The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  Danny stared at Tom’s case, at the neatly labelled boxes sitting snugly in their foam compartments. ‘Yeah. I suppose.’ He felt Ray’s eyes on him again, then heard him say to the others: ‘Gents, why don’t you get set up in the study while I have a quick chat with Danny? I’ll get Tess to wheel in some more refreshments.’

  ‘Lovely,’ smiled Marcus, heaving himself out of the chair. Tom followed him through the door and closed it behind him. Ray shuffled along the sofa until he was next to Danny’s chair.

  ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Danny mumbled, studying his fingernails. A shadow crossed the room, the dying sunlight finally yielding before the approaching storm. Then the rain announced its arrival, drumming the windows with heavy droplets.

  Ray swept the glasses from his head. ‘C’ mon, son. Out with it.’

  Danny got to his feet and moved towards the window. He thrust his hands in his pockets and watched the storm front sweep across the hills behind the house, opaque sheets of rain falling beneath steel grey clouds. The window frame rattled slightly as the wind gusted around the building.

  ‘You’ve been good to me, Ray. You took me in when I needed help, gave me a roof over my head, fed me, clothed me. I owe you so much already. And now this.’

  ‘What?’

  Danny turned, pointing to the empty couch recently occupied by Marcus and Tom. ‘This. ID cards, expensive make-up. All this trouble you’re going to, and for what? Look, I try and pull my weight around here Ray, but I’m hardly a professional handyman, am I? Took me a week to master the bloody chainsaw. I ain’t worth the bother.’

  ‘You’re in the Movement,’ Ray assured him, ‘and we look out for our own.’

  Danny stared out of the window. ‘The Movement’s dead.’

  Ray got to his feet and crossed the room. He laid a hand on Danny’s shoulder, squeezing it with strong fingers. ‘I told you before, as long as people like me and you live and breathe, the struggle continues.’

  ‘But I can’t pay you back, Ray. For any of this.’

  The big man studied him for a moment, his grey eyes holding Danny’s. ‘Look, I’ll be straight with you, Danny. You can’t stay cooped up here forever, we both know that. And the authorities will never stop looking, we know that too. No, your only hope is a new life, far away from this country.’ Ray paused for a moment. ‘The colonies.’

  Danny smirked. ‘We’re not supposed to call them that.’

  ‘Who gives a toss? Canada, Australia, these are places where a man can disappear. I was thinking New Zealand.’

  Danny winced at the thought. ‘New Zealand?’

  Ray stepped closer, his breath reeking of stale coffee and cigars. ‘You’re not stupid, Danny. You know you’ll need more than a latex mask and a new ID to lead a normal life in this country. We can’t manufacture a work history, or previous addresses or medical records. But what I can offer you is a chance to get out.’

  Danny watched the rain sweep across the patio outside, hammering the window pane. ‘With all due respect Ray, how the fuck am I going to get to New Zealand? Even if I did manage to dodge every copper and border agent in the country, what would I do when I got there? I don’t know shit about New Zealand.’

  Ray held up a hand. ‘Slow down, Danny. Come. Sit.’ He led Danny back to the couch, then settled opposite him. He poured himself a coffee, taking a noisy sip. ‘Obviously you can’t travel by the normal routes, but there is a way, a tried and tested method. There’s a place on the Kent coast, a small fishing port, where we have a boat. Nothing fancy, just a fishing boat, but one that can get you out to where you need to be, smack bang in the middle of the international shipping lanes. Busiest in the world, the English Channel. Anyway, every few months a boat comes through, a big Norwegian container ship, goes all over the world. The owner’s a very good friend of mine, and the crew are all trustworthy, none of that foreign muck. The boat’s due to transit the Channel just after Christmas. In a couple of months you could be starting a new life in New Zealand.’

  Danny was silent for a while, staring at his feet, trying to imagine life on the other side of the world. This was all so sudden, all happening so fast. Eventually he looked up. ‘New Zealand’s so far away. I don’t know anyone there.’

  ‘I have friends in New Zealand, Danny, good friends, powerful friends. Setting you up there will be far easier than here. Not so strict with their controls and regulations, see. As I said, a man could get lost down there. Live a good life. Europe’s finished, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah,’ was all Danny could muster. People always said New Zealand was just like England used to be, even more so now so many had relocated down there. Maybe Ray was right, maybe he could get lost, disappear. There was nothing here for him, anyway. Well, almost nothing.

