The True Alignment

The year two thousand was a bit of an anti-climax. It started positive enough with me and Alejandra. I really felt like she was fate, or destiny calling. The events that brought us together felt aligned, but after three months things just fell apart. Constant arguments, different ambitions, and in the end, Alejandra just left.

So here I was again. Tuesday the 14th of March. Racing Post in hand, ready to go through the horses for the opening day of the Cheltenham Festival.

The morning was quiet in that usual way. Nothing out of place, nothing particularly worth noticing. The kind of morning that passed without leaving much behind. The paper rustled lightly as I turned the page, the thin sheets catching against my fingers. Names, odds, bits of commentary—none of it settling long enough to matter.

I ran down the list, one after another, barely taking them in.

Tiutchev. Cenkos. Decoupage. Rathbawn Prince. Bellator.

I kept going, eyes moving quicker now.

Wahiba Sands.

I paused. Whoa… that was a weird déjà vu moment. It passed just as quickly as it came. I shifted the paper slightly and carried on.

Slaney Native. Wakeel. La Brigantine.

I was quietly confident in my selections for the day. A couple of them were more of a risk—picked on feel rather than any real reading of the form—but I’d always been that sort of gambler. Gut instinct over logic. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

There was something about today, though. Not confidence exactly… just a pull. Subtle, but enough. I folded the paper back slightly and looked over the list again.

Each way lucky 63:

2:00 — Best Mate

2:35 — Wahiba Sands

3:15 — Hors La Loi III

3:55 — Marlborough

4:30 — Prince Sorinieres

5:05 — Font Romeu

It looked as good as anything else I’d put together. With my horses selected and my pocket loaded with a wad of cash, I made my way into town.

There was no shortage of bookmakers. On one side of the road, William Hill. On the other, Coral. And slightly further up, Ladbrokes. I had a feel for the blue—Coral’s. It had a better atmosphere than the other two. That’s where I’d spend my day.

I sat at a table near the back of the shop, betting slips spread out in front of me, SIS TV playing in the background. Greyhound racing took up most of the morning, and as yet not a single winner.

It was nearing one o’clock. My Lucky 63 was on, and the first race wasn’t until two, so I decided to head to the local sandwich bar and get a salmon and cucumber sandwich and a tea.

“Morning, Jack. The usual?”

“Nah, I fancy a salmon and cucumber today. On brown—and a tea, please, Tracy”.

“Oo, look at you, salmon and cucumber. Sit yourself down, love. I’ll bring it over”.

Just as I sat down, I felt a sudden urge to leave. It came out of nowhere—sharp, immediate—just as Peter walked in. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Peter. I just wasn’t in the mood for his assessment of today’s racing at Cheltenham.

“Hello, Jack. You ready for the big one today?”

“Hi, Peter. Yeah—bet’s on”.

“Who you backing then? Let’s have a look”.

Here we go, I thought. Now we get the low-down on why they won’t win. I handed him my slip. He glanced down it, lips tightening slightly.

“Ah… I can’t see any of these winning today. Maybe Marlborough has a chance, but the others…” He shook his head. “Mainly French trash. Follow the Irish—that’s always a good bet at Cheltenham”. “Which shop you in today then, Jack?”

“Coral. It’s more chilled out”.

“Yeah, I think I’ll join you there”.

Great, I thought. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.

Back in Coral, the build-up to the first race had begun. The 2:00 was off. “Best Mate—he’s there at the last… he’s got a chance…”. He was running on—but just couldn’t reach the winner.

“Ah, not a bad run,” Peter said. “Irish”.

It was now time for the 2:35. Wahiba Sands. I had a good feeling about this one. AP McCoy—strong jockey, good stable. I had £50 on it straight at 9 to 2. The race unfolded well enough early on, but then it weakened… before staying on again.

“Useless, that McCoy,” Peter said, ripping up his slip. “Should’ve trusted my gut and ignored yours”.

“Thanks, Peter. Some you win, some you lose. Chill out”.

Next was the 3:15. Hors La Loi III. The first of my French horses.

“This one’s got no chance,” Peter said with confidence.

“I’ll have £50 each way at 12 to 1. What the hell—if you don’t like it, it’s bound to win”.

The race started. Hors La Loi sat near the rear. “See? No chance”.

“It’s still early, Pete. Give it a minute,” I said, already feeling the irritation creeping in. “Come on, Hors La… come on…”. It ran on strongly—second place. Istabraq just too good.

“I can’t believe that came second, Jack. Fair play”.

“Yeah… maybe £200. Got my losses back at least”.

Next was the 3:55. Marlborough.

“I like this one,” Peter said. “I’ll have a score on it”.

