The Horse at the Gates (19 page)

‘Tariq,’ Bryce whispered.

‘Excuse me, Mr Gabriel?’

‘Nothing.’ Bryce pointed to the screen. ‘Tell me, Suleyman, what do you think of this treaty?’

The Turk studied the reporter huddled beneath his umbrella as he tapped the feather duster lightly in his hand. ‘I think people are fed up with being scared. The country’s in a mess. People want stability, see the economy pick up. Cairo will be good for all of us.’

‘What about the refugees in Egypt?’ Bryce argued. ‘Aren’t people worried about the sheer numbers that will enter Europe? The potential strain on public services?’ He lowered his voice. ‘The tensions it could cause?’

Suleyman dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. ‘Not really. My mum and dad came over when I was a boy, knuckled down, paid their bills. Same for a lot of Turks when we joined the EU. In my tower block in Newham there are nearly two hundred families, most of them from different parts of the world, and everyone seems to get along. You said once that this was a country of immigrants, remember that Mr Gabriel? Well, you’re right. There’s no British anymore, we’re all just Europeans.’

‘So you support the treaty then?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ the Turk shrugged. ‘Apart from the terrorists that is.’ He waved the feather duster across the screen, then turned and smiled at Bryce. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ He bustled over to the trolley and bent down, retrieving a parcel from the lower shelf. He handed it to Bryce. ‘Arrived yesterday.’

He’d received a mountain of get well gifts in the last few days; a veritable forest of plants and flowers, video messages from world leaders and media personalities, and a ton of mail from ordinary people. He’d barely had a chance to look at any of it. This would be the first one he’d unwrapped himself and it was a welcome distraction. The package was quite heavy, the thick padded envelope unceremoniously ripped open at the top and marked with a ‘SCANNED AND PASSED’ security stamp in bold red letters. The front of the package bore his address here at the hospital and, turning it over, he saw no return address on the back. He ripped the envelope all the way open and withdrew the contents.

It was a book, a beautifully bound volume with a dark blue spine inscribed with gold lettering. Bryce turned it over.
Chasing the Rainbow – A History of Around the World Ocean Voyages.
The cover showed the bow of a yacht, buried deep in the trough of a huge grey wave, black storm clouds pressing down above the mast. It was a powerful image, frightening even, and Bryce guessed it was somewhere in the Southern Ocean. He thumbed through the glossy pages and something dropped into his lap. It was a small card, the words on it handwritten in a neat block of text. It read:

Hello Prime Minister,

Tried to visit you last week but apparently I don’t have the necessary clearance. In any case I hope you’re recovering well. They ran your biog on a news programme the other day and I noticed you were a keen sailor in your youth, so it seems we both have something else in common, as well as surviving a major terrorist attack. I thought I’d leave this book with you. It’s a cracking read and maybe when you’re feeling better it’ll inspire you to take to the water again, get a bit of sea air. Always works wonders for me.

Get well, good luck. Mac

He turned the card over in his hand. The logo on the front was a clear outline of a yacht, the words ‘Boat Delivery Specialists’ beneath, an email address and telephone numbers. Bryce flipped the card over and re-read the message, deeply moved by the gesture. The first call he made would be to Mac, not only to thank him for the book but for his life too. He hadn’t had the chance to do that yet and it bothered him greatly. Without Mac he would’ve been a charred corpse in the rubble.

The door opened and Nurse Orla marched back into the room. She paused at the foot of Bryce’s bed and cleared her throat, her hands folded in front of her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t get hold of anyone right now, Sir. Your call will have to wait.’

‘It can’t,’ Bryce said. ‘Let me have your cell phone. I’ll cover any cost.’

Confusion clouded Orla’s face. ‘I don’t–’

Bryce held out his hand. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your phone. Please.’ He saw Orla glance at Suleyman, as if she were seeking permission. Bryce frowned. ‘Why are you looking at him?’ He turned to the Turk. ‘I’m getting nowhere here. Let me have your phone, please.’

Suleyman shook his head slowly. ‘Nurse Orla is right, she doesn’t have the authority and neither does the hospital.’ He waved her away and Orla hurried from the room. Suleyman put down his duster and came over to Bryce’s bed, squeezing his muscular frame into a chair. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. Bryce was confused.

‘What’s going on? And since when does an orderly give orders to a staff nurse?’

The Turk smiled. Rain drummed on the window. ‘Minister Saeed has expressly forbidden any contact with the outside world. For now.’

Bryce thought he’d misheard. ‘He’s what?’

‘It’s about your personal safety, Sir. We’ve had threatening phone calls, here at the hospital. A security guard has been arrested, as well as a kitchen porter. We’re monitoring suspicious activity in the apartment block across the street.’ Suleyman leaned forward, shoulders bulging beneath his purple tunic. The chirpiness had disappeared, replaced by a voice that was measured, serious. Authoritative. ‘Minister Saeed believes that an infiltration exercise is in progress. That another attempt may be made on your life.’

Bryce’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you, Suleyman?’

The orderly kept his voice low. ‘I’ve been sent here to watch over you. On Minister Saeed’s orders. He insisted you be looked after.’

‘I want to speak to him.’

‘He’s coming here, very soon.’

‘You’re looking out for me?’ Suleyman nodded. ‘Then who were the two people checking my chart when I woke up? Why did they run off?’

The Turk pushed himself out of his chair and pressed the call button next to Bryce’s bed. ‘You sure you weren’t dreaming? An after-effect of your medication?’

‘Don’t patronise me. I know what I saw.’

Suleyman ignored him as Nurse Orla reappeared. ‘Let’s get him settled,’ he ordered. As Orla busied herself next to the bed, the Turk took the card from Bryce’s fingers, slid it inside the book and placed it on the trolley. ‘I’ll put this with your personal effects. Let me know when you want it.’

