off. She'd not said anything, but she'd witnessed the tense scene between her friend and the waiter and knew Michelle wasn't just out for attention this time. This wasn't a case of just snogging some poor woman's husband or attracting wondering eyes to her body… she really quite liked this waiter.

Michelle couldn't quite understand it. The same thing that she'd given Erin grief for was happening to her. She was falling for an Englishman too… albeit a far better looking one than James.

For poor Tom the waiter, he stood behind the bar after the guests left, wondering what the hell the stunning young Irish girl wanted him to say. But he couldn't deny that she was beautiful or that he was looking forward to seeing her again the next day.


The Derry night was cold, back to the weather of a month prior. At two o'clock on a Saturday morning, the city was a very desolate place. The odd person might be stumbling drunk in the streets, but that would be about it. It was the perfect time for three particular people to stand outside the Altnagelvin Hospital and survey all the entry points they could. There were plenty of places to make an entry, but silence and speed would be the key for their plan. It wasn't going to be a complicated one; it really didn't need to be because the objective was so clear.

"We could just walk in through the front". The one with the bike said to the other two.

"Catch yourself on!" The smallest one said. "It has to be so that we aren't seen".

"How about the back entrance?" The tallest one put to the other two.

"Aye". Their compatriot agreed.

"If we do…". The small one began. "…We'll have to find a hidin' spot for a bit inside. You's better not fuckin' give us away either".

The point of entry was settled. They would wait until the perfect moment to sneak into the quiet rear entrance of the building and would then commence their operation.

"When's our moment?" The one on the bike asked.

"The moment it gets real quiet". The tall one replied to them.

"Yeah…". The small one, who appeared to be in charge, responded. "… we make our way out into the corridors and find 'im".

"How do we get about the corridors without being seen?" The taller one fairly pointed out.

"You two's will have mops and buckets… ye'll look like cleaners. And we'll put aprons on to make it look right".

Three cleaners, not saying anything to anyone, wouldn't look completely out of place in the Hospital at any time of day. It wasn't quite genius, but it wasn't exactly stupid either.

"When we get there… how we doin it?" It was the turn of the one on the bike, who rested their hands on the handlebars.

"Shoot him… point blank". The small one answered.

"What about the noise of the guns?" The taller one challenged.

Anticipating it to be a problem, the smaller one reached into their backpack and revealed the presence of pistol and rifle silencers. They were top of the range items and would fit perfectly onto the weapons they'd already acquired for usage. Though not for this usage…

"Erin Quinn remains our only problem…". The small one began. "… she sleeps in his room every night and could easily try to stop us".

"Will she?" The taller one questioned their logic.

"No… because if she does, we kill her too".

"But…". The one on the bike tried to argue.

"She's a traitor to the flag. If she wants to fuck a Brit, she takes her life into her own hands and we're simply takin' it away… to teach her about betrayal".

The small one saw Erin Quinn as the ultimate traitor to Ireland's cause. A young girl with a powerful brain, who could be out there putting it to use to drive the Brits away, was instead curled up by the bed of one. It was disgusting and her death would hopefully cease such relationships across Ireland, acting as a message for those who decided to sleep with the enemy.

"When we doin it then?" The taller one asked the most important question.

"Well… we can't this weekend obviously". The one on the bike shivered slightly when stating their point.

"Monday night". The small ringleader announced.

"Monday night is the night we kill James Maguire".


Saturday morning.

Grand National morning.

James woke up full of energy, ready for a day where a racehorse that he owned would run in the most prestigious race in the world. He'd slept well the night before, drifting off to sleep with his head turned to the right watching Erin. She slept in a similar spot in their new room, and she went to sleep on her left side, the two falling asleep watching each other. Even despite the difficulties in moving about with the broken leg, he never wanted to move his attentions anywhere. His Erin was so gorgeous as her eyes began to close and she whistled away into slumber…

She wasn't quite as spritely as he was that morning, so James took it upon himself to wake his girlfriend up. To do so, he got up and into his crutches, and manoeuvring his way over to her, gave her a nudge with the right one.

"Erin". He whispered.

"Erin".

"Wh…What". She mumbled, eyes still closed.

