The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  ‘What were you doing down that alley?’ he demanded.

  Danny thought quickly. If this idiot wasn’t satisfied with his answers, it could get ugly. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled, keeping his demeanour as casual as possible.

  ‘Taking a piss. Got caught short.’

  ‘A piss?’ echoed the enforcer, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘Do that at home, you dirty bastard.’ Suddenly the man frowned and took half a step back. ‘You’re not local, are you? Break out some ID.’

  The false ID card was safely tucked inside the pocket of his jeans, the latex face piece and the rest of his gear hidden in the derelict house. Unless he absolutely had no choice, the only time he would use his new identity would be at the ferry port. What he didn’t need was a routine check, a street stop, a study of his ID picture, the details logged onto the system. He had to think quickly.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble, bruv. I’m in a bit of a hurry as it goes.’

  ‘Trouble? I never mentioned any trouble. Got a guilty conscience?’ His hand moved towards the radio on his shoulder.

  ‘Alright, I wasn’t having a piss,’ Danny confessed. He took a step closer, lowered his voice. ‘Look, between you and me, I was looking for wiring in them old houses back there. You know, strip out the copper and sell it, yeah?’

  The enforcer’s hand still hovered near his radio. ‘That’s trespass and criminal damage. Name?’

  Shit. This was going from bad to worse. A car drove by, the occupants staring at them as they cruised past. Across the street, a group of women pushing a brood of wailing brats stopped their buggies to watch. He had to think fast.

  ‘You want the truth? I found a holdall, stashed under the floorboards in one of the rooms upstairs. You know what bearer bonds are?’

  The enforcer growled. ‘Course I do.’

  ‘The holdall’s full of ’em. Each one’s got a value of five hundred quid. We could split the lot, fifty-fifty.’ Danny watched the enforcer’s eyes dart left and right, his mind clearly debating the offer. Council stooges like this one were paid a minimum wage for long hours. They didn’t even get free travel. In the distance, above the pale chimney stacks of the derelict power station, a police blimp drifted across the sky. ‘Well? What d’you think?’

  The enforcer hesitated, glancing up and down the street. He saw the women across the road, watching, and drew his baton. ‘Lead the way,’ he ordered, jabbing Danny in the chest. They headed back towards the alleyway, clambering over the rubbish and into the rear garden.

  ‘Maybe it fell off a train or something,’ Danny ventured, pointing at the steep embankment. Beyond the wire fence a spur line carried commuter trains into the terminus at Victoria. He studied the enforcer carefully, how his eyes roamed the garden that was deep in shadow, overgrown with weeds and bordered by a sagging brick wall that was slowly crumbling under the weight of the railway embankment. The properties on either side were also derelict, silent and empty.

  ‘How’d it get in the house, then?’ the enforcer demanded, doubt in his voice.

  Danny ducked past him, his legs swishing through the dewy grass. ‘Maybe someone found it, stashed it under the boards, who knows? Tell you what I do know – they’re worth a fortune to the right person. We could buy our way out to the colonies.’

  ‘Watch your language,’ warned the enforcer, following Danny up the narrow staircase.

  ‘You know what I mean. Relocation packages and residency permits cost money, bruv. New Zealand ain’t so bad, but Australia and Canada is where people are going. Trouble is, they charge the most. Still, it’ll be enough to get us out of earshot of them bloody minarets, eh?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to hear that sort of talk. I won’t warn you again.’ The enforcer stamped along the gloomy landing, his pace a little quicker, the floorboards creaking under his heavy black boots. The radio clipped to his shoulder hissed continuously, garbled voices trapped within the damp walls. Danny stopped at the threshold to a room and invited the enforcer inside.

  ‘This is it.’

  The big man pushed past Danny as his eyes swivelled greedily around the empty bedroom. The filthy window started to rattle as a low rumble filled the room. ‘Where is it? Where’s the bag?’ he snarled, spinning around, the baton gripped in a tight fist.

  The pistol was already in Danny’s hand. ‘Don’t move, bruv. Don’t make a sound.’

  The enforcer paled at the sight of the gun but held his ground. He lowered the baton. ‘Just take it easy, mate,’ he soothed. ‘No one has to get hurt here.’