‘What I want is to make a bloody phone call.’

‘Not possible.’

‘I’m not asking. Don’t forget, I’m the Prime Minister.’

‘Well, technically that title now belongs to Jacob Hooper.’ Suleyman shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, Mr Gabriel. I’m following orders, that’s all. Now, Minister Saeed will be here in the next few days, so I suggest you rest until he gets here. Then you can talk.’

‘No, I want my phone call, dammit. Are you... you... can you...’

The words trailed away. His mouth felt thick, his tongue heavy. He turned his head, watched Nurse Orla as she regulated the drip chamber, saw the glistening droplets feeding into the clear plastic tube, spiralling down into his body. Suleyman turned off the TV and gathered his cleaning materials, placing them on the trolley. Orla pulled the sheets over Bryce’s chest and slipped the mouth guard over his upper gum.

‘Get some rest, now.’

Suleyman stood beside her, looking down. ‘Don’t worry, Gabe. I’ll be watching your back.’

He heard them chuckle, the voices sounding distant, as if Bryce were at the bottom of a deep well, two dark silhouettes far above him. He opened his mouth, tried to speak.

‘Suleyman...’

‘What do I keep telling you?’ the voice echoed. ‘Call me Sully.’

The lights dimmed and he heard the wheels of the trolley squeaking out of the door. Then there was silence, only the distant patter of the rain on the window registering in his dulled senses. His eyes closed once, then twice, waves of fatigue pounding the shoreline of his consciousness.

Then the world turned black.

As the single-decker bus approached Radlett train station, Danny emerged from a stand of trees by the side of the road and jogged toward the bus stop, only turning at the last moment to flag the vehicle down in the wash of its headlights. He wore a high-visibility orange raincoat with ‘NETRAIL’ stencilled on the back in large black letters, the collar turned up against the early morning drizzle, a black beanie hat pulled low over his eyes. The bus rattled noisily to a halt at the stop and the doors hissed open. Danny climbed aboard.

‘How far you going?’ he asked the driver, a scowling young Asian man with spiky gelled hair and a gold ear stud. He pointed above his head, his hands wrapped in black fingerless leather gloves.

‘Read the front. Watford general.’

‘Right,’ Danny said. He smiled, eager to avoid confrontation. ‘That’s fine.’

The driver sucked his gums loudly and gave Danny a filthy look. ‘Tap in, then.’

Danny fished the travel card from his pocket and wiped it across the reader. It was the first time he’d used it and his heart almost skipped a beat as the digital display momentarily flickered before announcing his authority to travel. The driver closed the doors and floored the accelerator, sending Danny scrambling for a hand hold. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the driver’s challenging stare in the rear view mirror. Danny smothered his anger and walked towards the back of the bus. There were several other passengers scattered throughout the seats, most wearing medical uniforms of one sort or another. Early hospital shift, Danny assumed.

He found an empty seat at the rear of the bus, sliding down low and folding the collar of the raincoat around his face. The other passengers paid him no attention, wrapped in their own thoughts or watching the news on one of the on-board TV screens. The newsreader droned on about a protest march planned for London, then the progress of the Egyptian treaty talks with other European leaders in Brussels. Danny’s heart suddenly leapt when his own picture flashed up on the screen, superimposed over footage of the decimated Luton mosque where bodies were still being recovered. Danny felt sick, with fear mostly, but also with revulsion at the sight of small body bags being stretchered into waiting ambulances while mourning parents screamed and beat their chests. He hated Muslims, of course he did, but not like this. He rubbed a hand across the dark growth on his face and up over his severe and uneven haircut.
Relax,
he told himself,
no-one will recognise you in a hurry.

He yawned, stretching his legs beneath the seat. The past week had been both physically and mentally exhausting. From the Longhill estate, Danny had jogged for half a mile before climbing over a fence and scrambling up a railway embankment. It was the best way to leave the area, he decided, avoiding the streets, the CCTV, the forces that hunted him. The railway line was deserted, the occasional train announcing its presence long before he saw it, and was easily avoided. He kept his ears open for police blimps too, but never saw one.

The crew hut had been occupied when he first encountered it, a long, single-storey portacabin adjacent to the tracks, just past the station at Neasden. He’d waited in the undergrowth, listening to the muffled voices, watching the flickering light of a TV beyond the mesh-covered windows. After a while, several orange-clad workmen piled outside and boarded a small engine on a nearby service track. With a loud clanking and a flash of electrical discharge, the engine tooted its horn and headed off into the darkness.

Danny circled the portacabin carefully, creeping around the outside then peering through the grimy windows until he was satisfied the place was empty. The door was unlocked and he moved inside quickly, listening for several moments in case someone was still there. In the corner, the TV was switched off, an almost empty percolator of coffee steaming on the kitchen unit. There was a range cooker and a microwave, a couple of battered sofas and a table piled with newspapers. To the left was a door that led to the washroom. Danny found a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer and got to work on his hair, scooping the cuttings from the sink and scattering them outside. He found a pair of navy blue work dungarees hanging on a hook near the shower and changed into them, stuffing his jeans down into a waste bin. He drank the coffee and helped himself to some bread from the overhead units, and a single slice of cooked ham from the fridge. He chewed the food slowly while he weighed up his options. Cheated out of their prize, someone on the Longhill would have called the police by now. The estate would be crawling, his dad’s flat torn apart. The guilt almost choked him, but he had to avoid the authorities. The longer he stayed on the run, the more chance the real terrorists would be nicked. The portacabin was isolated, far from the streets, a source of warmth, food and fresh water. It was worth the risk.