"It's time to get up".

"No… tired".

He rolled his eyes at her groan and in the brief second he did so, she went to sleep again. Luck was on his side however, as Deirdre walked in carrying some breakfast for them, the sound of the doors jolting Erin awake.

"Ach sorry love". Deirdre said to her, noticing the sudden movement. "I thought you's would be awake already".

Erin muttered something which neither James nor Deirdre heard, the two of them instead sorting out the breakfast. She'd gone for a bit of a treat, bringing them both a big greasy bacon sandwich from the café as well as coffee instead of tea. They very rarely drank coffee, despite James vastly preferring it to tea, which he in turn didn't dare to mention to anyone with the social expectation that he'd love tea because he was a Brit.

"I've got the paper for ye as well James. For the racing ye know".

James gave his Aunt a hug, making her chuckle whilst she reciprocated, with a groggy Erin wrapping her arms round the pair of them. Deirdre deemed that a little too much and backed away, though not without a grin on her face. She soon left the pair of them to their breakfast and without a word to each other, moments later they were under James's covers, chomping away merrily. Being the gentleman that he was, he let Erin read the paper first, watching her cast her eye over all of the news articles. Once they'd both finished eating and drinking their coffee, she'd finished with the newspaper and slid it to her left so that James could eagerly get to the racing section.

"Here we go". He opened the page to the double page pull out.

The pull out listed all of the horses that would go to post in the Grand National that year. There were only twenty-eight runners instead of the usual forty, but the drop in quantity hadn't decreased the quality. There was a former winner in the race, Party Politics, and Rough Quest had finished second in National Hunt racing's highest quality race, the Cheltenham Gold Cup, just two weeks before. Looking down to number twenty eight, James took note of the so-called expert's opinion of their horse's chance. Expecting it to be biased, with the paper being the Derry Journal and the horse being trained locally, he was surprised by the review.

28. Bogside Warrior
Trainer: Frank Flanagan
Jockey: Paul O'Meara
Owner(s): Derry Girls Syndicate
Rating: 1/5
Price: 200/1

The bottom weight, trained and owned locally, and ridden by local amateur jockey Paul O'Meara, goes over to Aintree with little chance. Though his stamina is assured, his jumping has often proved problematic in the past and O'Meara will be looking to just steer him round safely.

After the positive comments of the usual sports reporter in the prior day's edition of the paper, he was slightly frustrated with the expert. They weren't wrong about his jumping problems, Joe was very clear when it came to the horse's history, but the falls were as a novice. He'd not fallen for two years and from what he could gleam from Joe, Frankie was confident about the horse's ability to get round.

"They aren't giving him much chance". James moaned to Erin.

"Well…". She spoke harmoniously back to him and put her hand in his. "… a lot of people didn't give us a chance. And look at us now".

The lopsided grin chose its moment to appear and Erin's brain immediately diverted all resources to the lips as they passionately met. It was a short but sweet kiss, complete with giggles as they pulled away. His arm went around her, and her head rested on his right shoulder, sitting there under the sheets of his Hospital bed as the devoted couple that they were.

Everything was so peaceful…


Bogside Warrior was woken early that morning ahead of the big race. Paul, still sore from the fall in the amateur's grand national, got aboard and Orla again mounted up on the friend's horse to work alongside their main horse. They had a crowd for the early morning workout too, with all of them up well before the crack of dawn to prepare for the day. Joe and Sarah watched Orla fondly from the cottage window as she laughed and joked with Paul. The two of them were quite relaxed, a stark contrast to Joe, who was awash with nerves ahead of the big race. He was an owner, and with James back home in the Altnagelvin, the main owner, of an entrant in National Hunt racing's greatest event. It was incredible.

Orla left with the horse first. It was a short drive to the track, but Frankie insisted on getting the horse in and settled, explaining that on occasions in the past he'd got flustered pre-race, which he believed to be the contributing factor to the falls earlier in his career. Joe drove the girls to the track at around the same time as the previous day, with the difference being they beat Kathy there. She was staying in a hotel in the city and arrived just as they were about to enter the grandstand and head up to their box. There were more staff around than the previous day, rushing about to the kitchens and preparing the boxes. The hostess that greeted them the day before was present again, but she didn't lead them straight to the box this time. Knowing they were owners of a horse in the National, she pointed out a reporter from the BBC and he'd noted their presence and made his way over.

