The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  At the top of Downing Street the tourists still gathered behind the security gates, posing for photographs as commuters hurried past them, dodging, weaving, eager to return home after another busy day. Across Parliament Square, the quarter bells of Big Ben heralded the approaching hour as the giant minute hand crept towards its summit. Many people heard the first chime of the great bell, its familiar peal ringing out over London, announcing the hour of six o’clock.

  No-one heard the second.

  The sudden pulse of white light was brighter than a thousand suns. Microseconds later, a tremendous detonation ripped through the air, the pressure wave punching its way through the walls of Downing Street, through the Cabinet and Foreign Ministry buildings, hurling concrete, metal and flesh before it. Debris was thrown hundreds of feet into the sky, chased by a roiling ball of flame that reached high above the rooftops. Buildings shook and windows and ear drums were blown out for hundreds of yards around. As the earth trembled, a choking cloud of smoke and dust rolled across Whitehall, enveloping everything in a yellow fog, blinding and suffocating as it spilled across the roads and pavements. In the dreaded lull that followed, a rainstorm of twisted steel and stone crashed to earth, showering the streets with deadly wreckage.

  Alarm klaxons wailed into life across central London, filling the air with their chilling moan. In Downing Street, an enormous crater, several yards deep and filling rapidly with water from a cracked main, marked the spot where the silver Ford had parked only a moment before. Building facades on both sides of the street had been ripped away, exposing shattered interiors where small fires glowed, and a snowstorm of paper drifted on the dust-filled air.

  High above the rooftops, thousands of startled birds wheeled above the carnage in a black, screeching cloud.

  Aftermath

  Bryce regained consciousness slowly, his vision wavering between darkness and a strange, blurred world he didn’t recognise. He preferred the darkness. It was somehow warmer, more comforting, but a pounding ache in his lower jaw denied him the beckoning shadows. He opened his eyes, slowly, painfully, cuffing away the dust that clogged them. The first things he saw were his hands, black with soot and cut in numerous places. He felt dizzy and nauseous, and everything sounded muffled, as if his ears were blocked. After several confused moments he realised he was lying on his back on the floor of his study. But that was wrong, surely? The ceiling above was scarred and pitted, the crystal chandelier that usually hung from the centre of the room missing, his books scattered around him, covered in dust and filth, competing for space with jagged floorboards and splintered furniture.

  He forced himself to inspect the damage more carefully. Plaster had been stripped away from the shattered ceiling, exposing wires and cables that swung lazily like jungle vines. He turned his head. The windows overlooking the garden had been punched out and a gentle breeze swirled dust and soot around the remains of Bryce’s study. Through the blanket of partial deafness he heard the sound of roof tiles slithering and scraping above, then watched them sail past the windows before crashing onto the patio below. And he could smell gas. That wasn’t good. As his ears began to clear his first lucid thought was a gas blast. He tried to move, then realised he couldn’t. He was trapped.

  He struggled against a rising tide of fear and forced himself to study his immediate environs. He was surrounded by debris, enclosed by it, his suit covered in dust and blood. He took a deep breath that caught in his lungs and he coughed violently for several moments. He tried another, the ache in his chest signifying some sort of internal injury. He moved his arms slowly, shrugging off the plaster and pieces of timber until he could move his upper body freely. He ran his hands over his torso, probing carefully until he winced. A broken rib, perhaps two, on his right side. He moved his right leg, drawing his knee up. No pain, good, thanks no doubt to the heavy desk that partly shielded his body. His other leg wouldn’t move, trapped beneath a jumble of debris. He pulled weakly at his trouser leg but the limb was well and truly wedged. He noticed a large beam close by, lying parallel to his body, a heavy steel one, covered in thick black soot. Another few feet and he wouldn’t be breathing at all, that was for sure. The ache in his face persisted and he found his jaw, feeling carefully for damage. His fingers came away slick with blood. He turned and spat several times, trying to clear the dust and blood from his mouth. He probed his gums, his tongue slipping between the gaps where his teeth had been a short time ago. No wonder his whole head was splitting in pain. Bryce’s mind reeled as he tried to piece together the last few moments. He remembered hurrying back to the study, to retrieve the Heathrow dossier. Then he’d turned to leave when–

  What, exactly? He recalled a flash of light beneath the door, an ear-splitting bang, an earthquake that shook the ground beneath his feet. He’d felt the floor drop away only to rush back up and meet him. Then the world turned black.

