The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  The older policeman nodded. ‘Fine.’ They moved past Bryce into the hallway, forcing him up against the wall, the scrape of nylon and the stale odour of sweat leaking from their uniforms as they brushed past. The younger one peeled off into the sitting room. Bryce followed the older one into the kitchen.

  ‘Nice place,’ he said admiringly, his eyes cataloguing the expensive units, the subtle lighting, the limestone tiles.

  Bryce’s heart leapt as he noticed Mac’s business card on the kitchen counter. He strode towards the cupboards, flinging them open. ‘Can I make you both a coffee?’ The voice inside screamed you bloody fool! He scooped up the card and thrust it into the pocket of his dressing gown, at the same time reaching for two mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘No,’ the policeman replied, slowly circling the kitchen table. Bryce saw the other one jog upstairs without being invited. ‘I’ll ask you again, Sir. What are you doing here?’

  Bryce snapped the kettle on, dumped a spoonful of coffee into a fresh mug. ‘Not an offence to visit the coast, is it?’

  ‘Don’t get smart,’ the cop warned, his mouth twisting into a sneer. ‘These places are normally empty during the winter, so we give ’em the occasional once-over. Saw your kitchen light on.’

  ‘Of course, officer. I wasn’t implying anything-’

  ‘It might look nice and quiet around here, but you get a fair bit of crime spilling over from Southampton. We’ve had breakins over the years, squatters, travellers… illegal immigrants.’ He almost spat the words, Bryce observed. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

  The kettle began to bubble noisily. ‘Ah, nearly there,’ Bryce said, grabbing the handle. He watched the steam rise from the spout, tiny droplets of boiling water leaping into the air. He felt the walls moving in again, the air getting heavy, thickening in his lungs. His mind raced. He was trapped. His skin prickled and his heart rate accelerated, preparing the body for flight…

  He spun around, dashing the scalding water in the policeman’s face. The man screamed, staggering backwards and crashing to the floor, his sickening wail bringing the other one charging back down the stairs. Bryce fumbled for the gun on the wounded man’s thigh, wrestling it out of its holster as the young one skidded into the kitchen. Bryce raised the heavy black pistol and pulled the trigger, the gunshot deafening in the confined space…

  ‘What happened there?’ the policeman said.

  Bryce shook his head, the words slicing through his dark thoughts. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The scar.’ The policeman tapped his own close cropped skull. ‘That’s quite a war wound.’

  Bryce touched the long welt on his head, the white line where the hair didn’t grow anymore. He took a deep breath. ‘That was the bomb. The one in Downing Street.’

  The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Say again?’

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs signalled the return of the younger policeman. ‘Clear,’ he reported as he entered the kitchen. His partner nodded and turned back to Bryce. ‘You were saying?’

  Bryce took a seat at the table. He rubbed his face, running his hands through the stubble on his head. ‘I was travelling on a bus along Whitehall when the bomb went off,’ he began. ‘I was making my way home from work, you know, just another day at the office. Then, as we passed Downing Street, there was a tremendous bang. The bus was literally picked up off the road, flipped through the air.’ Bryce closed his eyes, remembering the double-decker bus in Whitehall, the inferno beyond the shattered windows, the charred corpses melted into their seats. ‘I was thrown from the bus,’ he continued, ‘woke up on the road. There was nothing but silence, an awful, ghastly silence. And the dead were everywhere, in every direction, some in pieces, some bizarrely unmarked, but just as dead. A terrible sight,’ he whispered in conclusion. ‘I’ll never forget it.’

  He rubbed his eyes and glanced up. Both policemen were watching him silently, clearly enjoying every gory detail. ‘Since then I’ve had some mental health issues,’ he admitted, ‘nightmares, panic attacks. My GP thought I should have a change of scenery. I saw an ad for this place on-line.’

  ‘I see,’ replied the older cop. He studied Bryce a moment longer, his experienced eye clearly reappraising the man before him, noting the scar, the shorn scalp, the gaunt features. ‘Must’ve been terrible,’ he admitted, sympathy leaking into his voice.

  Bryce nodded, then covered his face with his hands. ‘It’s really taken its toll. My partner back in London – ex, I should say – well, he couldn’t cope with it at all. In fact, I’m still having trouble sleeping. If you want to know the truth I was having a nap when you arrived.’ He peered through the fingers of his hands, saw the look of disdain on the older cop’s face. ‘The nights frighten me,’ he simpered, ‘I get scared on my own.’ The younger one smirked, nudging his partner with an elbow. Bryce bowed his head further, sniffing loudly between his fingers.

  He started at the sound of a metallic voice, filling the kitchen with its indecipherable babble. The younger policeman cocked his head to the side, adjusting the radio’s volume and listening intently. He turned to his partner. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘We’d best leave you to it, then,’ the older cop announced, ushering his partner out into the hallway.

  Bryce looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a hot drink? I could do with the company.’

  ‘Afraid not,’ the cop replied. A cold draught barrelled around the kitchen as the front door swung open. Bryce got up, scuttling after them.

  ‘Thanks for stopping by. Feel free to pop in for a coffee anytime,’ he shouted over the revving engine. The Toyota started to back up the lane, wipers beating off the falling sleet. The younger one stared at Bryce from behind the glass, turning to his partner to mutter a comment. Bryce couldn’t lip read but he doubted it was flattering. As the vehicle neared the main road Bryce waved a limp wrist then closed the door. He took the stairs two at a time and peeked from the window as the Toyota backed out onto the main road, emergency lights pulsing into life. Bryce prayed Mac was nowhere in sight as the Toyota disappeared and the wailing siren faded into the distance.

  He sat on the carpet, back to the wall, breathing heavily. That was close, so very close, but he’d bluffed his way out of it without a single check. Convincingly too, he thought. The cottage was silent once more, save for the patter of sleet on the window. He sat there for a while, until his heart rate had returned to normal and his stomach had ceased its nauseous churning. Then he climbed to his feet. There was no time to waste.

  He marched into the master bedroom, quickly stripping the bed and bundling the sheet, pillowcases and duvet cover into a black bin liner. The duvet he squashed into another bag. The only spare clothes he had, a navy blue sweatshirt and sweatpants, plus underwear and a few toiletries, went into another bin liner. After that, Bryce made a start on the cottage. It had been a long time since he’d picked up a duster or pushed a vacuum cleaner around – not since university, and only then very occasionally – but he threw himself into the task that would’ve made a professional housekeeper blush with shame. For the rest of the afternoon, Bryce attempted to erase all traces of his stay in the cottage. Every door handle, every light switch, every tap, every surface touched, sat or leaned on, every utensil used, every glass, every mug, every plate, every carpet walked on or tile traversed was dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed, scraped, wiped, washed or sponged until, when the grey winter skies gave way to darkness and the sleet had thinned to a fine drizzle, the cottage was as clean as it had ever been.

  Sitting in the dark at the front bedroom window, Bryce recognised Mac’s familiar gait as he headed up the lane towards the cottage. By the time the key turned in the lock, Bryce was waiting for him in the hallway. Mac snapped on the light and Bryce immediately reached out and dimmed it.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mac asked. He wasn’t angry anymore, Bryce realised. Maybe because he’d accepted the situation for what it was, realising that Bryce had no choice, a
nd was making the best of it. Or maybe it was because Bryce was stood in front of him, rubber gloves on his hands, plastic carrier bags tied around his feet, raincoat zipped to the neck and a woollen hat pulled low over his forehead. Behind him, everything he’d worn or slept in was tied up in black bags, arranged in a neat row in the hallway.

  ‘I think it’s time I left,’ Bryce said.

  Whitehall, London

  The aide leaned in close and spoke softly in Saeed’s ear. ‘Prime Minister, Miss Jackson has arrived. She’s waiting outside.’