  ‘What about my dad? I can’t leave him, Ray.’

  ‘He’s been moved to this address in Battersea, a secure hostel,’ announced Ray, producing a folded note from his tracksuit pocket. Danny almost snatched the paper from Ray’s fingers and tore it open.

  ‘Bastards,’ Danny hissed. He looked up. ‘Why? He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Why do you think? Just be grateful that they didn’t charge him with conspiracy, son. Anyway, the flat’s gone, confiscation order…’

  ‘No!’

  ‘…and your dad’s under curfew, though it’s not a very strict one. Staff there are a bit lax, see. We can get him out, same way as you, but it’ll be some time after you’ve gone. Either way, you and your dad can start all over again, live your lives in peace.’

  Danny leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. His dad was innocent, about as non-political as anyone could get, and yet he’d lost his home, a place he’d worked long and hard to buy, a place he’d kept spotlessly clean and tidy, a shrine to his long dead mother. And the bastards had taken it, stripped it bare probably, tramping over his life, his memories, piling his possessions into plastic bags and dumping anything that couldn’t be sold in the bins at the back of the block. He’d seen them do it before, to the drug dealers and the welfare cheats, carting them off in police vans while the gangs picked over the stuff left behind. Now it was his dad’s turn and Danny felt cold fury at the thought of his scumbag neighbours tearing at his dad’s stuff like a pack of hyenas, the unwanted things left to rot on the filthy pavements.

  It was all his fault, of course, all of it. He had to make it up to him somehow, needed to, or he could never look his dad in the eye again. Throughout his life, and despite all his screw-ups, his dad had never cursed him, never denied him a thing, always guaranteeing a roof over his head, somewhere to stay, food in his belly. He knew of others on the Longhill, dysfunctional families that tore each other to pieces over the smallest things, the hatred and violence directed at one family member or another, the muffled shouts through the walls and floors, the crash of furniture, the screams of pain and anger. In stark contrast, Danny’s dad was always there when he needed him, a smile, a hug, a generous hand in his pocket when Danny was short. In his quest to evade capture, Danny had withdrawn into himself, thinking only of his own future and whatever that might hold. But now his dad was suffering too, his life torn apart, destitute, locked up in some shitty hostel. He had to get him out, make things right. If it was the last thing he did.

  ‘This new life, Ray, for me and my dad. How much is it going to cost?’

  Ray toyed with the Rolex on his wrist. ‘It’s not a case of money. Besides, you haven’t got any. No, the currency I’m trading with you, Danny, is loyalty. Devotion to the cause. Patriotism.’

  Danny looked Ray in the eye, his finger prodding his own chest. ‘I’m loyal, Ray. Dependable. And I’m a patriot through and through. You know that.’

  ‘I believe you, son, I really do. But a man should be judged by his actions, not his words.’ Ray paused a moment, his hard grey eyes searching Danny’s. ‘The time for talking is over. It’s action that’s required now.’

  Danny squared his
shoulders and held out his hand. ‘You can count on me, Ray. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.’

  Ray gripped Danny’s hand, his tanned face breaking into a bright, beaming smile. ‘Thanks, Danny. I was hoping you’d say that.’

  Cairo

  ‘Come on, Gabe, up you get. The show’s about to begin.’

  Bryce peered over the edge of the covers at Sully. The Turk was standing in the doorway, a wide smile plastered across his stubble-covered face. Bryce rolled over in his bed, tugging the thin quilt up beneath his chin.

  ‘What show?’

  ‘A TV show. You’ll see.’

  ‘I’m not coming.’

  Sully feigned disappointment, tutting loudly. He pushed the heavily-padded steel door wide open and marched towards the bed. He was dressed like a facility orderly, his white tunic and trousers crisply starched, bulging arms hanging beneath short sleeves. In his hand he carried an extendable baton. Bryce winced as Sully racked the weapon out with a loud crack! then lifted the quilt from Bryce and pulled it around his feet with the tip. Bryce brought his knees up to his chest.

  ‘Get up, Gabe. It’s not bedtime yet.’ He tapped the baton on the bed covers, very close to Bryce’s legs. His scarred, fragile legs. Bryce heaved himself up onto his elbows and threw off the quilt, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I’m tired. Don’t want to watch TV,’ he lied. Inside his stomach churned with excitement. Finally, contact with the outside world! Yet, despite the urge to leap out of bed, he remained immobile, staring at his feet.