  Danny’s mind spun wildly. Now what? ‘You’re right, no one need get hurt. So just do as I say.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. You’re the boss.’

  Danny took a step back, his eyes scanning the room. This idiot had to be kept out of sight for at least twenty-four hours, maybe more. That would mean tying him up, gagging him. But how? What with? Fucking place was bare. Then he saw the man’s utility belt.

  ‘Give me those handcuffs,’ Danny ordered. He had to raise his voice, the sound of the approaching train reverberating around the walls.

  ‘What d’you want them for?’

  ‘I’m gonna handcuff myself and let you nick me, you fucking idiot. Just give ’em to me.’ The man didn’t seem scared, his tone casual, almost challenging, and that unnerved Danny. ‘Do it! Now!’ he snapped.

  The enforcer’s hand went to his belt, eased the cuffs from their holder. ‘Just take it easy, alright mate?’

  ‘Stop telling me to take it easy.’ Danny held out his hand. The enforcer stepped forward. Outside, a commuter express thundered past the window, shaking the whole building. Danny reached for the cuffs and the enforcer let go. They clattered to the floorboards. ‘Idiot,’ Danny cursed and bent down to pick them up.

  He saw the enforcer’s feet move, heard the swish of something slicing through the air. He twisted his head away just as the baton came down, crashing into Danny’s shoulder. Both men screamed, Danny in pain, the enforcer in a blind rage. Danny scrambled backwards as the enforcer raised the baton again, fury in his eyes.

  The shot exploded in the confined space, the bullet punching through the enforcer’s neck in a mist of blood and matter. The big man staggered, eyes wide in terror, the baton clattering across the room. His hands reached for his throat, desperate to stem the blood that sprayed between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, spewing a mouthful of dark blood that painted his hands red, soaking the front of his uniform. Then he fell forward, his head thumping onto the floorboards. The panic was gone now, the mechanism of death consuming his body. His eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish as he gasped his last, futile breaths. Then he lay still.

  As the sound of the train receded, Danny turned away from the body and thrust the pistol back into the waistband of his trousers. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he whispered. Then his stomach lurched and he threw up over the floorboards, retching until his guts were empty. He dragged himself against the wall and sat there for a moment, panting for breath, a cold sheen of sweat on his bloodless face. Another death on his hands. Jesus Christ, he was turning into a bloody serial killer, and people were going to be looking for this one very soon. As if to emphasise the point, the radio on the enforcer’s shoulder burst into life, the words and numbers meaningless to Danny. He leaned over and gingerly disconnected the battery from the unit. He had to move, and move fast.

  Twenty minutes later he steered the Vauxhall through the gates of Battersea Park and left it next to a row of recycling bins. He strode along the treelined avenues, his parka zipped high against the cold, his shoulder throbbing painfully. Litter scraped and tumbled along the paths and the air was tinged with the scent of wood fires, signs of the growing number of homeless refugees camping in London’s parks. Everywhere groups of veiled women wandered the pathways, their children furiously pedalling small bikes or chasing squirrels between the horse chestnuts and weeping elms. In open spaces, dark-skinned men flew a multitude of k
ites, coloured sails swooping and soaring on the gusting winds. Danny kept his head down and trudged around the edge of the lake, forcing himself to walk slowly, to act casual, but fear stalked him through the park. This was a mistake, warned a voice inside him. He should go, leave now, never look back. Run, Danny, run...

  When he reached the embankment overlooking the Thames his dad was already seated on a park bench, munching on a sandwich as he watched the river drift by. Danny studied him from the shelter of a tree for a few moments, took one last look around, then set off across the open ground. His heart began to beat faster as he closed the distance, circling a muddy football pitch where a group of refugees played a boisterous game of soccer. There was a chorus of shouts and Danny saw the ball skimming across the grass towards him. He kicked it back, receiving a chorus of thanks in heavily-accented English.

