The Horse at the Gates (14 page)

The darkness was almost complete, the smoke thicker, the glow of the fire visible beyond the shell of the study wall. Bryce coughed and spluttered, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. All the while, Mac worked away on his hands and knees, a desperate shadow that tugged and pushed and pulled, burrowing at the thick knot of debris and fallen timbers trapping Bryce’s leg. He grunted with the effort, swearing violently as he lacerated his hands once again. His latex gloves were in shreds and he pulled them off, hurling them to one side.

The evening wind shifted, kicking up the dust, drawing the smoke up through the building like a chimney. Behind Mac, through the gaping brickwork, Bryce glimpsed a tongue of flame. Then another.

‘Jesus Christ, Mac, it’s getting closer.’ Mac said nothing, moving around the heavy desk and attacking the timbers from another angle. ‘Mac? Did you hear me?’

Bryce heard the whimper in his own voice, the fear constricting his vocal chords, his shattered teeth and bleeding gums sucking at the words. At any moment Mac would realise the futility of his efforts and save his own skin, scrambling back down the shattered staircase, leaving Bryce to his fate. He was going to burn to death, like an accused witch, the flames igniting his clothes, scorching his flesh–

‘Mac, for God’s sake–’

‘Quiet!’ Mac yelled. Bryce cringed as he watched Mac scramble across the debris towards him. He flinched as he knelt down, felt his hand being grabbed and squeezed. Bryce could feel the warm blood, imagined the cuts crisscrossing his hands.

‘I won’t leave you, got it? But you’ve got to help me. Work your leg free when I say. Ignore the pain or we’re both dead.’

Bryce nodded several times, his eyes flicking from Mac to the orange light that played across the shattered walls, dancing through the building towards them. He watched Mac stumble around the dark lump of his desk, saw him duck out of sight for several long, agonising seconds, then reappear with a thick piece of floor joist in his hands. He scrambled over the piles of debris towards his trapped leg, setting his feet wide apart above the spot where the limb disappeared beneath the wreckage, his body a dark silhouette backlit by hungry flames that glowed devilishly around the pockmarked walls. He winced as Mac plunged the stake deep into the debris, felt the timbers shift around his leg, squeezing the limb, clamping it to the floor.

‘Mac, please!’

‘Wait!’

The younger man leaned on the end of the stake, pushing down. Bryce felt something shift, the weight suddenly easing off his kneecap. Hope blossomed.

‘That’s it, Mac! Keep going!’

Mac tugged the timber out and stabbed it back into the pile, twisting, digging deeper. He pushed down again, using his body weight, levering the debris upwards. Bryce moved his leg. Pins and needles raced up and down the limb as the blood began to flow. He reached down, balling the material of his trousers and pulling his knee towards him, his calf scraping across wooden splinters and rusted nails. He ignored the pain, the tearing of flesh. He was out, free.

Mac allowed the pile of timbers to crash back down and scrambled over to Bryce.

‘Let me see.’ He panted, bending over the limb. The trouser leg was shredded, the skin slippery with blood. Bryce felt Mac’s hands working the flesh, the bones, the joints. ‘Any pain?’

Bryce shook his head. Smoke swirled around them, black smoke, noxious, choking. Through the gap, the fire leapt upwards, hungry, searching.

‘On your feet!’ Mac ordered. His strong hands gripped the lapels of Bryce’s jacket and pulled. Bryce pushed himself to his knees. The jacket caught on a nail and Bryce shook it off. Mac lifted him up under the armpits, then dragged him across the wreckage of his study. Bryce stumbled, then focussed on his footsteps. He saw his books, scarred and blackened, splintered furniture he barely recognised. Mac’s hand pulled him mercilessly. He tripped, put his hand out to break the fall, sinking to the elbow in broken plaster and other debris. He pulled himself up, his collar ripping as Mac grabbed his shirt and yanked hard. Back on his feet, Bryce discovered his shoe was missing, the sock wet with blood. He didn’t feel the pain, only the heat from the fire, roaring up from the lobby, curling hungrily beneath the first floor landing where they now stood. He threw an arm up over his face.