  He had to get out of here. He pulled at his left leg again, but it was well and truly jammed beneath a pile of thick timbers sporting rusted, twisted nails. As his hearing returned to something like normality he became aware of the sound of breaking glass and distant sirens. He thought he could still smell gas. That must have been the cause of the explosion. He had to get outside.

  He called for help, the words rasping between toothless gums, his throat still thick with dust. He doubted anyone more than six feet away could hear him. He spat again, more blood, more dust. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, an inch at a time, mindful of the broken ribs and their proximity to his lungs. He lifted his chin, peering over the piles of rubble across the floor of his study – and his eyes widened in horror, his jaw sagging painfully in shock.

  Number Ten was devastated. The explosion had ripped a gaping fissure from the front of the building and every window had been blasted away. The floor to his study was still intact, along with a section of the landing outside, but beyond that the building was ruined. He searched for his secretary, saw her desk overturned, debris piled against the rear wall as if swept there by a giant’s broom. He thought he saw something pale amongst the carnage, a limb perhaps. He called again, the sound whistling through the gaps in his teeth, but no-one answered. Panting for breath, he turned away, looking across the street where the exterior wall of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had been peeled away by the blast, revealing blackened rooms and broken furniture. It reminded Bryce of a macabre doll’s house. On one of the floors a large table hung by two of its legs from the shattered floor above. As he watched, the floor timbers groaned and gave way, sending the table crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust and rubble.

  Closer, the staircase inside Number Ten marched up towards the roof as it had always done, the stairwell walls cracked and exposed but still standing, the balustrades dangling like broken teeth all the way to the top floor, where most of the roof was missing. Bryce was stunned, his head moving back and forth as he struggled to make sense of the scale of the damage. He vaguely recalled being told that Number Ten could withstand this sort of thing, that the famous front door alone took at least eight men to carry it, such was the strength of its construction. Bryce couldn’t even see the thing, as the front of the building had gone, the gap wide enough to drive several trucks through.

  His arms felt weak and he eased himself back to the floor. He fought the shock, forcing himself to relax. Nearly everyone had been downstairs: Ella, the Cabinet, the press, Downing Street staff. Why couldn’t he hear their shouts, their cries for help, for God’s sake? Am I the only one left? He heard more sirens but they still seemed distant. Where were the emergency services? Minutes had passed, maybe more. It was getting darker, he was alone, trapped, with no way of–

  He fumbled painfully inside his jacket, his fingers feeling for the cell phone buried in his pocket. He fished it out, checked its smooth silver body for damage. The screen sported a small crack but amazingly the device had survived, the coloured icons glowing in the gloom and the swirling dust. He thumbed the contacts button, scrollin
g through the list until the saw the name of the only senior minister he knew for sure hadn’t been in the building. He tapped the screen, lifted the device to his ear. A click, a hiss, then the wonderful sound of a distant ringing tone.

  Above the sirens wailing in the street outside, above the shouts that echoed around the marble atrium and the continuous squawk of radio transmissions, Tariq Saeed’s sensitive ear picked out the soft warble of his cell, the small device vibrating in his hand as his entourage of aides and security personnel swept into the lobby of the Euro Tower on Millbank. The pulse rippled up his arm and he glanced at the screen as he continued marching towards the bank of elevators ahead.

  Then he stopped suddenly.

  Around him the scrum of policemen braked sharply, boots squeaking on the polished floor. Saeed paid them no mind. Alive? Impossible. He was too close to the blast, had to be dead. Someone else, then? Doubtful. Consider every eventuality, plan for every improbability, he reminded himself. He muted the ring and turned to a senior police officer alongside him. He waved the device in the man’s face.

