Free Dick Francis's Refusal by Felix Francis

young Billy was twenty, he was commanding a breakaway, hard-line Protestant group called the Shankill Road Volunteers, and his sole aim was to kill Roman Catholics who he believed lived in the wrong place. He also didn’t like Protestants who had anything to do with the Catholics. No proof, of course, but there’s little doubt that McCusker is responsible for over a dozen murders as well as scores of punishment beatings.”
    â€œNice,” I said.
    â€œNot really,” Paddy said. “He was jailed for life in 1996 for the particularly gruesome murder of a young Protestant teenager whose only mistake was fathering a child with his Catholic girlfriend, but Billy was soon released under the terms of the Northern Ireland Peace Agreement. Not that he’s a reformed character or anything. He’s been involved in racketeering and extortion ever since. And he still hates all Roman Catholics, who he blames for killing his da.”
    â€œSo when did he come over to the mainland?”
    Paddy looked around once more and was satisfied that there was still no one else listening. “About six years ago. It seems the Shankill Road Volunteers fell out with another Protestant paramilitary group over money, and a turf war ensued. Billy’s side lost, so he and his mates were run out of West Belfast in a hurry. Word is, they had to leave so quickly that they were left with only the clothes they were wearing at the time. They transferred to Manchester, but they hadn’t left so fast that they forgot to bring their nastiness with them.”
    â€œSo how did McCusker get into racing?” I asked.
    â€œHe quickly got involved with a Manchester-based bookmaking outfit, inappropriately named Honest Joe Bullen. Perhaps Billy bought Honest Joe out or maybe he took possession by force. Either way, he now controls the business, and it has expanded rapidly since then by buying up other independent betting shops in and around Manchester and Liverpool.”
    â€œOr bullying them into submission,” I said.
    â€œFar more likely,” Paddy agreed.
    â€œHow does a convicted terrorist get a bookmaker’s license anyway?” I asked.
    â€œPerhaps it was some deal over the peace agreement, sectarian convictions struck from the record or something, or maybe it’s not him who holds the license. I don’t know, but, no matter, Billy McCusker definitely calls the shots at Honest Joe’s, and he’s not making any friends, to be sure.”
    â€œBut why are
you
so frightened of him?” I asked.
    â€œBecause I’m a Roman Catholic.
In nomine Patris, et Filii
,” he said, suddenly crossing himself, “
et Spiritus Sancti
.” Paddy finished his sign by pointing one of his slender fingers at my chest. “And you should be frightened of him too. Everyone should. Word on the street is, he eats Catholic babies for breakfast. Like I tells you, don’t mess with Billy McCusker.”
    I wasn’t.
    But was he the one messing with me?

6
    M arina, Saskia and I waited outside the Weighing Room after the last race, and I caught Jimmy Guernsey as he emerged to go home.
    â€œWell done, Jimmy,” I said as I stepped into stride alongside him, with Marina and Saskia hurrying along behind. “Good win in the last.”
    â€œHuh, thanks, Sid,” he replied almost in a monotone. “I should have won the two-mile chase as well if that bloody horse Podcast could jump. Stupid lump of dog meat. Tripped over the sodding last with the race at his mercy.”
    â€œNice, easy fall, though,” I said, remembering back to how Jimmy had rolled over twice on the turf and then jumped up quickly. Fortunately, for him, there had been no following horse to land on his outstretched left palm with a razor-sharp horseshoe to slice through muscle, bone and sinew, as there had been in my career-ending last race.
    â€œMy pride was hurt more than my body,” he agreed. “What