Race Week

At twenty to six on Thursday morning, the food tent at Ballybrit smelled of coffee, bacon and hot bread.

Paloma Ortega counted the breakfast rolls one more time. Sixty. Sixty rolls with bacon and egg, wrapped in paper, in four big boxes. Outside, the sky over Galway was turning from black to grey.

Then she heard the shout.

It came from the stables, a hundred metres away. A woman's voice, high and terrible.

— No! No, no, no! Get the vet! Somebody get the vet!

Paloma ran. She was still wearing her apron.

The stable yard was full of people in boots and old jackets. They were all standing in front of one door. Paloma pushed between them and looked inside.

It was Claddagh Moon. The grey mare. The favourite for the big race that afternoon. Everybody in Galway had money on her.

She was standing in the corner of her box with her head very low. Her legs were shaking. Her beautiful dark eyes were half closed, as if she was asleep on her feet.

Two hours later, the sun was up, the horse was lying down, and Thiago Souza was sitting in the back of a Garda car.

He looked at Paloma through the window. His face was white.

Paloma knew exactly where Thiago was at five o'clock that morning.

And she couldn't say it.