  ‘The cell networks. Should they still be operating?’

  The policeman shook his head. ‘The order has already been passed, Minister. Transmitter towers are being shut down as we speak.’

  ‘Then make it happen faster. The terrorists will take advantage of any chink in our armour.’

  ‘Immediately, Sir.’

  Saeed headed towards the elevator that waited to whisk him up to the Emergency Management Centre on the twenty-second floor. As armed guards crammed into the lift around him, the index finger of his right hand found the power button to his cell phone and held it down.

  Call ended.

  Bryce was confused, his head pounding. It rang, he was sure of it. Before he could punch the button again he heard a shout, then footsteps crunching through the rubble below. His heart leapt. He raised himself up, calling for help until his chest hurt, the word sounding like ‘helf’ through his broken teeth. He peered over a pile of bricks towards the shattered staircase as a head bobbed into view, then a set of shoulders, the form indistinct, masked by dust and cast in shadow. It was a man, wearing civilian clothes.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Bryce raised his arm, above the lip of the desk, above the rubble. ‘Over here!’

  The man scrambled towards him, stepping carefully over mounds of shattered bricks, splintered timbers and broken plaster.

  ‘Thank God,’ Bryce breathed.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  Bryce obeyed, the man’s manner immediately authoritative. He was in his late thirties, Bryce judged, his dark hair cut short and flecked with grey, the pale line of an old scar curving beneath his right eye. He wore a black polo shirt and khaki trousers, the ones with pockets down the legs. Quickly and carefully he cleared a space next to Bryce, kneeling down and shrugging a small rucksack off his back.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bryce gasped, ‘thank you.’

  ‘My name’s Mac,’ the man announced, snapping on a pair of purple latex gloves. An intricate tattoo covered his left forearm and a black digital watch glowed on his wrist. ‘Where are you hurt?’

  ‘My ribs. I think they’re broken.’ Bryce pointed to his bloody jaw. ‘I’ve lost some teeth. And my leg’s trapped.’

  Mac probed his head just above his right ear. Bryce winced. ‘You’ve got a nasty cut on the head, too. Did you lose consciousness at any time?’

  Bryce nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Ok, just relax,’ Mac said. He ripped Bryce’s shirt open at the torso, running his fingers gently over his ribcage. ‘Can’t feel any breaks. Does it hurt when you breathe?’

  Bryce nodded. ‘A little.’

  ‘Bruised probably.’ He rummaged inside his rucksack, retrieving a small green medical kit. He cleaned and dressed the head wound, wrapping a bandage around Bryce’s skull and securing it tightly. He opened a bottle of water, then gently eased Bryce’s head to the side. ‘Take a swill, spit it out.’

  Bryce did as he was told, watching the bloody mixture congeal in the dust below his chin. He felt Mac’s fingers holding his jaw, the other hand gently pushing balls of cotton wool into the gaps in his teeth.

  ‘No photo shoots for you for a while,’ he said. He inspected Bryce’s leg, then carefully shuffled along on his knees, testing the weight of the timbers, straining to move them. He produced a torch from his rucksack, waving it beneath the pile of debris, scanning the limb. ‘Can’t move it, but I don’t think you’ve suffered any major damage. Wiggle your toes for me.’

  Bryce did as he was told, feeling the digits moving in his shoe. ‘I can move them. That’s good, right?’

  Mac nodded. ‘Yep.’ He stared up at the ceiling, the sky above. Bryce followed his gaze and the sound of a helicopter filled the air. It buzzed into view, not far above the roof, the noise of the rotors hammering the walls, churning up a dust storm that whipped debris around the remains of the room. Dangling cables twisted violently and paper funnelled into the air. The searing shafts of a search light lanced through the building at crazy angles, slicing through a sandstorm of dust and debris. Mac leaned over, shielding Bryce with his body until the sound of the rotors receded.

  ‘Fucking morons,’ Mac cursed, spitting dust from his mouth. ‘Probably a news crew. Could have brought the building down.’ As if to punctuate Mac’s words, a sudden avalanche of debris thundered close by and dust billowed up from the remains of the lobby, filling the room with choking black filth.

