The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  ‘Cheers, Joe,’ the man said in a harsh London accent. ‘Get rid of the bike, please. And that awful jacket.’

  Danny quickly pulled his raincoat off and handed it to Joe, who trudged back around the side of the house.

  ‘Joe’s my sister’s boy. She’s fucking useless, heroin addict, but he’s a smart lad, looks after my interests. Ex-army, like you. Lost a lot of friends over in Afghanistan, all on the same chopper. One of the only survivors. Very sad that, don’t you think?’

  The man waved Danny into a chair opposite and Danny eyed Nelson warily as he sat down on the cold metal seat. His thin body shivered in the wind.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you like this, Mr Carver. I didn’t know where else to go.’

  Raymond Carver, ex-chairman and founder of the English Freedom Movement, laid a reassuring hand on Danny’s arm. Danny looked down at the thick, well-manicured fingers that patted his goose-pimpled skin. His eyes travelled upwards, past the heavy gold Rolex, to the chunky gold necklace that nestled in the dark hair beneath his open neck shirt. He’d only ever seen the man once before, from a distance, at a rally in a field in Kent. Ray Carver was a big man in the flesh, a hard man, a street fighter in his younger days, a businessman, politician, self-made millionaire. Danny had never been more intimidated.

  ‘Don’t worry, Danny. Can I call you Danny?’

  Danny nodded, searching the older man’s craggy face, his eyes impossible to read behind the gold-rimmed sunglasses. ‘Sure, Mr Carver.’

  ‘Let’s cut the formal bullshit, shall we? Ray or Raymond, whichever you like.’

  ‘Ok.’

  Carver puffed several times on his cigar, studying the tip that glowed like a hot coal. ‘No-one knows you’re here, right Danny? You didn’t tell anyone you were coming? Anyone at all?’

  ‘Didn’t have a chance even if I wanted to, Mr – I mean, Ray. Some people in the village saw me though. I don’t think I was recognised.’

  Carver leaned back in his chair, blue smoke swirling around his mouth. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them. Many of us share the same ideals, if you understand my meaning. We live quietly, discreetly. Privacy is highly valued in Marshbrook.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Carver held out his hand. ‘I need your ID card. And your cell phone.’

  ‘I dumped them.’

  ‘You know they can track those things, don’t you? It’s the chip.’

  Danny looked bemused. ‘Yeah, I – can they?’

  ‘Course. Where exactly?’

  ‘Where what?’

  ‘Where did you dump them? C’mon, quickly.’

  So Danny explained. When he finished, Carver nodded several times, apparently satisfied. ‘How did you get here, son?’

  ‘I walked, mostly.’

  Carver stared at him for a moment and then said: ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I swear, Mr Carver. I followed the train lines for most of the way. Took a bus into Watford.’

  Carver leaned forward, tapping the grey embers of his cigar into a large cut glass ashtray. ‘Police have got every transport hub covered across the whole country. Your picture’s everywhere: TV, news billboards, papers. It even flashed up on the Bentley’s console the other day.’

  ‘That’s why I cut my hair, let my beard grow. I was careful, Mr Carver. I stayed out of sight.’

  ‘Ray.’

  ‘Sorry. Ray.’

  The older man balanced his cigar in the ashtray and dragged his chair closer to the table. He produced a small notepad and pen from his pocket, flipping it open to a blank page. ‘Alright, Danny. From the moment you decided to run I want to know what happened. Every route you took, people you saw, where you slept, ate, took a shit, everything. From the beginning.’

  Danny told him, his thin arms wrapped around his body. He was freezing, the sharp breeze gusting across the terrace, cutting through his damp t-shirt and filthy dungarees. Carver seemed oblivious to his shivering, to the tremble in his voice, scribbling away on the pad as he recorded every detail of the escape. He’s a careful man, Danny told himself, knowing the interrogation was necessary. Because that’s what this was, an interrogation. Carver had asked the same questions several times, forcing Danny to repeat himself through chattering teeth. He willed himself to concentrate, focussing on his answers, recalling the details of his journey north. Carver referred to his notes constantly, his inquiries delivered in a quick-fire fashion.

  ‘The bloke on the bus, the driver. What was he wearing again?’

  ‘An earring,’ Danny chattered.

  ‘What else? You mentioned something else.’

  ‘Er, gloves. With no fingers. The weight-training ones.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Black.’

  Danny watched Ray mark a line of notes with another small tick. That was a good sign. If Ray felt safe then he’d be more inclined to help him, right? He had to be totally honest, one hundred per cent kosher. For thirty minutes Danny answered every one of Ray’s questions with as much speed and accuracy as he could muster. Eventually Carver said: ‘You’re sure that’s everything?’

  ‘Positive.’ Danny shivered violently, his arms tucked inside the bib of his dungarees. He was silent for a moment, then he said: ‘I didn’t do it, Ray. I didn’t know it was a bomb.’

  Carver shrugged, shoving the notepad in his pocket. ‘No-one’s accusing you, Danny.’

  ‘The people on my estate, they were hunting me like a dog.’

  ‘Every one of them a fucking Judas,’ Carver spat. ‘Forget them. You can’t go back there, anyway.’

  ‘Mind your blood pressure, Raymond,’ giggled a voice from the French doors. Danny saw an older woman step out onto the terrace and waddle towards them, her silver hair cut fashionably short, a heavy parka wrapped around her voluminous frame. Like Ray she was well-tanned, her ready smile dazzlingly white.

  ‘There she is, ear-wigging again,’ Carver chuckled. ‘Danny, this is my wife, Tess.’

  ‘Mrs Carver,’ trembled Danny.

  ‘Tess will do just fine,’ she smiled. In her hand she held a black puffer jacket, the other shading her eyes from the bright sunlight. Her wrists were heavy with bangles that chimed musically as she moved.

  ‘Where’s your sunnies?’ Carver frowned. ‘All that squinting will make your lines worse.’

  She turned towards Danny and pulled a face. ‘He’s such a flatterer, isn’t he? Here, you must be freezing.’ Danny almost snatched the jacket from her outstretched hand and tugged it on over his t-shirt. He sat back down, tucking his chin deep inside its warm folds. He felt Tess’s eyes on him.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Danny,’ she said. She held out her hand and Danny grasped it, mumbling an embarrassed greeting. ‘Love the new look, by the way.’

  Danny ran his hand across his stubbly head. ‘I didn’t really–’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tidy that up for you. Used to cut hair for a living years ago. That’s how I met Ray. Course, he had some back then.’ She gave her husband’s head an affectionate rub.

  ‘Any news?’ Carver asked his wife.

  Her smile disappeared and she nodded gravely, as if announcing the death of a sick relative. ‘It’s all about Cairo now. The French came in with a deal sweetener late last night, something to do with future power station construction. Media are all over it.’

  Carver snorted loudly, clamping his teeth around the soggy end of his cigar and firing it up with a gold lighter. ‘And so it begins,’ he growled, coaxing the burning tip with pursed lips.

  ‘We’re not done yet, Raymond.’

  Carver looked at his wife, smiled, and took her hand in his, kissing it gently. ‘Ever the optimist, that’s my Tess.’ He cocked his head toward Danny. ‘What about our guest?’

  ‘Item number three on the BBC, five on Sky. Cairo’s knocked him off the top slot.’

  ‘That’s good. What else?’

  ‘Joe’s taken the pickup, gone to have a look around the village and
beyond for any unusual traffic and suchlike.’

  ‘I want him to take a trip into Watford, check for any activity around the hospital. Danny got off a bus there,’ he explained. ‘The law will be all over that place if they’ve got a sniff.’

  Tess pulled a cell from her pocket. ‘I’ll ring him now.’

  Carver shook his head. ‘Not on the phone, love. From now on, no phones, no texts or tweets, nothing. Mundane, everyday stuff only.’ He turned to Danny, exhaling a thick waft of smoke. ‘Ok, son, you’ll stay here for now, but keep out of sight. Tess’ll tidy you up, sort your hair out. Keep the beard, though. Later on we’ll talk about the next step.’ Carver reached out and patted Danny on the arm. ‘You’re among friends now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ echoed Tess, ‘you’re quite safe here.’ She brightened suddenly, tucking her hands beneath her armpits and stamping her fur-booted feet. ‘God, it’s freezing. I’m going to run upstairs, sort out some clothes for our guest.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Tess leaned over her husband, planted a wet kiss on his head and waddled back to the house before disappearing inside. Danny thought he could still hear her bangles even after the door had closed.

  Carver stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray then glanced at his Rolex. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your digs.’ He got to his feet, hitching the waistband of his jeans up beneath the bulge of his belly. He pointed to Danny’s feet. ‘Kick those things off before you come in the house, son.’

  Danny slipped his filthy trainers off and padded after Carver through the French doors, delighting in the unexpected warmth of the floor tiles, then marvelling at the size and the hi-tech, marble opulence of the kitchen. He followed Carver through a huge reception room where every wall, every shelf and sideboard seemed to have some reference to historical England, from the medieval paintings and antique maps that littered the walls to the ornate bookshelves crammed with gold-leafed, leather-bound volumes. In the wide entrance hall, a gleaming suit of armour silently guarded the main door, the symbolic shield with its three lions passant clamped between its metal gauntlets. Carver rapped the shield with his knuckles as he passed.

  ‘Look familiar?’ he chuckled.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Danny, rubbing his arm self-consciously.

  ‘Never was one for body art myself. You know tattooists are supposed to report political artwork to the authorities, right?’

  Danny looked pained. ‘Yeah, but the bloke was kosher, Ray. Known him for years.’

  ‘What, like the others on your estate?’ Carver sneered over his shoulder.

  Danny didn’t reply. Instead he said: ‘Lovely house.’

  ‘Car dealerships aren’t the cash cow they used to be,’ said Carver, grabbing a set of keys from a hook behind the front door. ‘Got out at the right time. Sold the lot.’

  Danny hobbled painfully behind Carver across the gravel driveway, then followed him up a flight of stairs behind the car port. Carver unlocked the door and led him inside, pushing the sunglasses on top of his head.

  ‘This is the guest apartment. You’ll be comfortable here.’

  Danny looked around the self-contained accommodation, impressed by the modern furniture, the neat kitchen with its full complement of hi-tech appliances, the double bedroom with a view that overlooked the rambling grounds. ‘Are you sure, Ray? I don’t want to cause you any trouble.’

  Carver’s cold grey eyes regarded him unblinkingly. ‘Keep it clean, that’s all I ask. Now, there’s a phone in the kitchen with a pre-programmed number for the house. Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency. And for fuck’s sake, don’t call anyone. Understand?’ Danny nodded. ‘There’s some books and magazines on the shelf there and you’ve got the TV. It’s fully cabled up. Don’t browse the net, though, not for anything. Tess’ll bring a bit of shopping over later so you can cook some grub. When it’s dark we’ll go for a walk around the estate, stretch your legs, get a bit of fresh air. Get to know one another.’

  Carver picked up the TV remote and switched it on. He handed it to Danny. ‘There you go.’ The TV hummed into life. Long-range images of the southern end of Whitehall filled the large screen, a LIVE caption running in the top right-hand corner. It was an unrecognisable landscape of shattered and blackened buildings shrouded in clouds of dust. In the foreground, covering the grass in Parliament Square, a small village of white tents had been erected. The newsreader filled in the blanks: the temporary structures housed rescue management, a casualty clearing station and a provisional morgue.

  Carver shook his head. ‘Every time I see that it makes my heart break.’ The scene on the TV switched suddenly to a press conference, the caption reading: Millbank, London. The camera was fixed on several empty chairs positioned behind a table with the European Union flag draped across it. In the foreground the press corps gathered, heads bobbing at the bottom of the screen. An explosion of camera flashes announced the arrival of Prime Minister Hooper. He took the middle seat as senior European ministers occupied the other chairs.

  ‘Here we go,’ Carver announced ominously. On the screen an aide scampered forward, activating the microphone on the table in front of Hooper, then retreated out of sight.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ the Prime Minister began. ‘I want to start by offering my condolences to the families of the victims whose bodies were discovered in Whitehall this morning…’

  ‘Over two hundred now,’ Carver reported. ‘Let’s see how long it takes before they mention you.’