  Sully leaned over and collapsed the baton on the floor, placing it back in its holder beneath his tunic. ‘We all have to do things we don’t want to, Gabe. I don’t want to drive down here twice a week to do your assessment, but orders are orders. So now I’m giving you one. Get up.’

  Bryce could see the resentment in Sully’s eyes, hear the impatience in his voice. He kept up the pretence a moment longer, then swung his legs onto the cold floor.

  ‘That’s a good boy. Now, get yourself cleaned up. Ring the buzzer when you’re done.’

  Sully left the room, leaving the door open. Bryce could hear him whistling along the corridor, his sneakers squeaking on the grey linoleum, then a jangle of keys and the loud crash of the security gate. He was gone. At least Bryce had a little privacy now. He stood up and stretched, his bones cracking with the effort, then stepped into his slippers. He attempted a few gentle twists and stretches, working out the kinks and getting the blood pumping through his veins. It wasn’t the most demanding workout in the world, but it was the only way that Bryce could judge his physical recovery and maintain a modicum of fitness. Later, after Sully had retired for the night, he would march up and down the corridor for an hour, gradually increasing the pace between the far wall of his room and the security gate, until his lungs heaved and his body ran with sweat. If Sully found out he’d be in serious trouble, because Bryce was convinced Sully didn’t want him to get well.

  He thought back to the night he’d arrived, abandoned on the trolley, believing he was the victim of an elaborate kidnap plot. The next morning he’d been wheeled up to his room on a deserted, top floor wing. ‘Your own private suite,’ Sully had joked, releasing the restraining straps and leaving him on the trolley once again. Nobody came to see him that first day. Gradually the drug they’d used to paralyse him wore off, but not before Bryce had soiled his clothes and blankets. He’d lain there in his own filth, trying to shout and failing, feebly raising his arm towards the lifeless camera high up in the corner of his new accommodations. He’d felt fear before, in the rubble of Downing Street, but this was different. This was something darker, more terrifying.

  The room he occupied was as far removed from the King Edward as anyone could imagine. It was a large, high-ceilinged space with room enough for several patients, but only Bryce’s single iron-posted bed occupied the cold room. Next to his bed was a wooden night stand, his few books stacked neatly on a shelf underneath, a reading lamp on top. A large wooden locker stood against the far wall, his hospital clothes hung neatly inside, next to a writing table and a single metal chair. All four walls were padded up to a height of maybe eight feet, the stuffing bursting from worn seams in many places, the once white material now grey and stained with substances that Bryce didn’t want to speculate on. He imagined the darker stuff was blood. Above the padding, the walls and ceiling were washed in a fading pale blue, the paintwork cracked and blown in a multitude of places, and a row of strip lights behind wire mesh cages ran across the ceiling. The only ones that worked were the twin pair directly above Bryce’s bed. Sometimes Sully left those on overnight.

  The room was always cold, the huge radiators beneath the barred windows barely giving off enough heat to warm the clothes he left draped across them overnight. The windows themselves were huge, four of them, ten feet high at least, sealed from the inside and obscured by rusted steel bars on the outside. Small air vents cut into the topmost panes circled lazily on still days, spinning with a low hum when the wind picked up. Beyond the bars, the windows overlooked an area of open grass, the double chain link fence with its impressive coils of razor wire, then the woods beyond that shielded the facility from the outside world. Sometimes he’d pull up the battered metal chair and sit at the window for hours, watching the clouds drift across the sky, the trees bending in the wind, the first flurries of early winter snow driving across the grounds. Lately he’d changed the chair’s angle, ignoring the world beyond the fence and instead concentrating on the comings and goings at the main gate. He was in Hampshire, near the town of Alton, of that he was almost certain because many of the delivery vans had the name of that town emblazoned on the side panels. Pedestrians came and went by a fenced-in chain-link corridor adjacent to the security hut. It wasn’t a large facility, just three main buildings including the one he was in, but it was certainly secure. After those first few days, he realised that his earlier fears of kidnap were unfounded. There were no demands, no talk of a ransom, no hope of a manhunt or investigation. He was simply a prisoner. Security, Sully often repeated, it was all in the name of security.

