"'Is that him? Is that Hutton?'

"Fuck sake, it's out already. And of course, I know Tyrrell has to tell them Barry Dorgan is being replaced by Hutton. Maybe I just don't expect everyone to remember who he was. But why not? Fuck, I do. There's lads in Paddy Power's who talk about By Your Leave and Hutton vanishing still. So it's out there, the return of the prodigal: they're building the fucking myth already. And maybe there's a glimmer: tell him. Tell him. And then he's beaming at us, his eyes twinkling with excitement, in such a fucking hurry to wave us on it would've seemed like bad manners to disappoint the cunt. In for a penny. And I thought, what would Ed do? He'd follow it to the end. Follow it to the end, Tommy, and see where it takes you.

"We park close enough to the entrance, and Steno goes off to the stables; he's got to get passes for us all. While we're sitting there waiting, I finally pick up on what it is Hutton is humming.

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel,

Shall come to thee, O Israel…

"I join in on the chorus, and he gives me a big smile when I've done, and nods his head, like, at last, here's someone who understands me.

"Mental, totally fucking mental.

"When Steno comes back, he tells us Hutton needs to go to the weigh room, and then we can hang on in the jockeys' changing room-but not to go yet, or we'll be in there too long, and the other jockeys'll be hassling us.

"'We?' I say.

"'Yeah, you can be his valet, all right?' Steno says to me.

"Not as if I have a great deal of choice in the matter.

"Steno rolls his eyes then.

"'You'll never guess who's up there with the animals.'

"'Dr. Doolittle,' I say, before I can stop myself. Then, 'Rex Harrison, not Eddie Murphy,' as if that's gonna help. It doesn't: he gives me the base of his hand smack in the jaw and sets my teeth scraping and my head clanging like an anvil, the fucker.

"'Don't get smart with me, you mangy fuck,' Steno says, side of the mouth, all smiles, like he's chatting to a friend. 'You're still on probation. And Rex Harrison is dead.'

"I nod, trying to look sorry, which is no great stretch, 'cause after the clatter he's given me, believe me, I am.

"'Vincent Tyrrell. He knows all the stable lads of course, half of them were in St. Jude's, so he's at home up there. Him and the brother pretending they don't see each other. Said he's particularly keen to see how Bottle of Red gets on.'

"Steno seems to be directing this as much at Hutton as at me, and when I look round, there's Hutton all fired up, glaring, eyes boiling, like a bull at a gate.

"Steno fucks off then, but before he does, he takes my phone, and gives me a little warning about what he'll do if I double-cross him. I can remember it, but I'm not going to repeat it, 'cause there's a chance I might forget it one day, but not if it lodges in my head.

"We hang on for a while, then twelve-twenty, just before the first race, that's our cue. We go in and present our passes and head for the changing rooms and grab a spot. Hutton has a bag with his silks and riding hat and his whip and some street clothes. There's a bit of muttering from the other lads. But Hutton doesn't care, he just changes into his colors, cool as you like. And then a couple of lads come up and give it a bit of remember me, I was a boy in Tyrrellscourt when you were riding. Hutton smiles at them, and nods away big-time, and maybe they're a bit disappointed he's not chatting to them but they're not really surprised, and they seem to go away happy. Any jockeys I ever met, either they wouldn't fucking shut up or you couldn't get a word out of them, so maybe he's coming across as normal. I can see all eyes are on him though-the fucking head on him man, even without knowing about his tongue: he has that complexion street drinkers have, like he's been boiled. Not to mention he's the comeback kid to beat the band, a fucking legend in the making.

"We go around to the weigh room, which is on the lower deck of the grandstand just across from the parade ring. Same story here, everyone having a squint. Hutton's not bothered, the opposite actually, like he's missed it, the attention, and I have to say, it is pretty class now, all the riders in their silks, the colors, the shine of the boots, the roar of the crowd for the first race, I'm getting into it man. While he's queuing for the scales, I grab a race card, maybe I'll get a chance to slap a bet on. No time like the present. And the first thing, looking at the card for the third race, what jumps out is Bottle of Red's owner: Mr. G. Halligan. Looks like it's going to be quite a circus out there in the parade ring this afternoon.

"The weight's ten-stone-nine, and Hutton makes it with three pounds to spare, fair play, and he is in good shape, and we're off to hang in the changing room again. The boys are in from the first race, winners and losers, and Hutton gets a bit more attention and handles it the same, and then the second race is called, and we're out to saddle up. While we're on our way around the parade ring to the saddling stalls, Steno falls into line with us and tells me to get lost. I linger though, long enough to see him draw Hutton aside and slip something to him, something Hutton slips inside his silk top, something that glitters in the faint sunlight that's still trying to break through.

"The parade ring's where it's happening now. I can see Vincent Tyrrell in his dog collar and his long black overcoat and his black fedora, looking like a priest in a Jimmy Cagney movie, and there's George Halligan in his Barbour jacket and his tweed cap, looking like a cunt, basically, giving F. X. Tyrrell an earful, and there's Brian Rowan in the middle of them with one of those women George collects from Russia or Brazil who all look like they're waiting for the operation. She's a foot taller than Rowan, snow-blond hair, wearing a white fur coat, a lynx it must be, Rowan's talking into her fake tits and she's looking out across the crowd pretending she hasn't noticed every eye is glued to her.

"Mind you, there's a lot of money here today, a lot of new tits and teeth and holiday flesh and fur being waved; it's been a while since I was racing and the biggest change is, fair enough, there's the usual crowd, the old boys in their trilbies and wool coats, the country farmers, the Barbour jacket crowd, all the middle classes in their Christmas best, then there's the betting-shop boys giving themselves a day out from the bookies, scruffy lads in jumpers and jeans like, like me, to be honest, but then there's also a lot of young people, young fellas with estate-agent hair and cheap suits and young ones in skimpy dresses and high heels, like it's a nightclub they thought they were going to, working-class kids out for a big day. And some politician getting his photo taken with your one off You're a Star on the telly. And Bono and Ali here too, someone said, up in one of the boxes, I suppose. Even a few Butlers are here, picking pockets and rolling drunks. Everyone's here, relieved the big freeze never came. Everyone's here!

"And here comes Patrick Hutton on Bottle of Red being led by her groom into the ring, and such a roar goes up you'd swear it was one of the Carberrys or A. P. McCoy, one of the crowd's favorites anyway, and you can see George Halligan is still bulling but F. X. Tyrrell has moved away from him, and George has tugged on his shoulder to turn him back, and suddenly Steno is at his side, looking as if he has every right to be there in his long coat and his big hat, looking like an Australian. George is still looking gnarly and aggravated, and then Steno prods him in the side, and George looks at him straight on, and Steno nods, and George nods back. Deal for now.

"Patrick Hutton is leaning down to listen to whatever F.X. has to say to him, taking instructions, fair play to F.X., he looks like he's making the best of it. Hutton is beaming, and there's a chant going up: