The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  Danny’s mind raced as Harris stared across the table at him. He buried his head in his arms to escape the cop’s eyeballs, to buy some time, to think. Last chance, Danny, Harris had said. Or what? Was it a bluff? Probably not. No, if he kept his mouth shut then he’d be formally charged with mass murder, that’s what this was about. A voice screamed inside his head: tell them about Ray, about Hertfordshire! Tell them everything! But what if they raided the estate only to discover the device gone? Tess was no mug, she had powerful friends, influential types with money and means. The place would’ve been cleaned up by now, the device spirited away. And what if someone used it elsewhere? He’d be done for withholding evidence, probably charged with conspiracy for that too, not to mention the killings of Ray and Joe. So keep your mouth shut, another voice urged. Wait until you get to court, so the jury can see the truth in your eyes, hear it in your voice.

  It was a plan – well, not really a plan, more of a roll of the dice – but it was worth a shot. They couldn’t find Sully, no trace of him anywhere, but the cops knew he existed because the barman in the King’s Head had verified his story, that much he knew. Danny could implicate Sully in just about everything.

  He lifted his head, then leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say, Mr Harris. I’ve told you the truth. I’m innocent.’

  ‘Last chance, Danny.’

  Danny shook his head. ‘Just charge me.’

  Neither policeman answered and Danny studied them from across the table. There was a definite change of atmosphere in the room, one that didn’t exactly fill Danny with confidence. Harris looked uncomfortable, embarrassed even. No, it was more than that, he looked nervous. Danny began to sweat beneath the paper suit.

  ‘Well? You gonna charge me or what?’

  Stubbs swore quietly under his breath, lumbered to his feet and stamped out of the room. Danny watched him go, his puzzlement quickly turning to unease.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I warned you, Danny. Like I said, it’s out of my hands now.’

  The door opened again, Stubbs holding it wide for the judges who marched into the room, his court-appointed solicitor slinking in behind them and taking up position behind Danny.

  ‘Stand up,’ he whispered. Danny did as he was told and the judges lined up across the table facing him. There were three of them, all wearing black robes with blue piping and funny-looking white bibs that Danny thought made them look a little like waiters. But it wasn’t a menu the senior one held in his hands.

  ‘Mr Whelan, I’m going to read you a statement,’ he said in heavily-accented English. Whatever colour was left in Danny’s face drained away.

  ‘I don’t understand–’

  The judge silenced Danny by clearing his throat. ‘Daniel Morris Whelan, born the tenth of January, two thousand and three, currently being detained at Scheveningen Prison, Holland, you are indicted at the instance of the Prosecutor’s Division of the International Criminal Court and the charges against you are that, between the twenty-fifth of September and the thirtieth of December two thousand and forty one, in the United Kingdom, you did conspire together and with others, namely the use of explosive devices in the commission of an act of terrorism, in particular the attack on the Luton Central Mosque, Bedfordshire, England, including the murder and attempted murder of said building’s occupants–’

  Danny shook his head violently. ‘I already told you I–’

  ‘–and in addition, that you did conspire together and with others to further the purposes of a banned organisation, hereto known as the English Freedom Movement, by criminal means, namely the use of a biological device in a further act of terrorism directed against the aforementioned community, and the additional murders of Raymond Carver, Joseph Stephen Wallace and Eugene Patrick Cleary-’

  Danny’s heart thumped in his chest. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling. They know about Ray. About the nerve agent. They’ve known all along.

  ‘-after legal consultation with the Grand Chamber of the European Court of Justice, it is the decision of the Presidency and the Office of the Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court that the case be referred to the Sharia Supreme Court in Maadi, Egypt, for concluding testimony and sentencing. Custody is to be transferred to Egyptian authorities at the earliest opportunity.’

  The judge refolded the statement then marched from the room with his subordinates, Danny’s solicitor scuttling out after them.

  Harris shook his head. ‘Tess Carver reported you for the murder of her husband the night you killed him and his estate manager. She testified that you brought the nerve agent with you, that you killed the others when they didn’t go along with the plan, that you tried to kill Mrs Carver.’

  ‘That’s complete bullshit,’ Danny blurted. ‘They wanted me to gas some place up in Birmingham.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ Harris sighed, ‘you’ve had your chance. Now it’s up to the court in Egypt.’

  Danny fell back in his chair as if he’d been slapped. He shook his head, his voice trembling. ‘But that’s a Sharia court. I’m not Muslim.’

  Harris shrugged and scooped up the folders from the table. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do, Danny. My advice? Listen to others, be respectful, observe local customs. Give yourself the best chance possible.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, they’ll hang me!’ Danny shrieked, slamming his hands on the table. As Harris moved towards the door Danny stumbled after him, grabbing his arm. ‘Please Mr Harris, I’m begging you, don’t let them take me. I didn’t do it, I swear to God I didn’t.’

  Harris turned around, his back to the mirror, his voice low. ‘I don’t know how you got mixed up in all this Danny, but I honestly believe you never meant to kill anyone.’

  ‘Then tell them!’ Danny begged, ‘Please!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I say. The decision’s been made at the highest level. Look, just stick to the truth, whatever happens. In the end, that’s all it boils down to.’ The policeman gently prised Danny’s fingers from his arm then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Danny’s mouth was bone dry, his heart beating so loudly in his chest that it threatened to punch through the paper suit. He stumbled across the room towards the mirror, swaying in front of the smoked glass, hands cupped around his face. He couldn’t see anything beyond his own mocking reflection. He balled his fists and banged against the smooth surface.

  ‘I didn’t do it!’ he screamed. ‘I’m innocent! You can’t do this!

  The door to the room flew open and Danny spun around. A scrum of black uniforms charged towards him, knocking him to the ground. He lay still, unable to move, his limbs paralysed by fear. He stared at the black boots that ringed his body and squeezed his eyes shut, drawing his knees up and curling into a foetal position. He wanted them all to disappear, willed himself to wake up from the nightmare he was trapped in, to find himself back home, the sound of his dad pottering in the kitchen, the grey urban sprawl of the Longhill estate beyond the high-rise windows. He wanted so desperately to hear those sounds, to see that view again.

  Strong hands gripped his arms and yanked him to his feet. Danny’s eyes snapped open, seeing the circle of hard faces around him, uncaring, alien faces that spoke in a rapid fire tongue that Danny didn’t understand. They marched him from the interview room along the corridor, his feet barely touching the floor. He felt the tears run down his cheeks then, tears for a life squandered, a life played out on the fringes of society where only bitterness and hate existed, his only true companions these last few years.

  In the walled compound outside a prison van waited, exhaust smoking on the cold air. A phalanx of heavily-armed policemen and prison staff watched his progress silently, the former clearly part of the escort team, the latter in coats and scarves, huddled together out of sheer curiosity. But it wasn’t their presence that caused Danny to tremble, nor the salt-tinged winds that gusted in from the nearby coastline, piercing the thin paper suit around h
is body. It was the voices of hate that drifted over the high walls and the barbed wire, the fury of the religious mob that lay siege to the building, calling for justice, demanding vengeance. And now they were going to get it. His eyes wide with fear, Danny was bundled inside the van and locked in a small transport cubicle.

  The engine rumbled into life and sirens wailed across the sky. The van lurched forward then swung to the right, accelerating out of the prison gates. The poisonous chants of the mob filled the air, battling with the sirens for supremacy, assaulting Danny’s ears as he sat locked inside his own private hell.

  As the convoy swept past the baying crowds, no-one heard the pitiful wail of the man inside the van. Nor would they have cared.

  The South Coast

  Bryce glanced up at the ceiling as the sound of Mac’s voice drifted below decks. The orders were unintelligible barks, fused with the purposeful stamp of feet and the gentle throb of the engines. Bryce smiled. Mac, his saviour, appearing out of that rainswept night to snatch him away from danger, whisking him towards the south coast where sanctuary waited. Short-lived, as it turned out. He’d told Mac about the police patrol, as he promised he would, and in a perverse way their arrival had been beneficial for him, encouraging Mac to make speedier preparations for their departure. But it also triggered the guilt again, reading the tension on Mac’s face when he discovered that the police had entered the cottage, that the visit might have been recorded somewhere. Bryce had assured him that they’d left in a hurry, that no notes had been taken, but it didn’t make much difference. He hated himself for what he’d put Mac through, making a silent promise that he’d make it up to him someday, somehow.

  The roads were empty as they left the cottage behind them and made the short trip south to the deserted marina in Hamble. Beyond the security gate and the chain-link fence, a large boatshed loomed out of the darkness. A single lamp glowed above the Judas gate, casting its dull yellow light over a small sign bolted to the corrugated metal door: Marine Movers. Just before he ducked through the gate, Bryce noticed a boat tied to the adjacent dock, a very large sailboat that glowed ethereally in the darkness like a ghost ship.

  Inside, the shed was dark, the only light a portable lamp on a nearby worktop, the stale air tasting of seawater and oil. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, Bryce could see that most of the shed was taken up with sailing paraphernalia; ropes and wet weather gear hung from hooks around the cinderblock walls, while piles of sails and rigging were stacked neatly across the floor. It was indicative of a slick, well-organised operation. Professional was the word that sprang to Bryce’s mind and it gave him considerable comfort.

  In the centre of the shed was another vessel, smaller than the one outside, squatting on metal hull supports like a stuffed whale in a museum. Bryce jumped when he caught sight of the shadowy figures gathered beneath it, men who watched him intently. The crew, Mac explained. All three were former Royal Marines, none of whom batted an eyelid at the identity of their latest crew member. Hands were shaken, quiet greetings exchanged. Bryce was relieved to escape their combined scrutiny.

  Mac escorted him to a suite of offices at the rear of the building. There, amongst the desks and computers, Bryce expressed serious concerns about the others. Mac had assured him that ‘the lads’, as he constantly referred to them, needed to be told, that they knew about the importance of security, that their loyalty and discretion was assured. They were Royal Marines, after all, he’d smiled. And besides, he couldn’t do this without them. They were all in it together.

  Clearing a space in the office, Bryce bedded down for the night on a surprisingly comfortable cot. He’d spent those first few hours fidgeting in the restricted warmth of his sleeping bag, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the sound of the wind moaning through the masts along the marina, the slap of water against the tightly-packed hulls. Again, the sights and smells of his new surroundings gave rise to familiar fears. He started at every noise, expecting a sudden chorus of shouts to echo across the warehouse, for the door to be kicked in, for hard-faced men to drag him off into the night, but the new dawn brought fresh hope and he felt a little more relaxed. As the days passed and they prepared for the voyage, the hope that he’d done enough, been smart enough, was quietly strengthened.

  It was the previous morning, whilst packing dried foods into a watertight container, that the words of the TV anchorman drifting across the boatshed floor made his blood run cold:

  ‘...when he failed to show up for work at Alton Grange, a high security mental health facility in Hampshire, where Duncan Parry held the post of Chief Administrator…’

  Bryce dropped a handful of freeze-dried curry meals and ran to the kitchen area, where the wall-mounted TV broadcast to an empty room. He stood in the doorway, hands braced against the frame. He vaguely recognised the face on the screen: the fair hair, the heavy glasses. It was Parry, who’d stood over his paralysed body that first night, nurse Orla who’d blurted his name.

  ‘…forced entry to the family home in Farnham where they discovered Parry’s body and that of his wife Celia, bound and gagged in the main bedroom. Both victims had suffered multiple stab wounds and the house had been ransacked in what police are saying was a particularly frenzied attack...’