"Good morning". The reporter introduced himself cheerfully. "Are you owners?"

"Aye that's right". Joe confirmed pleasantly in return.

"Which horse is yours might I ask?"

"Bogside Warrior. Frank Flanagan's horse".

"Oh yes… the bottom weight". He smiled. "Can I just take all of your names for…".

"Ye want the girls name? Are ye a perv?" Joe flipped from kind to investigatory in a flash.

Taking a typically British approach to the confrontation, the reporter shrivelled up and went red in the face, profusely apologising a second later.

"Oh No! No! It… it… well it doesn't matter, Mr?"

"McCool, Joe McCool".

"Joe… McCool…". The man mumbled as he jotted it down on his notepad. "... what do you think of your chances then Mr McCool?"

"I think we've got half a chance, so we have. We're bein' treated unfairly at two hundred to one, he's a lot better than that".

The reporter made the notes, but as he went to ask his second question, he saw the five of them strolling off up the stairs to their box. He didn't know him like a lot of the citizens of Derry did and he didn't need to know it either; the reporter wouldn't be following Joe to ask him the question.

"Ye like speaking to the press don't ye Joe?" Michelle joked.

"As much as I enjoy being around you…". He grumbled in return, irritating her.

"I'm surprised he wasn't askin' about our eyebrows Kathy". Sarah pointed out to her.

"A lot of men in England wouldn't know a good pair of brows if they were punched in the face by them Sarah".

There was a hum of agreement from her at Kathy's statement as they approached the door to their box. Walking behind them, Michelle started to feel the butterflies in her stomach. Having forcibly ignored the thought of Tom the waiter since their awkward conversation the previous afternoon, he was on her mind again. She couldn't like him… though he was a fantastic ride…

Shit!

She'd always realised she would turn a few heads on the eastern side of the Irish sea, but there was no allocation in the plan when it came to falling for an English fella. Anglo-Irish relations were James and Erin's responsibility within their group and not hers. Thankfully, Tom wasn't in the function room when they walked in and Michelle quickly found a spot on the sofa and nodded off. Going to sleep was a far more sensible idea. She could only fall for him in her head then and not actually in front of him again.

Time ticked by and when Michelle woke up again, it was well after one o'clock in the afternoon. The rest of them left her there to sleep, assuming she'd not had a very good night's sleep and not that she was just trying to avoid the waiter. Michelle herself couldn't quite believe the time when Clare told her, and she scrambled off of the sofa and out onto the balcony.

"If it isn't Miss Sleepy". Joe jested.

"Jesus… sorry about that".

"There's no need to apologise Michelle…". Kathy warmly smiled at her niece. "… you can't help being tired".

Laughing and joking away for the next few minutes, they were joined in the box by Orla. She was given a short break, what was supposed to constitute a lunch break though she didn't eat and wanted to spend it with the family instead. Tom the waiter followed her in, and Michelle got her first glimpse of him from behind Orla's shoulder. He was beautiful and so feckin' smart in his tux… the emotions it stirred within Michelle being vastly different to the way she felt about any other fella. Feck's sake…

Orla stayed out on the balcony for the first race of the day, which held interest for them as Paul was riding for another trainer in it. It was an ideal warm up for him to shake off the sore feeling in his left leg from the fall just under twenty four hours earlier. A shorter race, of only about two miles, he was taking the ride on one of the unfancied horses in the contest, much like he would be in the Grand National later on. The field set off at a frenzied pace to the first fence, with a lot of front running horses in the field though Paul's wasn't one of them. He was settled in last place at the stretched group and after about three fences, his horse already appeared to be outpaced. The furious speed continued as the field went past the stands with a circuit to go, Orla noticing how he was having to cajole the horse with his hands to keep it in contact with the others. Remarkably, the horse began to move up after the first couple of fences down the far side of the course.

But disaster struck at the final fence on that side.

