Counting Stars

By Steve Salter

Frank Rooney is a top equine vet with some very hard choices to make when the love of his life arrives home before him one evening and discovers the secret life he has been living. Frank has been in love with Selina for years and is determined to keep her in his life. With this in mind he makes a lifestyle choice resolved to beat this destructive vice that has taken over his life. With the help of counselling, meditation and medication Frank is determined to make it work but his resolution to be free is put to the test when he agrees to play a major role in one of the biggest sporting crimes the world will ever see.
Counting Stars takes you to the heart of the racing world's dark secrets. A tale of corruption at the highest level full of characters that invite you into their world and won't let you out.
Racing is one of the most regulated sports in the world but this story will make you think long and hard about a sport where money talks and if you don't play fair you could end up dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Salter
• Release date: Jun 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310973772

Steve Salter

What can I say, lover of all things outdoor, mountain biking, golf, climbing, walking and most of all jumping into the Ardeche River from a great height. I've lived on the Isle of Man for most of my life apart from the time I spent working in Ghana for two years as the head of a woodwork department at a rehabilitation centre for young people with physical disabilities. This was possibly one of the best things I ever did and I would suggest it's something everyone should have a go at if you get the chance. I'm a bit of a dreamer at times, a hopeless romantic with an ambition to bring the best out in those closest to me. I can't go a day without music and laughter and love the smile of a beautiful woman.If anything the older I'm getting the more crazy I get and the more I want to live life to the full, live for the now and not to dwell on all those past mistakes, to learn from them and improve. That's a bit like writing in many ways. The amount of times I've written something down and then changed it, gone back to it and changed it and then reverted back to the original. Oh god how we strive to be the best and if we keep striving to be the best eventually may be one day we can be the best we can be. If that's still not good enough then at least you're the best you will be.I love life to the full, sometimes too much but nobody could ever accuse me of being miserable. World peace would be nice but isn't going to happen with so many nutters running around the streets killing each other in the name of religion. Grab the moment if you don't grab it, him or her, you might regret it for the rest of your life. I'm a big fan of meditation and mindfulness and would encourage anybody out there to give it a go. Unless you try it you'll never know, putting it simply live for the moment and take control of what you can control. Imagine the scenario two souls with electricity, chemistry and magnetism pulling them together one soul wants to tell the other one how much they love the other one. He or she knows how they feel, they're in control of their own thoughts, total control. They're scared though of the reaction they might get from the other soul. A reaction they have no control over. The words are never said and that soul goes through life never knowing. The other soul is the same, but is also scared to say those words, all because they have fear, a fear of not knowing. Here's the perfect conclusion..... just say it, what have they got to lose. What's the worst case scenario? You won't get shot for saying I love you, and this is what we all need more of. Every day smile, be nice, be positive, negativity does not achieve anything and positivity attracts. Be kind, be confident but not cocky, be happy and be humble and most of all keep the faith. Keep believing and most of all believe in yourself. I just wish life was as easy and I practiced what I preached.

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Counting Stars

By Steve Salter

Copyright 2015 Steve Salter

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Prologue

Aristotle once said, We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, but a habit. I only wished that my habit was excellence. It had been a difficult period in my life and having been there before I should have identified the triggers. I should have been much more aware of the signs and what to look out for but I hadn’t and I was now in relapse again. I was in the grip again, third time now and I was in deep shit.

It’s not that I or other addicts for that matter go out of our way to destroy lives but inevitably we do, whether we mean to or not. I honestly thought, but who am I kidding, that I had my problem under control. I was working hard and I was earning good money and unlike some people who for some reason I considered a different type of addict, I wasn’t on the social to fund my addiction. That clearly wasn’t the case. The problem I had was finding the time to indulge it.

I’d managed quite long periods of time without even wanting to get a fix. Okay certain times of the year were more difficult than others but all the same I’d managed abstinence. Then for some reason I would go into self-destruct and there wasn’t anything I could do about it, apart from pray that somebody would find out.

Don’t get me wrong, we addicts don’t do it unless we get something out of it. I’m not here to kid anybody about that. My fix was to escape from the joys of life. I had everything going for me and then for some reason I’d make that vital error of judgement and fall back into the pretence that I can control it. I only knew too well that I couldn’t and then the whole vicious circle would begin again.