  ‘Got to get you out of here,’ coughed Mac. ‘I need help, though. That leg won’t move and neither will those timbers.’ He swivelled around, his neck craning above the rubble. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’

  ‘I thought – aren’t you part of the emergency services?’ Bryce stuttered. ‘A doctor perhaps?’

  Mac shook his head. ‘No, I’m just a civvy. I was in the tube station at Westminster when the bomb went off. Ran over, to see if I could help. Everyone else ran the other way, police included. They must know something we don’t.’

  Bryce lifted his head off the floorboards. ‘Bomb?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Mac said. ‘I had to skirt the crater to get in here. Bloody massive. Car bomb, no doubt.’

  ‘But I can smell gas.’

  ‘Probably a cracked main somewhere. It also explains the lack of emergency response. There must be a secondary device.’

  Bryce stared again at his saviour. ‘You sound like you’ve got experience in all this.’

  Mac pulled his own cell from his trouser pocket. ‘Ex-Royal Marine. Two tours in Afghan, one of them with the UN during the Kabul uprising. Car bombs were two a penny back then.’ He held up his phone. ‘See, no signal. They’ve cut comms, as a precaution.’ He tucked the device back into his pocket then stood up, taking a careful step towards what was left of the landing.

  Bryce panicked. ‘Where are you going?’ His eyes caught a movement above, something bright drifting past the shattered roof, darting beneath the blackened rafters. A burning ember floating on an updraft, soon joined by another, then several more. A plume of smoke funnelled past the jagged breach. Something was on fire. Bryce stared in horror at the mountain of dry timbers, the piles of books that surrounded him. ‘Listen Mac, I don’t care what you have to do, just get me out of here.’

  Mac saw the embers too, sniffed the air. He didn’t say a word, just stepped over Bryce and tried again to shift the timbers that pinned him. He strained and struggled, teeth clenched, the veins in his neck bulging, sweat glistening on his face. Nothing moved.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he panted, slapping the dirt from his hands. ‘I can’t shift it. The floor’s partially collapsed beneath your leg. I think that’s what saved it, but all this shit on top has got it trapped.’ His head swivelled this way and that, searching. He picked up a thick piece of timber, inserted it next to Bryce’s trapped limb and braced his hands along its length, like a power lifter about to explode into action. He blew his cheeks out hard and at
tempted to stand, back straight, knuckles turning white as he gripped the wood. Bryce felt a timber against his leg shift slightly. Glowing embers began to swirl through the building, a swarm of deadly fireflies that drifted on the evening breeze, tumbling through the debris and settling on the dry kindling that lay all around.

  Bryce’s eyes widened in fear. ‘For Christ’s sake, hurry up Mac!’

  Millbank

  Tariq Saeed stood silently at the full-length window on the twenty-second floor of the Euro Tower, watching the pall of dense black smoke rise above the Westminster skyline. Despite the chaos around him he was distinctly unruffled, his black hair neatly parted to the side, his beard trimmed close, immaculate in a navy blue pinstripe suit and a pale blue tie that matched the colour of his eyes, as if he’d picked it out for that very reason. He hadn’t, of course. The blue eyes were a physical characteristic that occasionally brought him personal shame, a reminder that, somewhere in his distant past, an ancestor – a woman, no doubt – had disgraced herself and the family name by lying with a foreigner. Or perhaps she’d been raped, a common enough occurrence during Europe’s sordid colonial escapades, but a disgrace nonetheless. Honour decreed that death should have followed, preferably by the hands of a family member, and yet somehow the infected gene had been passed down through the generations, bestowing on Saeed a childhood of playground bullying, an adolescence of female interest, an adulthood of envy and suspicion. He stood out from the crowd, both physically and intellectually, had married a beautiful woman, siring three healthy boys, all blessed with their mother’s dark brown eyes. If they could see him now, if they were old enough to understand what was in his heart, they would feel pride in their father’s achievements.