  A few moments later, Danny slid onto the end of the bench, digging his hands deep into his pockets. He watched the slow-moving river, glancing at the old man who turned to him briefly then looked away. Then the bovine chewing suddenly ceased. From the corner of his eye Danny saw disbelief, then recognition, slowly register across his father’s craggy face. The old man turned to Danny again, his hands trembling, the colour draining from his cheeks.

  ‘Son?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s me, pops,’ murmured Danny, his lips barely moving. ‘You alright?’

  The old man’s eyes searched his son’s face. ‘Bearing up. You look different.’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ he replied, scratching his thick beard. He glanced over his shoulder. The footballers were gone, the pitch suddenly deserted. ‘I can’t stay long, dad.’

  The old man’s lower lip started to tremble. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he warned, his voice shaking.

  Danny frowned. ‘You’ve seen the news, yeah? Heard what they’re saying about me?’

  ‘I saw your letter, son. I know you’re innocent.’

  Across the river a police car wailed along Chelsea Embankment until the siren faded into the distance. ‘That’s why I’ve come back, dad, to say goodbye. I’ve got to get out of here, leave the country. I’m heading abroad, Corsica maybe, Greek Islands. Somewhere quiet where I can–’

  The words caught in his throat as the uniforms emerged from beneath the surrounding trees in an extended line, moving swiftly towards them, weapons raised. He turned at the sound of roaring engines as several unmarked vehicles carved across the open spaces, tyres spinning rooster tails of mud and grass. In that moment, Danny knew the hunt was finally over. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for the pistol, just in case a stray bullet found his dad.

  ‘They’ve been waiting for weeks,’ the old man confessed in a quivering voice. ‘They said you’d come, sooner or later. I prayed you wouldn’t.’

  Danny sighed as he laid a hand on his father’s knee and patted it gently. ‘That’s alright, pops. It’s not your fault.’

  The cars slewed to a halt around him as the uniforms drew closer, faces hidden behind black ski masks, a dozen red dots swarming across his torso like angry fireflies. He stood up slowly, his hands held wide, palms open. For a moment he forgot the pain in his shoulder.

  ‘Never got anything right, did I? Never been any good.’ Fear gripped him then, fear of what was to come. Whatever happened, it was going to end badly. ‘I’m sorry, dad. Sorry for everything.’

  Beside him, the old man smothered a sob with a bony hand. With the other, he reached out and grasped Danny’s with a strength that belied his advancing years.

  Netley, Hampshire

  ‘We interrupt this programme to bring you some breaking news…’

  Bryce’s hand froze on the tap, the empty kettle held rigidly beneath the running faucet. His eyes flicked to the radio on the kitchen counter.

  ‘At least three US soldiers have been killed in overnight clashes with Mexican security forces in El Paso, Texas, in an escalation of the recent violence that has seen hundreds killed along the volatile southern US border region. In Washington, President Vargas has condemned the violence, blaming senior Republicans and rightwing elements in the US military for stoking tensions, and has vowed to crack down on Tea Party Revolutionaries…’

  Bryce finally exhaled as his pulse rate began to settle. Still no word on his escape. Although he dreaded the sound of his name being broadcast across the airwaves, the distinct lack of news regarding his violent flight from Alton Grange possessed its own unnerving quality.

  He nestled the kettle into its receptacle and snapped the switch on, staring out of the kitchen window as the water began to hiss noisily. It wasn’t much of a view. Across the narrow lane was a high stone wall crowned with a mature wisteria, its heavy foliage glistening with silvery beads of rainwater. Beyond the wall was a wood, a dense mixture of oak and beech, if Bryce wasn’t mistaken. He leaned over the sink and craned his neck. The sky was a dull canvas of grey tones, traversed by darker clouds that drifted above the swaying treetops beyond the wall. A miserable day for sure, but a world away from his recent accommodations.

  The cottage was the last of four, nestled at the end of a pea shingle lane close to the village boundary of Netley. Mac had brought him here five nights ago, under cover of darkness, the car left by the kerb out on the main road. They’d headed up the lane, keeping to the shadows of the high wall, their footsteps sounding to Bryce like a Household Division on the march, the crunch of shingle underfoot shattering the still night air. He’d watched the cottages carefully, yet nothing had stirred, no sudden glare of a porch light, no subtle twitch of a bedroom curtain. The cottages were unoccupied, Mac had whispered, sensing Bryce’s unease. Holiday lets, full in the summer, empty for the most part during the winter. The last one belonged to Mac’s company, private accommodation for visiting boat owners and out of town clients. As Mac unlocked the front door Bryce kept to the shadows, his eyes watching the end of the lane, his ears alert for the noises of men. But the night remained still.