‘The stairs, quick!’

Bryce staggered after Mac, the heat forcing the men against the wall of the staircase. Broken glass cracked and crunched underfoot. Bryce glanced down. Former Prime Ministers stared back at him, their faces lit by a fiery glow. He stumbled down a few more steps then collided into Mac. For a moment he almost felt safe, skulking behind the broad-shouldered man in front, protected from the worst of the heat. The fire was less than fifteen feet away, consuming what remained of the lobby, roaring up towards the roofless sky. Timbers cooked and splintered, cracking in the heat. Bryce glanced toward the interior of the building, where corridors and state rooms once existed, now a dark grotto of unspeakable devastation. Smoke and flames belched from within.

‘We have to jump the last bit,’ Mac shouted. Part of the staircase was missing, the ground twenty feet below. ‘Get in front of me. I’ll lower you down.’ He shuffled around the small section of landing they were stood on, twisting Bryce so his back faced the street. Bryce could feel the heat of the flames now, prickling his shirt. He panicked, gripping Mac’s outstretched hands with his own.

‘I can’t!’

‘You can! Climb down, now. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.’

Bryce did as he was told, sliding towards the edge of the landing and lowering his body over the lip. He looked down, over his shoulder. The familiar black and white tiles of the lobby were submerged under a sea of rubble and jagged floor joists. He hung over the edge, feet dangling, Mac’s face above screwed in effort, the sweat pouring off his face.

‘Let go! Drop!’

‘I can’t!’ Bryce shouted, staring at the debris below.

‘Yeah, you can,’ Mac replied, prising Bryce’s fingers from his wrist.

Bryce dropped hard, crashing on to the rubble. He yelped in pain, rolled through the dirt and soot. Fear forced him to his feet, the intensity of the flames pushing him backwards until he realised he’d stumbled out into Downing Street itself. He caught himself on the edge of the crater, a giant hole that marked the epicentre of the blast. He was rooted to the spot, shocked by its enormity. Then Mac was beside him, pulling him from the edge, pushing him onwards over hillocks of brick and rubble. On the other side of the street the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was an inferno. They were caught inside a cathedral of destruction, the flames all around, towering towards the night sky. Mac gripped his hand with strong fingers, dragging him along.

They reached Whitehall a moment later, the suffocating heat left behind them. Bryce slipped from Mac’s grasp and fell. Slowly he pulled himself up, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the damage. Whitehall was covered in debris, the asphalt road barely visible under a carpet of wreckage; huge chunks of masonry, twisted metal, a sea of shattered glass glinting in the firelight. Vehicles lay abandoned in the street, their doors flung open in haste, the nearest ones overturned and engulfed in flames. Bodies littered the scene like piles of sack cloth, some limbless, some half-buried, torn and shredded clothing, bags, footwear – the detritus of instant havoc wreaked upon an unsuspecting populace surrounded Bryce. Even the streetlamps had been decapitated by the blast.

Then Mac was at his side again, yanking him upright by the armpits, cursing, pushing him away from the burning TV vehicles, from the inferno of the Foreign Ministry. Thick smoke swirled and eddied on the evening breeze, the air tainted with the stench of burning rubber. Bryce could taste it in his mouth, on his tongue. He heard a shout, then a scream that echoed around the shattered buildings. The sound unnerved him. His eyes bulged in fear.

‘Keep moving!’ Mac shouted.

‘Which way?’

The smoke seemed to be getting thicker, a choking black ceiling above them. A dark shape loomed out of the smoke from behind a burning police car. The man hopped past them muttering angrily, his leg missing below the knee. His hair was singed off and his clothing shredded, exposing more wounds that leaked a frightening volume of blood. Before either of them could react the man had disappeared, lost behind a veil of smoke.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Bryce whispered.

Mac grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘We can’t help him. Just keep moving.’