Asking for a simple enough jump, the horse hesitated and virtually walked through the fence, summersaulting Paul into the air and down to ground. Orla winced as she witnessed it through the binoculars and her worries intensified when, having kept them trained on Paul, he stayed down. Medics jumped out of an ambulance to go and attend to him, but with less than two hours to go until the big race, a catastrophe loomed.

"He's proper hurt Granda". She swallowed hard as she finished speaking.

"Ach Christ…". Joe's voice trailed off in frustration.

"What do ye do Daddy?" Sarah asked him. "What happens if he can't ride like?"

"I… feck's sake! Come on Orla love, we need to find Frankie".

Joe and Orla set off at the speed of light in their attempt to find the trainer, rushing off out of the grandstand and towards the stables. Sarah decided it was all getting a bit too much, and she wanted to have a cigarette out the front instead of from the balcony. Checking that the girls would be alright for a few minutes on their own, Kathy joined her. It left Clare and Michelle alone with the waiter. A situation the latter of the two girls attempted to ignore when it came to comfortability.

"I need the loo". Clare suddenly announced.

"And I needed to know because?" Michelle snorted.

Her emotions were playing havoc with her and it wasn't until she dropped the usual Michelle Mallon mask, that she realised why Clare needed her to know. She was now the only one left up there. Whilst she might have been out on the Balcony, with the shouts of the crowd filling her ears as they watched the opening race unfold, she was still trapped. There was no way out and no way she couldn't face having to see the waiter again. But fate decided to play its cruel hand against her a lot quicker than she would have liked. If Muhammad wouldn't go to the mountain, the mountain would go to Muhammad…

"Michelle".

Tom's voice was the only one she could hear above the shouts of the crowd as the runners entered the home straight in the first race. It was a voice that she would usually loath, mainly due to the accent belonging to James as well, but there was no comment levelled at the waiter about being an English prick.

"I… ehm…. I…".

Clare would have been proud of the cack attack Michelle was having as the waiter gazed into her eyes, causing her to blush and stumble over her own words.

"I wanted to apologise". Tom stated firmly. "I didn't cover myself in glory yesterday when I failed to understand and answer your question".

He was fiddling with his hands too and the scene became just as nervous as it was before. Neither wanted to say the next word, but Michelle didn't want to flee this time either. She was going to stand her ground.

"I think you looked beautiful. And do again today".

Her head shot up when he confirmed that she looked as good as she thought, and her heart jumped for joy in her chest at it. Not thinking, she grabbed him and pulled him down for a long kiss, practically pulling him onto the chair on the balcony. It was sloppy, far worse than anything that even James and Erin had produced, but in that moment as the horses crossed the line at the end of the first race, she didn't care.

She was kissing an Englishman and she damn well liked it!


The search for Frankie lasted a lot longer than either of them had envisaged when they set off from the box. The trainer was already out down to the fence that Paul fell at, hitching a lift with one of the race officials. It meant Joe and Orla waited with the village girls for fifteen minutes whilst Paul was being seen to by the medics. When the ambulance came by the stables, but didn't take the exit, there was a slight relief as it least signalled that Paul didn't need to be hospitalised. But when only Frankie returned to the stables, it appeared that it wasn't much better.

"How is he Frankie?" Joe asked.

Frankie was not the most emotional man, but he'd taken Paul in at a young age and cared for him for years, so any time he picked up an injury, it was a lot more painful than most trainer and jockey partnerships. Taking his cap off, he bowed his head and start to scratch at the back of his neck.

"He's not broken anything…". He breathed out in relief, though kept the strained look on his face, which ensured Orla's concern remained. "… but the doctor has stood him down for the day. He was a bit… disorientated".

Orla, crestfallen upon hearing of Paul not being able to ride their horse, pouted sadly and sighed. She was looking forward to talking to him about what the race was like and how she should ride it when she would eventually have a go. But the bad news didn't end there. Frankie was still fidgeting and Joe, having known him for years, took it as a sign that there was something even worse than Paul being stood down for the day that needed to be said.

"Out with it Frankie, come on". He coaxed his friend.

Frankie's sigh was oppressively loud and that only worried Joe more.

"Well he can't ride can he…".

"Aye. But ye find another jockey… right? That's what ye do when this happens isn't it?"