Like a lot of addicts, I was very good at hiding the signs. Feeding my addiction was not a problem and when things did get out of hand I could hide the obvious tell-tale signs from those that mattered most in my life. Sometimes I’d wished I was a lawyer, far away from this place that I love so much. A lawyer with lots of money who does a line of coke now and again to get their high and then stops until the following weekend to get it all over again. I don’t want to offend the legal profession with that statement because I know how touchy they can be. I use the term lawyer loosely, it could be any high earner who partakes in a dangerous game once or twice a week, but then stops. A high earner who can control it. Thinking about it, I envied the heroin addicts that had accumulated in some of the Dublin suburbs. Yes, they had their problems but the signs were all there for everyone to see and if they wanted to give it up then help was available for them to do so.

Life may have been so much different if I’d had a drug problem. I certainly wouldn’t have found it easy to hide the toll that drugs can take on the mind and body. Add to that my dislike of needles, even though I have to use them every day in my work, I’m the one normally sticking them into other creatures, I couldn’t bear the thought of sticking them into my own body. It’s little wonder I hadn’t turned to drugs which left me stuck with the addiction I had. The addiction as my psychologist said had begun when I was five or six years of age.

I’m much older now but that doesn’t mean I’m much wiser. I’m still an addict and always will be but this time I was determined to do something about it.

3 is meant to be a lucky number for addicts. It’s at this point that we normally hit the real rock bottom, the point where we could lose everything. My psychologist told me that too. It was ironic bringing luck into the equation however he did say not to take it the wrong way and that his statement had been backed up by research. Well I guess we’ll soon see if he was right.

Chapter 1. Hatching a plan.

My name is Frank Rooney and I’m an addict. Worse still I’m a gambling addict with a well-paid job.

Being a vet was always going to be an easy road to riches in Ireland, which is ironic given the number of horses that have had the name Road to Riches. Making money as a vet was easy enough but being a vet who knew his way around a thoroughbred, well that was a license to print money. Having spent a few months in Dubai working at one of the tracks where the real money could be made I was now back in Ireland and the money was flooding in from people who had too much to start with. The people I worked for were only interested in one thing and that was winning, and if winning was at any cost then so be it. They didn’t give a flying fuck as long as they could look good with their pals at Cheltenham. Most of my work involved ensuring that the racehorses of the rich and famous got the best treatment money could buy and so the story goes that a fool and his money are easily parted. It was a licence to print Euros with only one problem. The quicker it came in, the quicker it went out.

It wasn’t the best career choice for somebody with an addiction. I would’ve rather been addicted to crack or booze. With those vices people can see the facial expressions that go hand in hand with the need to inject a chemical into your bloodstream. They pick up on the paranoia and if you are fool enough to wear a short sleeved shirt they might even see the scars left by the needle. They can see the bloodshot eyes and smell the intoxicating breath associated with alcohol misuse. With those vices the visible signs can be apparent for all to see who want to see. Gambling is different and it wasn’t difficult to fuel the habit when you had a job like mine. Getting credit cards to run up to the limit and borrowing money from the sharks was easy. Even easier was being paid in cash for saving the life of some listless foal out in the sticks for an owner or trainer who had more money than sense.

Money was not a problem. Finding the time to gamble it away was. It wasn’t easy to find a bookie when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by city folk who have got more money than they know what to with. It was only a matter of time until my dirty little secret would pop up and be under the spotlight. It had to happen sooner or later and when you get into that place, when you know it’s taking over, you pray that it all comes out. Sometimes it felt like I was on the run after committing some heinous crime, a terrible act of one kind or another that I was running away from, but in reality I was trying to run away from myself but never being able to escape. I couldn’t even sleep at night with the fear of being found out. Once I got into the grip, life went into autopilot and there was only one thing in life that mattered and that was getting my escape.

I was late getting back to the flat in Galway after being up to my eyeballs in horse shit all day and having stopped to place a bet in the Paddy Power shop down on Dominick Street.

I’d been good, really good at hiding it so far. Addicts are very clever people and I was one of the most astute around. I’d often break my day by hitting the house just after the postman to make sure there were no nasty letters from the bank or final demands lying around for Selina to find. It worked well but couldn’t go on forever.