  Despite the warm clothing, Bryce shivered. On the screen, a curious crowd stood behind police tape strung across a quiet suburban road, the sound of helicopter rotor blades beating the air overhead. The TV cameras didn’t capture much else, only the front of the property partially shrouded behind a white tarpaulin.

  ‘…with the hunt now centred around the mental health facility itself, police aren’t confirming that a patient is involved in the murders, however inquiries are being conducted in the nearby town of Alton, where CCTV footage is being analysed in an effort to trace the killer…’

  Bryce paled. The loose ends were being tied up. There was no mention of him directly, but it was only a matter of time now. He had to assume the CCTV would place him at the hypermarket. The café owner might remember him, and possibly the bored youth behind the bar of the pub. So, the hunt would turn south and that knowledge didn’t make the day pass any quicker. He spoke to Mac who, despite his obvious concern, reminded Bryce that the route he took that first night was a random one, using little used country roads and back lanes, his car registration plates smeared with just enough mud and dirt to be obscure rather than suspicious. There were only two CCTV traffic cameras in Four Marks, both in the centre of town, and police blimps tended to stick to the skies over major urban areas. The chance they’d been spotted heading south was remote. Feeling slightly reassured, Bryce had spent the rest of the day packing boxes, ticking checklists and listening to the easy banter of the men around him. Their confidence was infectious and, when Bryce began to think about where his life was headed, he quickly tuned his mind to something else. Escape, that had to be his focus, his only priority. The rest was in fate’s hands.

  Mac had woken him at five-thirty that morning. He climbed out of his sleeping bag, packed up his personal gear, then joined the others in the kitchen for coffee and bacon sandwiches. Mac held a short briefing and Bryce listened carefully as each man verbalised their last minute checks and preparations. Bryce was no exception. He was part of the crew now and, like the others, he would be expected to do his share, to steer the boat, to stand watch, to cook and clean. He couldn’t wait.

  Outside the sky was beginning to pale to the east. Nothing moved on the marina, the vast majority of the boats and pleasure craft laid up until the spring. His breath fogging on the chilly air, Bryce helped the others move the last of their gear aboard, impressed by their quiet efficiency, their meaningful hand gestures and silent whispers that made Bryce imagine he was part of a military operation.

  Even before he climbed aboard, Bryce could tell the Sunflower was a magnificent vessel. The winter covers had been removed and the boat’s rails and brasses gleamed in the pre-dawn light. The superstructure rose gracefully out
of the long deck, forming a sleek fly bridge that was wrapped in smoked glass. The tree-like mast rose above it all, its mainsail furled, piercing the star-filled sky.

  Bryce waited on deck, hands in his pockets and grip bag at his feet, until Mac had secured the boat shed. When he climbed aboard he motioned Bryce to follow him below, bunking him in one of the crew cabins. On the way they passed through a dining room and entertainment salon, the state of the art kitchen and the guest quarters, where the marble bathrooms and emperor-sized beds were wrapped in protective plastic sheeting that failed to disguise the sheer opulence of the craft. Bryce could only guess at the cost of such a vessel.

  The crew quarters were well forward and, as Bryce had expected, quite cramped. Mac advised him to stay below and he made himself busy by sorting out his bunk space and personal gear. He didn’t have much: a set of oilskins (‘you’ll definitely be needing those,’ Mac had grinned ominously), two jumpers, two tshirts, two pairs of cargo pants and two pairs of shorts. Deck shoes and sailing boots made up his footwear, plus a woollen cap, sunglasses and a few basic toiletries. Bryce had looked at it all, barely covering his single bunk mattress. Like most people, he’d spent a lifetime accumulating possessions of all kinds, storing them in cupboards and wardrobes, sheds and garages, filling his two houses with a vast amount of belongings, most of which he’d never use or wear. Now he was reduced to this, the bare essentials. As terrifying as the prospect of having nothing was, in another way it felt almost liberating. Still, it must have cost a fair amount of money, but Mac had promised him he’d work his passage.