Joe had watched plenty of racing over the years and when jockeys were stood down for the day due to injury, the trainers or owners would go into the weighing room and find another one to ride. It was a fairly simple process, and the stewards didn't object to it.

"That… that's the problem Joe". Frankie mumbled in a melancholic tone.

"What do ye mean, problem?"

"I went into the weighing room and tried to get one… but…".

Surely not? This close to the race, at the basic eleventh hour, after a crazy few days of sorting the ownership out, they were going to miss out because they couldn't get a jockey. Joe's blood began to boil…

"No one wants the ride Joe…". Frankie finally picked his head up to look him dead in the eye. "… he's the bottom weight… two hundred to one and he's fell a few times. None of the boys want to sweat down to that weight to find themselves on their arse at the first".

"He won't fall!" Joe protested.

"I know that!". Frankie countered. "But it's another thing convincin' those boys that!"

Joe threw his arms in their air and walked out of the stables for a second. He couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that he wouldn't get the dream runner in the world's biggest race. He was angry for James too, because he knew how much this would mean to the wee English fella and in truth, this was all for him after the month or so of turmoil he'd endured. It was all going to end because a few jockeys who thought they knew best didn't want to be brave and get on their horse. Frankie joined him outside and Joe snapped out of his angered trance to find a slight smile tugging at the corner of the trainer's lips.

"We do have one other option though Joe…".


Mary and Gerry had arrived at the Altnagelvin at lunchtime, bringing with them a spread of food which Deirdre helped them carry in. They were making a real day of it for James, and the looks on both his and Erin's face when they arrived with the food, were adorable. Uncle Colm was back on babysitting duties with Anna, and they'd left the two of them happy as anything back at home. The five of them, Deirdre not working that afternoon, had been watching the BBC coverage from the moment it started and were all deeply concerned for Paul as they watched him summersault over the fence in the first race.

"I hope he's okay". A nervous Erin spoke up a few minutes after the cameras followed him to the course doctor's room, James giving her a kiss to calm her a second later.

"It was a nasty one". Deirdre commented. "He's got a concussion I reckon".

"He's probably scaring poor Orla". Gerry added. "I think she may have a wee soft spot for him ye know".

Mary glared at Gerry, angered that he would make such a comment when the poor fella was hurt. As far as Mary was concerned, Orla had little interest in love or romance, and would see the jockey as her friend and nothing else. And when the poor man was limping in injured at the racetrack, it was hardly the place for Gerry to begin such speculation.

"He won't ride again today if he has got one". Deirdre continued on her line of medical advice.

"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll find another jockey if they need to". James tried to reassure them all.

The next race, the ten past two, went by and there was still no news about Paul. James considered asking whether Mary could try and phone the track, knowing that they had their own private box and that they wouldn't be in the parade ring yet. But Joe and Orla would be the only two worth asking, and the likelihood was that they would be with Paul.

But minutes later, the news did come.

Sue Barker, the former tennis player, was part of the BBC coverage and one of the other broadcasters cut over to her as reports of a jockey change in the Grand National had reached her.

"Ach, here we go". Mary happily said to them all.

It was over to Sue.

"Now then, you'll remember from our first race that the amateur jockey, Mr Paul O'Meara, took a hefty fall at the final fence on the far side of the Mildmay course. We saw that he didn't need to go off to Hospital, however the racecourse doctor has since taken the decision to stand Paul down for the day. He was due to be riding the bottom weight, Bogside Warrior, in the big one and has of course sadly been forced to relinquish his ride.".

She paused, and the five of them strained their necks leaning in to hear who would ride their horse.

"Well, we may have a real fairy tale story on our hands here. Sixteen year old fellow amateur jockey, Miss Orla McCool, will take the ride on Bogside Warrior in the National".

The Hospital room was stunned into silence.

A fairy tale story it was indeed.

Erin didn't know if she'd said, 'Catch yourself on', aloud, but that was what she was thinking. Her cousin was… no it couldn't be.

A girl who believed the children of Chernobyl would glow in the dark because of radiation poisoning, was about to ride in the World's greatest horse race.

The saying 'Stranger things have happened', would be changed forever.