From Gold to Coal

Allan came home from Turffontein with a story, the way he sometimes did, and told it the way he always did — unhurried, a little amused at himself, more interested in the people than the result of the race.

He had been at the rails with two other men from the mine, he said, and an old man had come and stood near them — one of those fixtures of the racecourse that everyone half-recognised and nobody quite knew, the kind of man who had clearly been coming to Turffontein since before any of them were born.

The old man had been talking, mostly to himself, about a horse he remembered from years back. A horse called Ajax.

Patrick, who had been leaning against the doorframe only half-listening, was suddenly very still.

"Ajax?"

"Ja. Some old horse from way back. The old man said the owner never came to watch it race. Not once. Said it was strange, because the horse won."

"Did he say who the owner was?"

Allan shrugged, reaching for his tea. "Some trust or company, he said. He couldn't remember the name. But he remembered the attorney. Said the attorney used to come instead of the owner — sit in the stands on his own, watch the horse run, and leave straight after. Every time. For years."

"Did he say the attorney's name?"

Allan thought about it. "Markowitz, I think he said. Old Johannesburg name."