  ‘Show her in.’ Saeed stood up from behind his desk and snapped the front of his jacket out, his hands smoothing the green silk tie that complemented the fine wool of the navy blue Ede & Ravenscroft suit. In addition to his blossoming qualities as a statesman, Saeed also had an eye for bespoke attire, a trait not gone unnoticed by the British press. He was often seen gracing the covers of magazines and in newspapers, handsome, elegant, the celebrated blue eyes, dark hair and neatly trimmed beard giving him the aura of a movie star. Gossip columns loved him, men envied him and women wanted to be with him, despite the fact that he was married with children. Saeed privately loathed the attention, the media that revered vanity and superficiality above all things, but he encouraged it none the less, knowing the opinion polls reflected well on him after every public appearance. An expensive suit and a smile had more media cache than a fundamental change in the law, a state of affairs that Saeed had every intention of exploiting.

  He walked around his desk and waited. The room where he now stood was just one of the Prime Minister’s suite of new offices, situated in the Old War Office building in Whitehall. Standing at the junction of Great Scotland Yard Street, the building had barely been grazed by the Downing Street bomb and had been recently refurbished to accommodate Saeed and his administration whilst more permanent offices were considered. Too many bad memories at Millbank, Saeed had forlornly declared to a sympathetic media.

  His office was well-appointed, maybe a little too ostentatious some had advised, but Saeed ignored them. A huge desk sat at the head of the room, while massive picture windows ran its length, flanked by thick red drapes. A row of sculpted columns stood opposite, another feature of the building’s neo-baroque design. A large ornate cupola above the centre of the room cast rays of coloured light onto the white marble floor, and at the far end were the impressive double doors through which visitors were shown. It was a long and intimidating walk to the chairs in front of Saeed’s desk, footfalls echoing across the marble, passing through the god-like rays of light cast from the cupola above. It sent a subtle message, of course; the British respected power and status, the importance of occasion, the gravitas of ceremony, none of which could be conveyed successfully in an air-conditioned, carpeted office where an important meeting usually commenced with statically charged handshakes.

  Saeed didn’t use this room all the time, of course, only when the occasion justified it, and today was such an occasion. The audience was small, a few of Saeed’s personal staff and a photographer from his media team stood off to the side, nestled between the room’s impressive plaster columns. There was to be no audio or video footage today, just a few poignant still shots for the official record – Saeed shaking hands with the injured and infirm, quiet words of condolence and support for the survivors of the Downing Street bomb, official recognition of their suffering and bravery, culminating in a small reception to be held later that evening. Today’s initial meet and greet was to be kept deliberately low key, the Prime Minister unwilling to make political capital or to intrude on people’s privacy. That would be the official story, anyway. Unofficially, Saeed would choose the photograph to be leaked, and he had no doubt which one that would be. As the doors at the far end of the room opened, Saeed glanced down, subtly checking that the toe of his shoe hit the small marker taped to the floor, the spot where the photographer declared the light most flattering. He waited patiently, hands folded in front of him, as Ella Jackson whirred across the marble floor in her battery-powered wheelchair.

  Bryce’s former Special Advisor was the thirty-third and last Downing Street survivor to meet the Prime Minister that morning. The others, mostly kitchen staff and domestic workers, had already been whisked away and were now enjoying the hospitality of the Park Lane Intercontinental before this evening’s reception.

  ‘Miss Jackson,’ Saeed bowed, holding out his hand, ‘it’s good to see you–’ he nearly said ‘on your feet’ but quickly shifted gear ‘–back with us.’

  Between the columns, the photographer went to work, capturing the handshake, the benevolent smile, the compassionate tilt of the head, his camera clicking softly, the remote light stands flashing. Ella blinked before the halogen spots.

  ‘Oh, come on Tariq, don’t be so stiff. Just call me Ella.’

  Saeed glanced towards his people. He saw the photographer pause and look up over his viewfinder, the duty press officer’s pen poised above his pad. The others stared silently. No one had called him by his given name for some time, not since Hooper had offered his resignation to the pavements of Millbank. He smiled a little wider, dropping her hand. This would be short and sweet.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tired of going to funerals. Today is a welcome change.’

  ‘How’s the treatment?’

