The Horse at the Gates (16 page)

‘I can manage.’ Whelan senior rolled up the sleeves and plunged his hands back into the soapy water, getting to work on a heavily-stained coffee mug, one with the England football team logo and ‘FIFA World Cup China 2026’ stamped on its side. Danny remembered it well, the so-called English players lined up for their opening match in Beijing, hardly a single white face amongst them, the national anthem barely mumbled. Bloody disgrace. If it wasn’t his dad’s mug he’d have chucked it over the balcony ages ago.

‘What are you up to then?’

‘I was thinking of going out for a while,’ Danny replied.

The old man’s hands froze in the water. ‘You be careful out there, son. They’re rounding people up, shipping them off to the detention centre at Camp Hill. It’s on the news.’ He wheezed, smothering a cough with the back of his hand. He placed the mug carefully on the draining board.

‘I’ve got to find out what’s going on, pops.’

‘Watch the TV, then.’

‘No, I mean what’s really going on. On the street.’ Danny thrust his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fold of money. He laid two of the notes down on the counter. The old man’s eyes flicked between the money and Danny’s face.

‘What’s this?’

‘Some more money from that job. For food and stuff. Bit towards the bills, too.’

The old man stared at the notes. ‘If you get caught you’ll be in a lot of trouble. Me too, probably.’

Danny shook his head and forced a smile. ‘Only a couple of people know I’m staying here. I’m still registered at the hostel, remember?’

‘You can always come back, son. This is your home, where you grew up.’

‘I get more housing credits if I’m in that shithole, which means sooner or later they’ll have to give me my own place. I’m just working the system, pops.’

The old man picked up the tea towel again, bunching it up as he dried his hands. ‘What did you have to do for that, anyway?’

‘I told you, a delivery.’

‘What sort of delivery?’

‘A fridge. Big bloody thing it was too, one of them industrial ones. Nearly broke me back.’

‘Where to?’

‘Eh?’ Danny felt the blood rushing to his cheeks, a jolt of fear triggering the sudden pounding of his heart.

‘The fridge. Where d’you deliver it to?’

He remembered Abdul’s dirty breath, the big hands that twisted his shirt collar, that shoved him hard and sent him sprawling through the mosque. He remembered the news bulletins the following night, seen through a haze of blue smoke and chemically dulled senses, the shattered dome, the lumpy white sheets lined along the pavement, the wailing relatives. He swallowed hard. ‘Just some place outside London.’

The old man picked up the money, his fingers savouring the crispness of the paper. ‘Jesus, two hundred quid. That’s lovely, son.’ He opened a cupboard above him and placed the notes beneath a stack of small plates. ‘I can’t say we don’t need it. Just be careful, alright?’

Danny didn’t answer, instead watching his father close the cupboard door, using the tea towel to wipe away a few damp fingerprints on the handle. Danny gently took the cloth from his hand and got to work on the pile of dishes next to the sink. He worked in silence as his father ran a broom across the floor. When Danny had finished, he wiped the draining board dry, polished the taps then slapped the tea towel over his shoulder.

‘There. All sorted.’

The old man smiled. ‘Thanks, son. So, where are you going?’

‘The Kings, probably.’ He turned towards the window. Outside, tower blocks marched across the estate, the roof-mounted wind turbines turning lazily in the evening breeze. The city sparkled under the night sky, the view one of the only benefits of living on the Longhill Estate. Up here they couldn’t smell the rubbish-strewn alleyways or see the graffiti on the walls. Instead, the signs of social deprivation were audible, the bickering families, the jumbled drone of televisions, the muffled thump of music, the pitiful whine of housebound dogs. For the last two days Danny had filtered it all out, had smoked enough resin to knock out a bull elephant, but the nightmares had penetrated the fog of drugs, the blanket of sleep that had wrapped itself around his body. He’d thrown up in his bedroom last night, taking care not to disturb his dad as he rinsed out the wastepaper basket in the bathroom, his hands shaking, his body covered in a light sheen of sweat. He’d curled up beneath his duvet, shutting the world out as the news from Luton grew more terrible each day.