  Outside his room, past the padded steel door, was a short corridor, a large washroom and toilets on the right-hand side. There were two empty utility rooms opposite, one of which Sully occasionally used to say prayers, a large felt arrow mark on the wall indicating the Qibla. At the end of the corridor was a steel mesh gate, always locked, and beyond that another world, a world of tortured screams and unintelligible shouts, a nightmare world that Bryce couldn’t shut out, even with the pillow over his head or the pills they forced him to swallow every morning.

  The Turk was his only visitor now, just him and the nurse, Orla, although he only saw her at breakfast and supper for his medication. Physically, his body had healed well – still fragile, but stronger. However, it was his state of mind that he was more concerned with now. The reality of his existence here was solitary confinement, the prescription of unknown drugs that induced a frightening cocktail of vivid nightmares and varying states of torpor. There was a deliberate lack of exercise facilities, physiotherapy or even fresh air. Bryce had demanded to see the hospital administrator, but Sully had refused his request, just as he’d refused his requests for visitors, for phone calls, for internet access or newspapers, his desire to see Hooper and Saeed, anyone in authority. During bouts of livid anger, Bryce accused Sully of torture and false imprisonment, promising to have him locked up the moment he got out. The Turk simply laughed, calling Bryce delusional and paranoid, and threatened to have him moved to one of the occupied wards with the real nut jobs. Security, Sully repeated again and again. Bryce believed it was Sully who was not quite right, clearly enjoying the increasingly poor treatment he inflicted on his patient.

  So, when Sully was around Bryce stayed quiet, acted dumb, sometimes forgetful, popped his medication, and usually did as he was told. He’d stopped asking questions, making demands, allowed his physical appearance to deteriorate. As far as Sully was concerne
d, the enforced confinement was working. He was no bother, a danger to no-one, just another ghost in a facility full of them. Outside the world turned, life went on, and Gabriel Bryce faded from view.

  He pulled on a threadbare, navy blue dressing gown and shuffled down the corridor to the bathroom. He stood over the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror, its metal frame rusted and spotted with tiny patches of green mildew. How he’d changed since coming here. The thick grey hair was gone, regularly shaved by Sully into a tight crop, the jagged scar on his head pale and prominent. The lines around his eyes had deepened and his broken nose remained uncorrected, the bridge raised and twisted, the nostrils slightly flattened. Grey stubble bristled around his chin and hollowed cheeks, but Sully had forbidden regular shaving, allowing it occasionally and only in his presence. He took his pyjama top off and saw the scars on his body, his ever decreasing waistline a testament to the standard of food and its increasing irregularity. He’d lost at least thirty pounds and aged ten years. In a recent act of degradation, Sully had forced him to strip naked, ordering him to crouch in the corner of his room while Sully took several photographs. Bryce did as he was told, the shame and anger boiling inside him. As the camera flashed he kept his mouth shut, dutifully adopting the poses that Sully ordered, staring blankly at the lens as his mind wrestled for reasons behind his forced humiliation. His only consolation was knowing that Sully continued to be fooled by his act.

  He splashed tepid water around his face and neck, shivering in the chill of the washroom. Normally he’d shower but, with Sully here, the order of the day was the dishevelled, vacant look. He towelled himself dry, again wondering if it would’ve been better to have perished in the blast itself. He tried not to focus on what might have been but, trapped in this facility, he couldn’t help himself. Death by explosion; a quick but messy way to go, limbs torn off, body burnt and punctured in a thousand places. A state funeral, eulogies from European and world leaders, the masses filing silently by his casket, tearful and distraught at the loss of their leader. Well, perhaps not the last bit. The British public normally saved their collective grief only for royalty. When Queen Elizabeth had finally died, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house and the nation had mourned for weeks. Some grieved for the passing of an iconic royal personality, others – realists, as Bryce liked to think of them – mourned the end of an era, the final death throes of a nation state and the barely-noticed transition to European federalism. The royalists, the sentimentalists, they’d never realised that it was the old girl herself who’d signed the original treaties that sealed Britain’s political fate. Would they have mourned her passing so pitifully then? Perhaps, perhaps not. More importantly, was anyone out there mourning Gabriel Bryce’s continued absence from public life? Was anyone asking questions in the House, demanding updates on his progress? Maybe today he would find out.