Shadows crept across the wall. Bloody buggers, shadows. They whispered Del was an old man, showing him his fake leg, walking stick and the unnatural curve of his back. Just an old gambler in a decrepit nursing home that looked older than him.
He still could spot the right horse. Only got caught once, at a track in the US. They hit him so hard his leg shattered. That day he lost his independence and gained an old carved walking stick.
His days in the nursing home were spent waiting for Saturdays. His son would pick him up in his new Mercedes and they’d travel to one of the UK race tracks, closely followed by his two grandsons in his old BMW. Each grandson placed one moderate bet, always on a longshot he’d chosen beforehand.
Being old was his perfect disguise. His tattered tweed cap, soft lisp, and frail-looking body never failed to guarantee him a spot in the front rows.
All he then needed was a moment to connect with the horse of his choice. A softly whispered spell, a flick of the wrist, and the horse flew across the track as if chased by the devil.

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