The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  ‘And now for a news update,’ continued the woman, adjusting her glasses, the navy-blue veil framing her oval face. ‘Prime Minister Hooper has met with President Dupont and representatives from the Islamic Congress of Europe in Brussels to discuss the security situation and the threat to Muslim communities across the continent. In a statement issued earlier today, both the President and the Prime Minister have pledged to tackle rising Islamophobia and are considering amendments to existing hate crime legislation, a move welcomed by leaders of the Congress. In a communiqué issued by the EU Commission a short while ago...’

  Danny choked on his lager, coughing violently. He rocked forward on his chair, thumping the glass on the table. ‘Jesus Christ, more legislation,’ he shouted at the screen. ‘Won’t be able to breathe without getting nicked–’

  ‘Keep it down,’ growled the landlord.

  ‘...after an extended session in the European Parliament, during which Turkish MEPs called on the British government to reconsider its longstanding opposition to the Treaty of Cairo as a gesture of reconciliation towards greater European harmony. In London, the new Cabinet was formerly approved by British and EU officials and, during a short speech outside the Euro Tower in Millbank, Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Saeed welcomed the Turkish statement and declared that the new government was dedicated to the European Union’s policy of expansion and peaceful integration. Later, Minister Saeed and several other senior figures visited the King Edward the Seventh hospital in Marylebone, where Gabriel Bryce is undergoing treatment for injuries sustained in the blast. A hospital spokeswoman announced his condition as serious but stable...’

  ‘Peaceful integration? What a joke,’ spat Danny. He shoved back his chair in disgust and headed towards the lavatory. Bloody BBC, he seethed. Ministry of Propaganda more like. He waded across the piss-covered floor and relieved himself, a familiar vein of anger replacing the fear and apprehension that had plagued him since Luton. He remembered a time when veils were only seen during the BBC’s Middle East hour, or during Rama-bloody-dan. Now they were everywhere, even on kid’s shows.

  He wandered over to the sink, checked his reflection. He looked tired, dark circles framing his bloodshot eyes. That would be a lack of sleep and the recent excess of dope. His hair needed a cut and a shave wouldn’t go amiss, either. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah, it was probably a good move anyway, smarten his act up, change his appearance a little, just in case. He yanked the lavatory door open and stepped out into the bar.

  ‘...a powerful compound used almost exclusively in military applications, according to government forensic officers. So far the death toll at Luton has reached one hundred and four with two hundred and seventy injured, many seriously. Over forty of the dead were Egyptian tourists who’d travelled from London on a day trip to visit the mosque...’

  Danny froze, fear gripping his insides like a cold vice. The shattered remains of the Luton Mosque filled the screen, its walls reduced to piles of smoking rubble, the dome tilted at a jarring angle. He looked around the bar. Everyone was riveted to the news bulletin.

  Run, Danny...

  On the screen the image changed to an aerial shot of Whitehall, the road clogged with police vehicles, ambulances and digging equipment. The Foreign and Cabinet Offices were reduced to piles of blackened rubble and ant-like figures scurried over the debris that was once Downing Street. Only a few walls remained, the teetering brickwork propped with steel supports. In the daylight, the size of the bomb crater and the sheer scale of the devastation brought a gasp from the punters around the bar.

  ‘...according to Counter Terrorist Command, and has uncovered strong links between the explosives used in both the Luton attack and the blast that destroyed Downing Street, resulting in a further one hundred and seventy-eight deaths, many of them serving members of the government. Police have issued an image of a man wanted in connection with the attack. Thirty-eight year old Daniel Whelan, from London, was captured on CCTV cameras at the Luton Mosque shortly before...’

  Danny was horrified to see his picture flash up behind the newsreader, superimposed over a shot of the hostel in Acton as a dozen armed police officers poured inside the shabby building. He dragged his eyes away from the TV, saw the drinkers around the bar looking at each other in disbelief.

  ‘Was that Danny boy?’

  ‘Can’t be.’

  ‘They’ve made a mistake, bruv.’