Selina was a bit out of my league. I’m not the best looking stallion in the stud and she could have done better for herself than get hitched up with me. She was clever, a good all round vet with a good practice. She was the same height as me except when she had heels on which would make her two inches taller. I didn’t like this as it made people question what she was doing with an ordinary bloke like me. I detested the way people looked at us when we went out as a couple. The way my secret friends who were not my friends would stare and give me a passing glance as they walked by us. The same people who would try and indulge me when I was in their brothel. Lowlife men and women who I hated to be associated with, but had to, if I was to indulge my urges. I thought I was above these people but I wasn’t and deep down I knew I was the same as them. Selina was sexy with short blond hair and boyish good looks, the complete opposite to me with thinning hair and all the other vital statistics for a mister average. I was the lucky one in this relationship and I’d be even luckier if I could keep hold of her.

For some reason I’d been complacent today I shouldn’t have put the bet on. This must have added another 17 minutes to my journey home. Selina was already there and I knew my cover was blown. Her eyes shot daggers at me as I walked into the kitchen. There was no point in ducking and diving this time as she’d already opened my mail and found a final demand for two credit cards along with a demand from Paddy to settle an account for twenty thousand Euros. I was well and truly fucked and there was nothing for it but to come clean.

The room was filled with an eerie silence. My brain was spiralling with different thought processes. I could get the money back through hard work, I’d done it before and I could do it again. The problem had been keeping hold of the money long enough to see something for it all, something physical that you could touch or a nice memory of a fabulous holiday in some exotic destination. I had nothing but old betting slips. I was more worried about other people finding out about this and losing the respect that I thought I had built up from being a good vet. These people were just as bad, they’d gamble huge sums at the big festivals and it didn’t matter to them if they won a hundred grand or lost it. It was still an obscene amount of money to be prepared to lose, all just to impress your so called pals.

I’d been brought up in a gambling family and on previous attempts to kick the habit my counsellor had told me that it was all to do with the development of my brain. I know all about brain development. Being in the medical profession wasn’t a complete waste of time.

Apparently research has shown that children growing up with serious gamblers, as their brains are developing, will associate gambling with happy childhood memories. This was my Achilles heel and my excuse. I’d been brought up by my grandparents as my dad was a respected racehorse veterinary surgeon who’d travel all over the country looking after the horses belonging to the too rich and too famous. My mum travelled with him to stop him from shagging the stable lasses so I was left with the grandparents. They, my grandparents, loved to gamble on the horses and this is what I’ve grown up with. It’s in my blood and according to my counsellor it’s in my brain.

It’s true that you only tend to remember the good times from when you’re young. I’d remember the big wins that granddad had picked up from winners at the Cheltenham festival and the biggest one of all when he picked up ten grand on a National winner all courtesy of inside information that he’d been given from dad. They didn’t always win though, that would’ve been too easy. Sometimes they’d fall and this was something that you couldn’t make allowances for even if the rest of the plan was one hundred percent in place.

Quite often a trainer would get dad to do a wind operation on a horse that’d shown promise but blown out at some point during the race. This would be done on the quiet without notifying anybody apart from the owners. All the insiders would know that such an operation would bring about the improvement needed to win. Most of the time this is what happened, they’d win and everyone in the know was happy. A hundred grand could easily be taken out of the ring at the big meetings on an outsider that everyone else had given up on because of one bad run. This has all stopped now under the new rules, the days of good inside information are long gone now trainers have to notify the authorities in advance of a horse running if its had a wind operation or some other operation that could bring about improvement. You still got good tips for a winner but they weren’t as good as they’d used to be. I wished somebody had tipped me off that Selina was going to be home before me today, but we are where we are and I’d better start processing those thoughts.

She remained calm which was always a bad sign that something was going to blow. Hi love…how’s your day been babe, I asked prepared and ready to open the floodgates to do anything that would keep her in my life.

It was going well until I opened these Frank, the letters were on the table and there was clearly no point in going down the road that they were addressed to me and what right did you have to open them. That’d be like putting petrol on a fire.

What’s going on Frank, what the bloody hell is going on, I’ve known something was wrong. No bank statements, no credit card statements, funny phone calls, it all adds up now, so what are YOU going to do about it. You need to want to sort this mess out. She said demanding an answer. I was surprised that she was still here, but she was and she wanted a reply.

I’m glad you’ve found out love I’ve had this secret burning me up for too long. I knew it was a feeble reply. The first bit was true I was glad she’d found out. The second bit was a lie. I’ve had this secret since the age of eight according to my counsellor. I’ve got a serious problem Sel, a big horrible addiction that nobody knows about accept you and me. This bit was true unless somebody else knew. She could have already been on the phone to her parents or worse still been on the phone to my parents. That would’ve killed me if she’d done that.