  ‘Never ending,’ she smiled, although Saeed could see the smile was strained, the pain evident behind her eyes, magnified by the glasses perched on the end of her nose. Saeed had never liked her, her irritating tenacity, her brusque manner, the way she’d protected Bryce like a faithful dog. And the fact that she was a woman, of course. He had no respect for career women, particularly those hard-bitten hags who struggled to hide their bitterness towards men, taking every opportunity to exert their authority over the poor eunuchs beneath them. Saeed would have no such creatures in his government, only willing supplicants or women of the faith, like Rana Hassani. Rana had been a loyal servant and had gone to her death unwittingly, but she had played her part. Then there were others, strong women, like his wife for example, who’d given him three healthy boys, who kept home, and kept quiet. That was her role, as a woman, as a wife, and she accepted it without question, the media warned to keep their distance, their pictures never taken nor published. It was Saeed’s will.

  Jackson had changed, however. Physically, her appearance wasn’t up to the high standards that Saeed recalled. Her hair was still tied back in a familiar pony tail, but the ends were split and straggly, dark roots clearly evident on her scalp. She wore her familiar trouser suit and shirt, but the suit was crumpled and the shirt devoid of its usual crispness. Saeed could see that her legs were as thin as matchsticks and her feet shod with comfortable shoes rather than the inappropriate designer heels she previously wore. Her tired face bore no makeup, the lines a little more pronounced around the eyes and mouth, a pale ghost of the woman she once was. It was to be expected of course, the head injuries, the failed spinal surgery, her acceptance of a life bound to the chair she now occupied. The fire was gone from her belly. In another life Saeed might have felt some pity.

  ‘Your suffering has been well documented, Ella. You’ve been very brave.’

  ‘Brave? Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she snorted. ‘Scared, yes. Angry, most certainly. And then there’s the self-pity – I’ve wallowed in plenty of that. But no courage, I’m afraid. That’s been in short supply.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Can we not talk about my injuries, Tariq? Can we talk about something else?’

  Saeed spread his hands. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Can we talk about Gabriel?’

  His eyes flashed angrily, but the smile remained frozen across Saeed’s face. ‘Your devotion is to be commended, Ella. But now is not the–’

  ‘I’d really appreciate it. Just a few words. In private.’ She turned towards Saeed’s staff and smiled. Saeed saw one or two of them return the smile, their expressions sickeningly sympathetic. The cam
era flashed again, capturing the frail figure in the wheelchair. He’d have to tread carefully here.

  ‘My schedule is full. It may be more appropriate to talk later, at the reception. It’ll be a lot less formal.’

  Ella shook her head. ‘I won’t be attending, I’m afraid. I get very tired in the evenings.’

  ‘That’s regrettable,’ he simpered. ‘Perhaps another time then?’

  ‘You can’t give me five minutes, Tariq? For old times’ sake?’

  She adjusted her useless legs and glanced toward his assembled staff once again. Saeed seethed. Despite her disability, the bitch still knew how to play the game. He nodded, the smile frozen on his lips. ‘Of course I can.’ He ordered the assembled personnel to leave the room and took a seat behind his huge executive desk. It was uncluttered, just a computer pad and a telephone occupying its surface, the polished mahogany reflecting Saeed’s face like a mirror as he pulled his seat in. Footsteps faded and the doors at the far end of the room were closed. They were alone.

  ‘Nice picture,’ Ella said, looking over Saeed’s shoulder. The Prime Minister turned, following her gaze. The painting was in oils on a huge canvas, a camel train snaking across the bleached white sands of the Arabian desert, the dawn sky a mixture of pink and red hues, the dark fingers of the Sawarat mountains in the background. When Saeed had seen it in Cairo he had to have it, and he felt it matched the period features of the room perfectly, lending it an almost colonial feel, something that bothered his more politically correct staff than himself.

  ‘Sunrise over the Western Desert,’ he announced proudly. ‘An emerging Egyptian artist, Ahmed Lufti. A very gifted young man, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s very you,’ Ella replied. Her wheelchair whirred as she guided it closer to Saeed’s desk with her joystick. ‘Can we talk about Gabriel?’

  Saeed swivelled around and placed his hands on the desk. ‘Sure.’