He could hand himself in right now, tonight, tell them what really happened, but would they believe him? He’d be arrested for sure, interviewed over and over again, spend weeks on remand in a category double ‘A’ nick while they tried to corroborate his story. Danny knew they wouldn’t have much luck doing that; a bloke called Sully with no last name, a cell number that was now disconnected, a lorry with an envelope full of cash in the glove box. Anyone with half a brain would know something was dodgy. And there was Downing Street too, the bomb going off at exactly the same time as Luton, the news full of rightwing conspiracies. So he’d be charged, a trial would follow, the country howling for justice. His defence lawyer would be state-appointed – in other words, useless, and whoever was getting done for this one would go away forever. The thought chilled his bones.

‘You all right, son?’

Danny turned away from the window, saw his dad stroking the grey stubble of his chin, his rheumy eyes troubled. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Think I’m coming down with that bug that’s going around.’

‘Stay in, then.’

‘I’ve been stuck indoors for two days, dad. Fresh air will do me good.’

The old man tapped the side of his neck. ‘Well, make sure you cover that up. Police ain’t mucking about now, not with the Prime Minister in hospital and half the government dead. I told you, Camp Hill is filling up, lot of your old mates in there I expect.’

‘Ex-mates. I don’t see anyone from the Movement anymore.’

‘Just as well,’ the old man muttered. ‘I never really took to that lot.’

‘You had a good day out that day, down at the seaside.’

‘Yeah, that was nice,’ his dad admitted, ‘but they’re a weird bunch, talking about what they would do if they were in power. Nasty stuff, some of it.’

‘That’s called politics, dad.’

The old man frowned, wagging a bony finger. ‘Don’t patronise me, Danny. I might be old but I’m not stupid. Would you want to see old Jaz thrown out of his newsagents, deported to a country he hasn’t visited in fifty years?’

‘Well, I–’

‘Where would you get your scratch cards then? Or your smokes? Nearest shop is on the high road. Oh yeah, you couldn’t go there either, coz your mates would’ve chucked them out too.’

Danny held his hands up. Normally he would’ve launched into one of his impassioned speeches about race and immigration, but he had other things to worry about now. ‘Alright, pops, I get it. Anyway, it’s not about blokes like Jaz.’

The old man took a step forward and laid his hand on Danny’s shoulder. ‘All this bitterness and hate won’t get you anywhere, son. You’ve got to make the best of your life, find a bit of happiness, any way you can. If your mum were alive she’d tell you the same.’

Danny felt a sudden wave of emotion choking him. The words lingered behind his lips, like caged birds waiting to be released in an explosion of wings. The urge to unload the whole story on his dad was almost overpowering, but Danny knew that would only make things worse. The stress and worry would probably make his dad ill, and worse, he’d be incriminating him too. He didn’t trust himself to look his own father in the face so he stared at his shoes instead.

‘You’re right, dad. I’m pretty bloody useless, ain’t I?’

He felt his father’s fingers squeeze his shoulder. ‘No you’re not, son. You’ve had a few problems, had a bit of bad luck, that’s all. You’re still young. There’s still plenty of time to turn your life around.’

‘Sure there is.’ Danny patted his dad’s hand and eased it from his shoulder.

‘Be careful out there, son. Cell’s on if you need me.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Danny mumbled. Out in the hallway he grabbed his coat and a tatty baseball cap off the hook by the front door. He paused for a moment, watching the old man settle down in the living room, the light of the TV flickering off the wall, the sterile sound of canned laughter. He stared at the door to his bedroom, where the small rucksack lay beneath his bed, stuffed with clean clothes and a wash kit, the rest of the money and his passport. The letter to his dad lay in a drawer, hastily scrawled in the dead of night, stained with tears of guilt and drug-induced self-pity. He stood there a moment longer, wracked with uncertainty, then closed the front door behind him. It wasn’t time, not yet. He’d give it another night, a few more hours to think up a plan, make a decision.

Run...

He shook off the thought as he trotted down the stairs, past the terminally broken elevators in the lobby and out into the night. He pulled the baseball cap low over his brow, navigating the concrete alleyways of the estate, fading in and out of the street lamps and their weak pools of stored solar lighting. He heard it before he saw it, the low hum of the propellers, then the blink of a red collision light as the bulbous nose crept into view above the nearest tower block. He kept his head down as the unmanned airship drifted slowly overhead, its platform of cameras and sensors scanning the streets below, the ghostly white letters that read ‘POLICE’ clearly visible on its inflated black flanks. Danny ducked inside an unlit lobby until the drone of its propellers had melted away. It was the second one he’d seen that day, unusual because the blimps normally flew over a couple of times a week.

Run, Danny...