Well, I thought… if Peter’s backing it, I’ll leave it alone. It’s in my Lucky 63 anyway. The race didn't look promising early on. Held up, then a mistake at the ninth. That’ll knock the stuffing out of it, I thought. But it stayed on. Coming to the last—it’s going to win.

“Come on my beauty!” Peter shouted. “£130! I knew that would win!”. I couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed. Should’ve backed it.

Next, the 4:30. Prince Sorinieres. 16 to 1. My second French horse. I put £20 each way on it.

“Don’t waste your money, son. That’s got three legs,” Peter said.

“I fancy it, Pete. Can't leave that price”.

It never got into the race. Pete was right.

Finally, the 5:05. Font Romeu. Last of the Lucky 63.

“Sod it. £100 each way at 14 to 1. If this crashes, I’ll have to try harder tomorrow”.

“You’re not serious,” Peter said. “If that gets placed, I’ll give up gambling”.

I looked down at the slip. If this places… maybe things start to feel right again.

The race was off. “Come on, Romeu… come on…”. It weakened after the last but stayed on. Third. I smiled without meaning to. Peter had gone quiet.

“Ran a good race, to be fair,” he admitted.

“Yeah… it did”.

I collected my winnings. All in all, it had been a decent day.

Back home, the silence of the house felt heavier than it should have. I stood for a moment just inside the door, not quite sure what to do next. The day had been good. Not perfect, but good.

Still… something didn’t sit right. Like I’d missed something. Or left something behind without knowing what it was. I moved further into the room, the quiet pressing in around me. For no real reason, I felt restless. Like I needed to be somewhere.

I checked the date again. 14th of March. Not that it made any difference.

I’d been following Napier for months now, and if there was something to find, I should have found it by now. But there was nothing. Not really. Same routine. Same movements. Same clean transactions that led nowhere. I knew his timings better than my own.

And that was the problem.

I sat in the car across from the building, watching the entrance more out of habit than expectation. The same people drifted in and out, coats pulled tight against the lingering chill of early spring. If he walked out now, it wouldn’t change anything. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t either.

I needed a new direction. I was getting nowhere fast, and at this rate my client would be getting real sore with me.

The problem I faced was simple—Napier didn’t really go anywhere. Office, then home. No travel. No evenings out. No slips. No mistakes. Just… clean. Too clean.

I stayed there a moment longer, staring at the door as if something might finally happen if I gave it enough time. It didn’t. I let out a slow breath and reached for the keys.

I decided to head home. I’d try again tomorrow.

Back home, the chill of a mid-March evening seemed to settle straight into my bones. The flat felt colder than it should have—the kind of cold that didn’t shift no matter how long you stood in it. I closed the door behind me and paused, listening to the quiet.

I felt rough. Like I was coming down with something. Or maybe it was just everything catching up with me. It’s not like I had anything to look forward to outside of work… and even that was starting to wear thin.

I rubbed my arms and moved into the bathroom, turning the taps on full.

“Lacy,” I muttered to myself, watching the steam begin to rise, “one more day… then I’m done with this”.

That was it. Decision made.

I stepped into the bath and immediately pulled back.

“Jesus…”.

Too hot. I hovered there for a second, then carefully lowered myself onto my knees, bracing my hands on the edge. Right… give it a minute….

The heat hit first at my shins, then slowly crept upward. I stayed there, half in, half out, waiting for my body to catch up with it. A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Still too much.

“Come on…”.

I shifted slightly, testing it with my hands, then my elbows, leaning forward awkwardly. Letting the warmth build gradually instead of all at once. Another minute. Maybe two. My shoulders relaxed just enough.

“Alright…”.

Slowly, carefully, I lowered myself further, easing down inch by inch until finally I let myself sink into it completely.

“Oh… that’s better…”.

The heat wrapped around me properly now. No shock, just warmth. The tension I’d been carrying all day started to loosen without me even realising it. The scent of the Radox drifted up through the steam. That familiar, comforting smell. For the first time all day, everything felt still.

Achoo!.

I laughed under my breath. “Brilliant…”. Just what I needed.

I leaned back slightly, letting the water hold me, eyes closing for a moment. Maybe it was just a cold. Maybe it was just the job. Maybe it was just… everything.

After a while, the water began to cool and my skin had started to wrinkle. I pushed myself up and stepped out, grabbing my robe and wrapping it tightly around me.

The bedroom felt warmer. I’d put the radiator on earlier, and the heat had settled in properly now. I climbed into bed, pulling the covers up, letting the warmth close in around me.

Maybe tomorrow things would be better. Maybe tomorrow something would finally shift.

Or maybe… I’d just find something else to do.