  ‘…these systematic attacks in an effort to destabilise the country. As a nation, as Europeans, we cannot allow this to happen...’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Carver growled.

  ‘...and therefore the regional government of the United Kingdom has taken the decision to join our European partners and ratify the Treaty of Cairo, a historic piece of legislation that will further harmonise our nations and bring peace and economic prosperity to the continent. Anything less will send a signal to our enemies...’

  ‘Peace in our time, eh?’ scoffed Carver. The broadcast lasted for another few minutes and then the scene changed to a reporter standing in front of the pyramids outside Cairo. Behind him a giant stage was in the final stages of construction. ‘Jesus, look at the size of that,’ Carver exclaimed.

  ‘...a huge demonstration here in Cairo later today, in response to the attack on the mosque in Luton. The British government, in line with other EU countries, has called for greater understanding between communities across Europe and President Dupont himself has demanded the drafting of new legislation that will protect Europe’s Muslim citizens from…’

  ‘What a surprise,’ Carver sneered, ‘more bloody laws. Remember the fuss over ID cards? Never, they said. Now you carry one or else. DNA databases, remote hacking, international arrest warrants; people laughed at me years ago when I warned them. Now they’re the norm.’ He snatched the remote from Danny’s hand and turned off the TV. ‘That’s enough of that. Still, you’re off the top slot, which is good.’

  Danny stared at his own reflection in the TV screen. Coming here had solved his immediate problem but the truth was he was placing the lives of decent people in serious danger. If he was caught here they’d all go to prison for sure. So what if he’d been a member of the Movement? Did that give him the right to just turn up, impose on these people who clearly felt sorry for him, felt a duty to help, regardless of their own safety? No, it was a stupid idea. Despite the fuss over Cairo there was still a manhunt in progress, a price on his head, a fortune to be made for the right person who knew of his whereabouts. All it took was one phone call and it’d all be over. No, he had to keep moving. Somewhere, deep inside, he still had a little pride left.

  ‘Listen Ray, thanks for your hospitality, but on second thoughts I should get going, maybe tomorrow, after it gets dark. I don’t want to take the piss, but I’ll need some supplies. You know, food, a bit of money.’

  Carver frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Just to tide me over un
til I find somewhere else. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. You could all go away for this.’

  Carver took Danny by the arm. ‘Nonsense, son. No-one’s asking you to leave. Besides, you’re safer here than out there.’

  ‘They know I was in the Movement, Ray. They might come here, question you and Tess.’

  Carver shrugged his large shoulders. ‘So what? The Movement was disbanded a long time ago and I swore an oath in front of my barrister and a county court judge, disassociating myself from the organisation and all and any of its members. You must remember that, Danny. It was all over the news.’

  Danny stared at his damp, stockinged feet. ‘I remember.’

  ‘You think I was a traitor too, right son?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘I didn’t know what to think, Ray. I was gutted, I remember that much. I’d not long joined, see.’

  ‘It was the right move,’ Carver explained. ‘The authorities were clamping down on nationalist groups anyway, so it was only a matter of time. I pre-empted their bullshit, resigned my chairmanship, took a legal position. I protected myself, Danny, sang from their poisonous multicultural hymn sheet. I even made a donation to the Pakistan Relief Fund, signed the pledge alongside that Muslim MP down in Watford. D’you know how much that hurt? No, they won’t come here.’ Carver laid a meaty paw on Danny’s thin shoulder, his eyes like steel pebbles, his large frame blocking out the light from the window. ‘And even if they did, they’d never find you.’

  Danny wilted under the stare, the weight of Ray’s arm. He felt suddenly frightened. ‘They won’t?’

  ‘Positive,’ Carver said. Then he smiled, and Danny was relieved to see those impossibly white teeth again. Carver waved his arm around the room. ‘I’ve still got friends out there, Danny. Sympathisers, ex-Movement people, people in authority. I’d be warned if the law started sniffing around.’