  ‘He’s here somewhere…’

  Lost in the shadows, Danny moved towards the main door, head low, legs like jelly, squeezing behind the punters still glued to the news broadcast. He glimpsed the landlord’s puzzled face, the eyes that registered the empty table, the jacket over the chair, the glass of unfinished lager. The roughnecks stood in a tight group in the middle of the floor, pool cues in hand, heads swivelling around the room, bodies like coiled springs. The bar was quiet, the mood of the crowd still doubtful, yet Danny felt the sudden change, the tension that charged the air like static electricity. He kept moving, shoulder to the wall, head down, avoiding all bodily contact. He reached the main door, pushed it open, moving past the oblivious bouncer as the newsreader’s words chased him from the premises:

  ‘...rightwing organisation, with previous convictions for the distribution of banned literature. The Metropolitan Police has offered a substantial reward for information leading to Whelan’s arrest. Meanwhile, tributes to the victims of the Luton attack continue to pour in from across the Islamic world...’

  Run, Danny. RUN!

  Cold fear snapped at his heels. Danny twisted through the graffiti-strewn labyrinth of the estate, arms and legs pumping, trainers slapping noisily on the pavement, his heart pounding as he sprinted through canyons of grey concrete. He reached his block in less than two minutes, yanking open the security door with a fumbling hand and staggering against the wall inside, his breath coming in heaving rasps.

  Then he heard them.

  The rumble of feet on the pavement, the whoops of excitement echoing around the towers. They were coming for him, knew where his dad lived. He was trapped. C’mon, Danny, think!

  He stared through the mesh-covered door and saw the first of them running towards the tower block, the roughnecks coming hard and fast, pool cues in their hands. On instinct, Danny threw himself back against the wall and made for the elevator control room a few yards away. The lock was always broken, the machinery within providing a warm environment for users to get fucked-up in. He ducked inside and pulled the door to, punching the overhead light switch. He held his breath in the darkness and peered through the smallest of cracks as the roughnecks bundled inside the building, ignoring the broken lifts and heading up the stairs, a blur of hoodies and baseball caps, the air punctuated with chilling howls and guttural cries. He watched the last of them flash past, the stampede receding as they climbed higher up the stairwell. Young and reasonably fit they may be, but twelve floors was an effort for anyone.

  Danny listened carefully until he was sure the lobby was deserted. He crept out of the machine room and back onto the estate, sick with fear, the guilt of leaving his dad at the mercy of the pack compounding his anxiety. He couldn’t think about that now, had to get away fast.

  He dropped down a flight of stairs into an underground car park, a black, rubbish-strewn chamber lit only by ghostly shafts of yellow light, a graveyard of stripped-down, burnt-out vehicles. He hesitated only for a second, then moved through it quickly, bounding up another concrete staircase at the far end. Another alleyway, then he was lost in the darkness of the park, loping across the open space and into the trees on the other side. He stopped, crouching in the bushes, his breath coming in painful heaves. He heard more shouts, saw another posse hunting him, flashlights probing around the tower blocks, flicking across the open spaces for signs of flight. Danny edged further back into the undergrowth, watching their frantic movements as they charged along balconies and thundered down staircases, their cries of frustration echoing across the park, desperate villagers armed with
flaming torches, seeking out the monster in their midst.

  He’d seen enough. He turned his back on them, on the Longhill estate and the life he knew, and disappeared into the trees.

  King Edward the Seventh Hospital, London

  Somewhere in the darkness Bryce heard a noise. It was an indistinct sound at first, a low murmur lurking somewhere on the outer edges of his consciousness. Then he heard another sound, rather like the first, but pitched slightly higher. Voices. Yes, that was it, voices, out there in the shifting shadows. He could hear them talking, the words unintelligible, muffled, like they were speaking under a blanket. He felt himself moving towards them, the blackness slowly turning to grey, then a milky whiteness. The voices belonged to two dark shapes, directly ahead, very close. They spoke quietly, almost whispering, and Bryce still couldn’t make out what they were saying. Other indistinct objects suddenly morphed into familiar forms. He saw a large TV, a picture frame on the wall, an empty chair by the window. The voices fell silent. Bryce slowly turned his head, heard the familiar metallic clatter of his chart at the end of the bed, caught a glimpse of a man leaving the room, the door closing with a soft click. His eyes snapped fully open and he balled his fists, rubbing the sleep from them, yawning loudly as he finally returned to the land of the living.

