10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [14]
My father slowly came down a little from his high and decided he’d done enough for one day. We left the hall, returned to the hotel and eventually through a harmony of “Good Nights” made our way out into the warm August night to walk across to the dimly lit bow-front opposite.
There were streetlights around the square and the hotel lights at our back, but underfoot the decorative cobbles were dark and lumpy. In icy winters, I learned later, elderly people tended to skid on them and fall and crunch their bones; and on that euphoric night my father tripped on the uneven surface and went down forward on one knee, trying not to topple entirely and not managing it.
At exactly the same moment there was a loud bang and a sharp zzing and a scrunch of glass breaking.
I bent down over my father and saw in the light that his eyes were stretched wide with anxiety and his mouth grim and urgent with pain.
“Run,” he said. “Run for cover. God dammit, run.”
I stayed where I was, however.
“Ben,” he said, “for God’s sake. That was a gunshot.”
“Yes, I know.”
We were halfway across the square, easy immobile targets. He struggled to get to his feet and told me again to run: and for once in my life I made a judgment and disobeyed him.
He couldn’t put his weight on his left ankle. He half rose and fell down again and beseeched me to run.
“Stay down,” I told him.
“You don’t understand....” His voice was anguished.
“Are you bleeding?”
“What? I don’t think so. I twisted my ankle.”
People ran out of the hotel, drawn by the bang that had reechoed around the buildings fringing the square. People came over to my father and me and stood around us, curious and unsettled, noncomprehension wrinkling their foreheads.
There was confusion and people saying “What happened? What happened?” and hands stretching down to my father to help him up, cushioning him with a lot of well-meaning concern and kindness.
When he was well surrounded he did finally take my arm and lean on other people and pull himself to his feet: or rather, to his right foot, because putting his left foot down caused him to exclaim with strong discomfort. He began to be embarrassed rather than frightened and told the crowding well-wishers that he felt stupid, losing his footing so carelessly. He apologized. He said he was fine. He smiled to prove it. He cursed mildly, to crowd approval.
“But that noise,” a woman said.
Heads nodded. “It sounded like ...”
“Not here in Hoopwestern ...”
“Was it... a gun?”
An important-looking man said impatiently, “A rifle shot. I’d know it anywhere. Some madman ...”
“But where? There’s no one here with a gun.”
Everyone looked around, but it was far too late to see the rifle, let alone the person taking potshots.
My father put his arm around my shoulders again, but this time for a different, more practical sort of support, and cheerfully indicated to everyone that we should set off again to finish the crossing of the square.
The important-looking man literally shoved me out of the way, taking my place as crutch and saying in his loud authoritative way, “Let me do this. I’m stronger than the lad. I’ll have you over to your office in a jiffy, Mr. Juliard. You just lean on me.”
My father looked over his shoulder to where I now stood behind him and would have protested on my behalf, I could see, but the change suited me fine and I simply waved for him to go on. The important-looking man efficiently half carried my hopping father over the remaining stretch of square, the bunch of onlookers crowding around with murmurs of sympathy and helpful suggestions.
I walked behind my father. It came naturally to do that. There was a high voice calling then, and I turned to find Polly running towards us, stumbling on the cobbles