  The lights were kept off until every curtain and blind in the cottage had been pulled or lowered, Mac finally snapping on the hall lamp and dimming it to its lowest setting. Even by its pale luminance, Bryce could see that the interior was simple yet tastefully furnished; polished floorboards underfoot, cream-coloured sofas in the adjacent sitting room, gleaming units and granite worktops in the kitchen. There was a new smell to the place, tinged with a salty mustiness that Bryce found faintly comforting. Anything was better than the antiseptic stench of Alton Grange, a smell that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Mac had given him a whispered tour of the cottage, pointing out the facilities and settling him into the larger of the two bedrooms. After some brief instructions he was gone, and Bryce was left alone. Despite the long-forgotten comforts of a king-sized bed and a fresh duvet, sleep evaded him that first night, his eyes snapping open with every creak of timber, every call of a night bird from the shadowy woods across the lane. Sometime after midnight he’d heard a car pass by along the main road, tyres hissing on the wet tarmac, and he imagined a violent turn of the wheel, the roar of engines in the lane outside, the crash of the door, the thump of heavy feet on the narrow staircase as they came for him. He’d found a small portable radio in a bedside drawer and lay with it under the quilt like a furtive child, listening to the BBC updates, expecting news of his escape to be broadcast across the airwaves, but hearing nothing. He retuned to a Hampshire station where old ballads jostled for airtime alongside local news and shipping forecasts, the soothing tones finally lulling Bryce into a fitful sleep. Gradually, the tension that gripped him eased and, as each night passed, he’d slept a little better, managing almost six hours the previous evening. Physically he was recovering, but mentally it was a different story. Despite fleeing the morbid confines of the psychiatric unit, the reality was he remained a prisoner, trapped within another set of walls. And they were closing in.

  After five days the media were still silent about his escape, yet Bryce had no doubt the dogs
had been let loose, even now desperately seeking his trail. Senior security personnel, as well as carefully selected Commissioners and Chief Constables, would’ve all been quietly briefed, the available intelligence painting a very different picture of Gabriel Bryce.

  As he stared out of the window at the falling rain, his mind pondered the exercise, the cover story that was no doubt already in play. The Downing Street bomb had left the Prime Minister mentally scarred, that was the seed already planted in the public consciousness. His mind had been tortured by the horrors of his experience, the security scare at the hospital tipping a dangerously fragile man over the edge. Further intense therapy had failed, as had the cocktail of barbiturates and painkillers that poor Gabriel had become overly dependent on. The former Prime Minister was now a shell of the man he’d once been and, to protect his reputation and remaining dignity, he’d been quietly transferred to Alton Grange, where posttraumatic stress specialists could take better care of him. But something had gone terribly wrong. Gabriel Bryce had somehow snapped, brutally killing a nurse and an orderly before escaping the prison. He’d fooled them all, the doctors and the nurses, and now he was on the loose, coherent yet criminally unhinged. He wasn’t to be approached or spoken to and, should members of the public discover his identity, they should be firmly reminded of the need for discretion. The police should be called, the patient returned to another institution, one with higher walls and more guards. A place where Gabriel Bryce would never leave, never see the light of day again.

  Or something like that. Whatever story had been cooked up, it would be convincing enough to fool everyone. So he had to remain hidden, behind locked doors and curtained windows.

  Unless...

  He heard the crunch of footsteps in the lane outside and saw Mac trudging towards the cottage. The rain had turned to a fine sleet and the ex-marine was bent against the weather, hood masking his face, the two bulging carrier bags dangling from his hands brushing damp patches on the legs of his jeans. Bryce unlocked the door and scurried back inside the kitchen. Mac stamped his feet on the mat in the hallway before appearing in the doorway.