  Which was funny, because he didn’t feel very alive. In fact, since he’d been in hospital he’d felt disconnected from the real world, drifting in and out of consciousness, a sensation rather like an out of body experience, he imagined. He felt no pain, only fatigue. He couldn’t stay awake longer than an hour or two, his limbs like lead, his eyelids often struggling to stay open. He was told he needed to rest, the cocktail of drugs that seeped into his veins fighting the infections, bolstering his immune system, feeding his battered body. Rest, the consultant ordered, rest the nurse insisted, rest the orderly advised. All he did was rest.

  He turned towards the window, where the view was distinctly uninspiring; a windowless building blocking out most of the natural light, the brickwork streaked with rain patches, the thin sliver of sky above grey and forbidding. The room itself was comfortable enough, if a little too warm, with all the trappings a private hospital offered. There was a wall-mounted TV opposite his bed, a sofa and two chairs for visitors, a fridge, and a well-appointed private bathroom near the door to his right. Tasteful artwork adorned the walls, a mixture of Edwardian landscapes and eclectic post-modern pieces, and an abundance of flowers from well-wishers filled vases on every shelf and sideboard. A luxury dressing gown with a royal crest embroidered onto the breast pocket hung from a hook behind the door and Bryce yearned for the strength to stand upright, to wrap the garment around his body and venture outside his heavily-guarded room. If only he had the strength.

  He’d lain immobile for over a week, surrounded by IV drips and clear plastic tubes, wired up to meters and monitors that recorded his pressures, beats and temperatures and God knew what else. He had a needle feeding fluids into a fat vein in his left hand, while a crescent of tiny suckers clamped to his chest monitored his heart. A catheter was inserted in his penis (he was glad he’d been unconscious for that one) and a large dressing covered the wound to his thigh. To the left of the bed, an impressive bank of electronic equipment displayed a confusing array of information that Bryce didn’t even pretend to understand. Instead, he was just thankful to be alive.

  During his brief periods of consciousness he’d seen the images on TV, the devastation of Downing Street, the horror of Luton. It was worse for them, the worshippers at the mosque. Politicians represented the establishment, a target for all manner of terrorists over the centuries, but to destroy a mosque, a holy place, where men, women and children gathered in the eyes of God – Allah, he corrected himself – was unthinkable. How people could ever contemplate such an act was beyond Bryce’s comprehension.

  He’d seen Jacob Hooper on the newscasts, a natural choice for temporary leader given the circumstances, but perhaps a little overbearing. Yet it was Tariq’s presence at Millbank that bothered him. He’d proved himself to be unworthy of high office, was on the brink of backbench obscurity; yet there he was, either at Jacob’s side during the press conferences or making statements in the heavily-guarded Houses of Parliament. Deputy Prime Minister indeed. It was wrong.

  Bryce often chastised himself for such unpleasant thoughts when he should be rejoicing that his old comrade had survived. And the new Cabinet, well, there were some good choices and some strange ones. Nearly a quarter of the newly promoted ministers were Muslim MPs, some of them blatantly unqualified for such high office Bryce believed, yet it wasn’t his decision and clearly the continuity of government had to be maintained. Besides, Bryce consoled himself with the fact that the Muslim community would be reassured by such a strong presence in the heart of the administration and he looked forward to meeting them all on his return, if only he could keep his eyes open long enough to ever get out of bed.

  The door opened and the orderly Suleyman entered, manoeuvring a trolley beside Bryce’s bed. He had the typical complexion of a Turk: olive skin and black eyes, with a permanent shadow of a beard on his face and neck. He greeted Bryce with a warm smile.

  ‘Morning, Mr Gabriel,’ he beamed in a cheery London accent. He wore a maroon tunic and black trousers, a goldcoloured plastic name badge pinned above his left breast pocket. Bryce guessed that he took part in some kind of recreational sport, the wide shoulders and muscular arms testament to a regime of intensive physical activity. He really should ask him about it, after all Suleyman seemed to be a permanent fixture in his room these days. Setting the brake on the trolley, the younger man tilted his head to one side and gave a small bow. ‘Breakfast is served.’ He removed the stainless steel plate cover with a flourish, a small ring of steam rolling up towards the ceiling. ‘Porridge, scrambled egg, juice. No hot beverages, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Bryce replied without enthusiasm. The drowsiness and the protective gum guard he wore combined to slur his words. He plucked the guard from his mouth and made a conscious effort to form his speech coherently. ‘Suleyman, someone was in here a minute ago, doctors I think. Who were they?’