You’re just not walking away from this leaving me to pick up the pieces, you’re going to fix this mess and if that means meds, rehab, counselling then so be it, that’s what you’re going to do okay. I’d no choice really and all this was said without wanting to know the reasons behind the gambling.

She remained calm. Put the kettle on for a brew and sat back down turning her laptop on. I was lost with the reaction but thought that this could be the wakeup call I needed to kick the habit into touch for good.

Sel spent the night on the internet checking up on gambling addictions, finding counsellors in the Galway area and making an appointment for me at Doctor Stone’s surgery. Medication would help but I wasn’t sure about the other stuff although I was prepared to give it a go if it meant keeping this woman in my life. I’d had counselling before but it didn’t do much for me. Relapse after relapse was the story of my life to date.

We chatted about what we wanted out of life and what she could do to help. I gave her all my credit and debit cards along with my passwords for internet banking so she could check any transactions on my bank account. I was quite happy to do this although I didn’t want to end up in the situation of having to ask for pocket money but I did want her to be reassured that I wasn’t going to gamble again, well not today anyway.

A new start I told myself in the morning. I made a bit of a list and started to tick all the things I needed to do. I put a number next to them to get them in some kind of priority. I agreed before she left for work that I’d do everything she wanted including going to see my doctor. The thing being, I was at a complete loss after seeing Dr Stone being in need of a serious drink.

Jonas was sat in his local bar. Eyes bloodshot and smelling of horse shit. He was all alone which was to be expected with the odours coming from his worn out coat. He drank whisky, too much whisky and he never left the bar until closing time. The bar was quite full for a Wednesday. I guess the midweek piss up must’ve been catching on around the Galway city bars. This bar was like none of the others though. This was a real bar. A bar full of history, of great stories and local characters past and present. The walls were plastered with pictures of the finest Irish racehorses to have ever graced the hallowed turf of Aintree and Cheltenham. This was a proper man’s bar. There were no pictures of those snob owned flat horses. This was a jumping man’s pub and these men were a different breed just like the horses they loved and lost so much money on. I guess the place was so biased towards jump racing it could be compared to City and United, you don’t often find a pub in Manchester that has pictures of both teams up on the walls. You’re either a red or a blue, here you’re either into jumping or into the flat. If you liked the jumps this was a bar where you could always find somebody to share a drink with.

Jonas was a good trainer in his day. He’d trained a substantial number of winners around the local tracks and he’d also played a part in one of the winners of the Galway Plate. The sad fact being, he’d succumbed to the pressures of winning at all cost and was struck off after an investigation into the use of steroids after the dramatic improvement of one of his horses. The horse hadn’t even won but he’d been left to take the can for the others, hung out to dry with little or no hope of ever getting his license back. I’d known Jonas for years mostly through my work and then through gambling. He was a regular in the Paddy Power just around the corner. We had a different relationship in the bookies. A silent relationship one of nods and winks with little being said. Jonas had a habit of circling horses out in the Racing Post and putting his initials next to his pick. This annoyed the staff but the punters were thankful when they won. He was a gambler but not an addict having a love hate relationship with the gambling industry. His hatred for the multi nationals had grown even more since the shops had been turned into mini casinos with those stupid fucking roulette machines. He detested them and the dregs of society that they attracted.

Seamus was also in the bar. He was a shrewd cookie when it came to betting and he had the money to go along with the big bets. Seamus owned a large farm on the coast, mostly dairy but with a soft spot for the odd point to point horse. He also liked a drink and now in semi-retirement with his dope of a son looking after the farm he spent most his time down here with a pint of the black stuff. The Last Furlong bar was full of these characters but these two were the main protagonists and if you were trying to hatch a plan or a betting coup this is where it would be born. I’d known Seamus since I was a kid. He was one of the first farmers to use me when I’d qualified as a vet and he’d put the word around amongst his mates who owned horses. We got on really well and I’d never let him down when he needed me and he also always paid his bills on time, normally in cash.