Bryce felt himself being dragged forward again. He had no strength left, his legs like iron weights, his lungs devoid of oxygen. His head swam. All he wanted to do now was lie down, just for a minute. He couldn’t go on, couldn’t take another step. He was about to let go of Mac’s hand when another sound reached his ears, the sound of a distant siren, getting louder, penetrating the fog of his mind. He felt Mac’s hand tighten and suddenly the smoke parted like a curtain before them.

A sea of blue and red lights stretched across Whitehall, filling Parliament Square and washing the Houses of Parliament in colourful strobes. Dozens of figures raced towards them, silhouetted against the lights, the sound of their running feet rising to a crescendo, a stampede of salvation. Bryce sank to his knees, exhausted, the relief almost palpable. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Mac’s hair was matted with filth, his face streaked with soot. The smile carved through the dirt, through the blood and grime.

‘Here comes the cavalry,’ he grinned, all traces of anxiety gone from his voice. ‘About bloody time, eh?’

Bryce tried to laugh but it caught in his throat. Tears streaked through the dirt and then the uniforms were on them like a wave. Urgent hands reached down for him, lifting him bodily off the ground, moving him swiftly away from the flames and the rumble of collapsing masonry. His senses were assaulted, the acrid smell of burning, the garbled chatter of radio transmissions, the multitude of voices jabbering in an unintelligible chorus around him. Sirens wailed and helicopters buzzed somewhere above. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, hemmed in by a scrum of uniforms, medical green and police black, the cold contact of their clothing abrasive against his raw flesh. Some held Perspex shields overhead, protecting him from further assault, like a cohort of Roman Legionnaires surrounding their wounded General. Bryce was a rag doll in their hands. His head lolled back and he stared upwards, beyond the helmets and visors, the ring of screaming voices and anxious faces, up to where a faint dusting of stars glittered in the night sky. He thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

The sirens grew louder and blue and red strobes pulsed brightly, lighting the scene with their flickering luminance. He felt himself being lowered onto a stretcher, then lifted again, and slid inside an ambulance. Doors slammed and paramedics in masks and clear plastic glasses loomed over him, slicing the clothes from his body. They tore the dressing from his head, the cotton from his mouth, wiping and swabbing, checking pressures and pupils and beats per minute. They swayed in unison as the vehicle headed away from Whitehall at speed, engine roaring, sirens clearing the way. He stared up at the ceiling, at the alien beings that surrounded him, peering, probing, puncturing his skin with drips and needles and other medicines.

Slowly Bryce began to relax. He’d live, of that much he was certain. Sure, he was sliced and diced, battered and bruised, but he sensed there was nothing dangerously wrong. The paramedics, in their cold and frighteningly impersonal language, confirmed it. Bryce could tell by the reduced speed of their industry, the soothing words and smiles.

He let the motion of the ambulance calm his shattered nerves. He’d survived. And it was all thanks to one man.

Saeed and Hooper were locked in intense discussion when a commotion from the corridor suddenly filled the room. There were shouts of excitement as a large group of suits and uniforms spilled through the double doors, Commissioner Chapman at their head. Saeed recognised most of the civilians, Labour MPs and party apparatchiks, their assistants weighed down with folders and paperwork. The word had gone out, the ruling classes drawn to the new hub of power. He watched Chapman march towards the window, braided cap tucked beneath his armpit. He was breathless, the words tumbling from his mouth.

‘He’s alive! The Prime Minister has been found!’

Faces beamed around the room. Saeed heard a sob of relief, saw the unbridled joy on the faces of the underlings. Some of the women hugged each other, others dabbing moist eyes with balled-up tissues. He regarded them with barely disguised contempt, stifling his own personal roar of frustration. ‘What’s his condition?’ he snapped.

The policeman’s smile faded. ‘It’s serious, multiple injuries. They’re taking him to King Edward the Seventh. It’ll be a while before we know any more.’

‘Any other survivors?’ Hooper inquired, his arms folded behind his back. ‘Senior people?’

‘Most of the buildings in Downing Street have suffered severe damage and the place is an inferno. It doesn’t look hopeful,’ Chapman warned.