  The Turk frowned. He glanced around the room, as if the people Bryce referred to could still be present. ‘In here?’

  ‘Yes, a few moments ago. Perhaps you passed them in the corridor? Or maybe they’re still at the nurses’ station?’

  The orderly shook his closely-cropped head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s only me and nurse Orla on duty today.’

  ‘What about the policeman outside? He must have seen them.’

  Suleyman shrugged and cocked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s no one out there. Shift change, I think.’

  Bryce tutted. ‘Well, someone was here. Maybe they were consultants.’

  ‘Probably,’ the orderly agreed, pumping up the pillows behind Bryce’s shoulders. He positioned a tray across Bryce’s lap and served up the food, placing a plastic spoon in his hand. ‘Come on, eat up,’ he smiled.

  Bryce toyed with the food, forcing himself to swallow several mouthfuls. It was a struggle. Although the eggs were delicious and the orange juice freshly squeezed, Bryce didn’t feel very hungry. It was as if he’d just come out of a coma, his head still thick with sleep, his stomach not quite ready to begin digesting food. What he wouldn’t give for a strong pot of tea or coffee, anything to blast away the fog of fatigue that smothered his brain. Caffeine aside, what he wanted was a chance to wake up, get a little fresh air before breakfast perhaps, maybe some exercise. Any exercise, in fact.

  He pushed the eggs away as Suleyman fussed around the room, emptying the wastepaper basket and tidying the magazines on the coffee table. Fatigue notwithstanding, Bryce certainly felt better. The pain that had wracked his body had been reduced to a few minor aches, the excruciating sensitivity of his missing teeth soothed by the remedial dental repairs. His ribs no longer hurt, the broken nose would soon be reconstructed, and he cou
ld move his leg a little more every day. The cuts and lacerations across his body had all been cleaned and dressed many times. He was healing nicely, he’d been told. Before too long he’d be back in charge, sitting behind his new desk on the twenty-sixth floor of the Euro Tower on Millbank. He was looking forward to his first day, although things were never going to be the same.

  There’d been so much death. Friends, colleagues, Downing Street staff. Many of the Muslim victims had already been buried and he’d briefly caught Rana Hassani’s funeral on the news, the streets of Slough swamped, the noisy outpouring of grief, the anger of the young that had resulted in the firebombing of two pubs near the town centre. There’d be more funerals to come, a public service to commemorate the deceased, a day of national mourning, proposals for the bomb site. So much to do, so much to take care of. Bryce wanted to be a part of it and yet his enforced banishment to a heavily-guarded private hospital ward was somehow comforting, cocooned as he was from the chaos of the world outside.

  He thought of Ella, lying in her own personal Hell. She’d been found in a bathroom, buried under a mountain of rubble. When Bryce had gone upstairs to retrieve the Heathrow dossier, she must have used the opportunity to answer a call of nature, an action that had saved her life. She was one of only a few survivors from Downing Street and yet she had failed to regain consciousness. The last he’d heard she was still in a deep coma in the intensive care unit at St. Thomas’. Her injuries were extensive, the news bulletin had reported, not least those to her spine. Tears of frustration had stained Bryce’s cheeks. Why did he have to hear everything from the news? Where was Hooper? Why wasn’t he being briefed during his periods of lucidity?

  He was about to ask Suleyman to turn on the TV when the door opened and nurse Orla entered the room. She wore a uniform of light blue, a crisp double-buttoned tunic and trousers that strained against her heavy frame, her hair knotted in a tight auburn bun at the nape of her neck. Bryce didn’t care for her too much. He thought her attitude was a little stern, almost indifferent. As if to reinforce that view, nurse Orla didn’t utter a single word as she marched around his bed to inspect the monitors. Her practised fingers danced across the displays, and she made the ‘mmm’ sound several times. Bryce noticed all medical professionals seemed to make that noncommittal, faintly annoying sound. Perhaps it was taught to them in medical school, the students spending whole lessons on how to make patients feel ill at ease.