Alright lads, they didn’t even look up from their drinks as I walked over to the bar. Whisky please Caroline, I didn’t even drink whisky but I ordered one anyway. Alright Jonas, how’s it going. He just looked at me wondering why I didn’t have my arm up a horse’s arse as would be normal for this time of the day. Seamus looked over and smiled in my direction. Fancy some drink lads? that wasn’t the best of moves given I didn’t have much money on me, I wasn’t even sure if I had my wallet. I had a bad thought that I wouldn’t have enough for my own drink. Yes, I had some money because I’d just paid for my prescription after visiting Dr Stone. He’d given me some medication that would calm down the mood swings and help me to concentrate on things other than gambling.

The boys took me up on the offer and I just managed to scratch enough change from the twenty euro note I’d given to Noel at the chemist.

Remember that mare you came to see up at my place a couple of years ago, the one that gave birth to two foals, the mare that’s dam had won at Bellewstown, the mare that had a good staying pedigree, the mare that cost a bloody fortune at the sales but did fuck all on the track. I had to think hard about which horse Jonas was going on about but it eventually clicked.

Yes Jonas, I remember, only one of the foals survived. I hoped he wasn’t about to try and sue me for negligence over this, that was all I needed.

No, that’s the point. You left one for dead concentrating on the other one, given it was worth a small fortune but they both survived. We sent one of them back to the stud but I looked after the other one and she’s turning into a great little filly. Thanks for signing the death certificate it’s been a stroke of luck. I’ve called her Raindrop and she’s registered. I absorbed what he’d said and shrugged my shoulders incredulously but at the same time wondering how he’d managed to get her registered. It was best not to ask too many questions though with the bar being quite full.

Seamus was all ears now. So what you’re saying is that you’ve got a filly the brother of which was sold for half a million at the sales and nobody knows you’ve got her? He asked.

Correct, the owners don’t know but the jockey-club does because she’s tattooed and I’ve got all of the necessary paperwork. Jonas beamed as he told the story he’d kept to himself for such a long time. Seamus was also getting into overdrive now as to how he could use this to his advantage.

What about the sire Jonas. How good was he? I asked.

He was good alright, very good. Career earnings of over seven hundred grand. Could have been more if it hadn’t had been for his breathing problems. Placed at Cheltenham twice and a winner of the Melling Chase at Aintree. Jonas smiled as he filled us in on all the details. An air of excitement filled the room which was better than the air coming from the coat he was still wearing despite the heat coming from the fire.

All we need now is a vet. A vet who can get his hands on some prize semen, some prize semen from a horse that has a certain pedigree. A staying pedigree, from a horse that has GOLD CUP written through his cock like Blackpool in a stick of rock. Do you boys know what I’m saying? We already have half the job done; all we need now is the other half. We don’t even need the horse, just the spunk, that’s all we need to create the perfect machine. Jonas had it worked out already and I was in. This was a no brainer but getting hold of the semen wasn’t going to be easy but it could be done.

So if I can get the glue to make this perfect creature, what’s in it for me? I asked having already embarked on a gambling free lifestyle in an attempt to keep Selina by my side I couldn’t really throw it all away on the first day by agreeing to gamble on a horse that wasn’t even born yet.

You’ll get a share of the spoils from one of the biggest betting coups ever pulled off. Seamus said. He was also very clear that this was a partnership which needed everyone to do their job to perfection.

I’ll sort the money out for this. I’d like nothing more than getting one over on those bastards who haven’t got a bloody clue about jump racing, after all what can be so hard about getting a horse pregnant especially if the spunk is from a champion. Seamus said. He had the money to make this real and with my knowledge of artificial insemination it was a possibility. We could pull this off and although it would take some time for the foal to develop we could actually make this work. It was just about keeping my head down staying away from the bookies and getting my hands on some specimen semen and I knew exactly where that was going to come from.

I left the boys in the bar and headed home. I didn’t even have enough money for the bus which was ironic given I’d just come away from a meeting planning a coup that could cost upwards of a hundred grand to put together. I phoned Sel to come and give me a lift; she was very reliable for things like lifts and didn’t hesitate especially when she knew I’d been drinking.

How’s your day been then, did you get your meds and did you phone the counsellor, did you gamble. She’d have easily known if I’d been gambling given she had access to my bank account.

No Selina, I’ve not been near a bookie, I’ve been far too busy with Dr Stone, picking meds up and making an appointment with a counsellor for next week. I just need to get back to work now and get my head straight.

Let’s see the tablets then, for fucks sake she didn’t even trust that I’d been to the doctors.

Here, take a look, sertraline, he said they’re for depression and they’ll help get me back on the path of righteousness. This appeared to