'She's clearly knocked out. But her lips are also very pale, nearly blue. I begin to think something but then don't'

I’m leaning against the white plastic rail near the second-last hurdle at Wexford. The field for the Neville Hotels Ladies Handicap Hurdle is just cresting the home bend.

“We’re in with a chance here,” Danny chirps, slapping my arm. I bang the rail and give a shout of encouragement. Duchamps Art, a pint-sized four-year-old filly we bred together, is in contention as they race to the second-last. She jumps it well, and now we’re off the rail, growling, laughing and riding our own finishes as she starts to make ground down to the last. “We could win this!” The excitement builds as the rest of the crowd begin to cheer too. 

Bang. She leaves a leg trailing at the last, clips the top and fires Maite Laubies into the ground. Face first. Before cartwheeling herself. Thud.