He turned the corner towards the small parade of shops, their shutters covered in unintelligible scrawls of coloured spray paint. Danny ducked inside the King’s Head, acknowledging the bouncer in the shadows of the doorway with a familiar nod. The pub was busier than usual and he loitered near the door for a few moments, soaking up the vibe like a swimmer testing the water. There was no tension in the air, no strangers lurking, no sudden crash of glass, of shouted commands to
Stand Still! Don’t Move!
He scanned the faces, hoping somehow that Sully would be there, knowing he wouldn’t.

The lights in the pub were out, the tables around the room basking in the warm glow of flickering tea-lights, illuminating the crooked smiles and easy banter of the regulars. Shadows danced around the walls and music thumped quietly in the background. Despite everything, Danny found himself warming to the ambience, a welcome change from the usual undercurrents of tension and violence. The scene reminded him of a distant New Years Eve, during his one and only tour of Afghanistan, most of the camp bedded down for the night, the tent lit by a small gas lantern. He could still see the grinning faces of his mates around the card table, the clink of bottles as they saw the New Year in, cocooned within the confines of the camp, in the warm embrace of their friendship. He missed those times, those friends.

He pulled off his baseball cap and sauntered over to the bar, squeezing between the drinkers, the small camping lamps hanging from the overhead shelves lighting its length. The landlord nodded.

‘Alright Dan?’

‘Sweet. What’s with the candles?’

The landlord pulled a pint of lager and pushed it in front of Danny, leaving a wet trail across the bar. ‘Saving energy, bruv. Bills are crippling us, so we’re cutting down on our overheads. Besides, I’m having a lock-in later.’

‘Nice one.’ Danny passed over a ten pound note and sipped the froth from the glass rim. ‘Decent crowd this evening.’

‘Yeah, funny that,’ observed the landlord, scanning the note under an ultra-violet reader. ‘Give ’em a national crisis and a few candles and suddenly everyone’s a happy camper.’

‘Sort of reminds me of when I was in Afghanistan,’ Danny began, warming to the subject. ‘New Years Eve twenty-two, it was. Bloody cold that night, if memory serves–’

The landlord had already drifted away to serve another punter further down the bar.
Ignorant bastard,
Danny fumed silently. For a minute there he’d felt a little better, his thoughts momentarily distracted from the shit he was in. Still, his job tonight was to keep his ear to the ground, see if the police had been nosing around the estate. He had to stay focussed.

He moved away from the bar, pulling off his coat and sitting down at a table on his own. He found half a daytime spliff in his pocket, puff-lite as he jokingly called them, and considered sparking it up. He frowned, his resolve already crumbling as he smoothed the spliff between his fingers. He was supposed to stay alert, not get stoned. Besides, hadn’t he had enough lately? Then again it would help him relax, calm his frayed nerves. He clamped it between his lips.
Fuck it, why not?
He lit it with the tea-light on the table, exhaling slowly and rocking back in his chair, his eyes roaming the room, his ears catching snippets of conversation around him.

Despite the soothing buzz of the drug, Danny realised how much he hated the Longhill, how much he detested himself and the shitty choices he’d made that saw him homeless and unemployed at thirty-eight years old. He’d love to leave this place, but where else could he go? He’d been out of work for ages, no decent qualifications and a few convictions on his record. Not exactly an employer’s dream. So, like it or not, the Longhill was his home, a familiar stamping ground where he was known and reasonably respected.

And there was his father to consider too, his health not being what it was. Despite having a useless shit for a son, his dad rarely complained, allowing Danny to sleep in his old room instead of that miserable hostel, cooking and washing for him without charge or complaint. His dad had been proud of him once, when Danny had joined the army, when he landed the government job. His photo was still up on the living room wall, the one of him in his dress uniform, next to the one of mum. Happier times, that’s for sure.

But what if he had to leave, to run as the voice inside him urged? He had his passport, a bit of money, but he’d be picked up the moment he tried to leave the country and the cash would soon run out. To say his options were limited was an understatement. He took a long toke of the spliff to numb the bitterness that bubbled inside him. What a loser he’d turned out to be: discipline gone to shit, a mere shadow of the man he once was, all those years ago when he took the oath and wore the uniform. He closed his eyes and again the memories returned, the camaraderie, the friendships, the laughs. If he concentrated hard enough he could almost smell the dry Afghan air, taste the tang of jet fuel in his mouth, the roar of the helicopters as they–