The Horse at the Gates (52 page)

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.

In the crew galley he’d made a large pot of coffee and listened to the radio as the
Sunflower
cruised quietly under engine power along the silent channel of the Hamble River and out into Southampton Water. He felt the chop of the deeper sea as the bow turned south and the twin Cummins engines increased power. After a while, a shadow loomed in the gangway, one of Mac’s team.

‘Skipper says it’s alright to come up on deck.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

Bryce went to his cabin and tugged his cold weather coat on, pulling a woollen hat down over his ears. He made his way up the staircase and paused before hitting the open air, pulling the hat a little lower over his forehead. He’d been careful so far, why change now? Then he stepped out on deck.

The sun had risen, climbing above the gently sloping ground to the east. In the morning light, under a deep blue sky, the Oyster 125 was even more impressive. He crossed the teak decking and climbed the steps to the fly bridge, where he found Mac seated behind the large stainless steel wheel of the vessel. The wind whipped off the surface of the water, but the fly bridge’s angled canopy deflected the worst of it. The elevated view was magnificent, staring straight down the keel of the boat as it knifed through the green waters. The land fell away on either side, the refineries and docks giving way to lowlying fields and wooded hills. He was gripped with a sense of freedom he’d never felt before, the nightmare of Alton Grange temporarily banished, his pursuers ignorant, frustrated. Bryce took a deep lungful of salt-tinged air and exhaled noisily.

‘Marvellous,’ he smiled.

Mac pointed to the deep leather pilot’s seat next to his. ‘Take a pew.’ He was hatless, dressed in a red sailing jacket and trousers, a turtleneck sweater and rubber boots on his feet. With his dark stubble and wraparound sunglasses, he looked every inch the yacht master he was. Bryce slid into the chair next to him, his eyes drawn to the sophisticated array of instruments spread across the open cockpit.

‘Sailing’s come a long way since I first got my feet wet.’

Mac laughed, keeping a wary eye on the shipping lanes ahead. ‘She’s something, all right. The owner’s a Yank, a heavyweight Wall Street financier. He’s got a place in Miami you wouldn’t believe. He’s putting us up for a few days while he gets familiar with her.’

‘Lucky you,’ Bryce replied, his eyes roaming the digital readouts and 3D displays. ‘What’s the traffic like?’

‘Reasonably light.’ Mac tapped one of the inbuilt colour screens. ‘We’ve got two large freighters steaming up from the south towards East Solent, but we’ll pass well ahead of them. Here.’ Bryce took the offered binoculars. He scanned the water, spotting a huge white cruise ship with a yellow funnel steaming down the channel ahead of them.

‘Cold start to their holiday,’ Bryce remarked, pointing to the distant ship.

Mac shook his head. ‘P&O transport. The passengers are émigrés, headed south. Australia and New Zealand.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘Don’t you watch the news? That’s all P&O do these days.’

Bryce refocused the binoculars until the huge vessel filled the lens. He could see people crowding around the deck rails, men, women, children, braving the cold weather in their coats and scarves, ribbons of coloured streamers trailing from the superstructure, rippling in the wind.

‘Can’t say I blame them,’ Mac said, ‘especially after everything you’ve told me.’

Bryce lowered the binoculars. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I fear.’

Mac turned the wheel a few degrees to starboard. His hand rested on the engines’ power levers, teasing a little more from the plant below decks. ‘Yes it will. You don’t have to be a genius to read the writing on the wall. Things have changed, since the bombs, and especially since Cairo. There’s an atmosphere on the streets, a lot of tension, especially in the big cities with all those refugee camps springing up in public parks. Every week there’s a demonstration of one sort or another in London. There’s a rumour the army is gearing up for civil unrest.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘I’ve still got mates in uniform. Military stores around the country are filling up with riot shields and tear gas.’ Mac pointed to the ship as it drew ahead of them, the water churned to white foam in its wake. ‘A lot of people are getting nervous about the future. I reckon those ships will get busier and busier.’

Two families in our village have already gone...

‘God help us.’ Bryce lifted the binoculars to his eyes again, watching the tiny figures packed around the railings, the small boats scampering in the giant vessel’s wake, the deep bass of the ship’s horn as it boomed across the cold waters.

‘They’re saying farewell,’ Mac explained. ‘Won’t be many dry eyes on board tonight.’

Bryce watched the ship for a short while longer as it steamed south into the Solent. He lowered the binoculars and eased himself off the pilot’s chair. ‘I’m sorry I put you through all this.’

Mac kept his eyes on the water ahead, his hands making delicate adjustments to the steering wheel. ‘Truth is, you’ve done me a favour,’ he replied. ‘At least I know what’s going on now, politically I mean. I never took much notice before. The business came first, plus I wasn’t in the country much. Now I know, well... forewarned is forearmed, right?’

‘So they say. But they won’t stop looking. The danger’s still very real, Mac. And it’s still out there.’

Mac shrugged. ‘There’s not much else I can do. The family’s at my mum’s in Plymouth and I’ve got someone watching the business in Hamble. Cover story is I’m in Scotland to price a boat move and recce the coastline around Oban. I’m pretty confident our tracks have been covered.’

‘What about this vessel?’ Bryce asked, tapping the Perspex canopy. ‘Someone will notice it’s gone.’

‘This move has been planned for weeks,’ Mac explained. ‘We’ve just brought it forward a bit, that’s all. And the
Sunflower
is still registered with the manufacturers, and they take their client’s anonymity very seriously. I think we’ll be alright.’

He pointed off to starboard, past the sparkling lights and steaming towers of a large power station, where a circular stone castle stood guard over the entrance to Southampton Water. ‘That’s Calshot Spit. Things can get a little tricky here, so I need to pay attention. Once we round the point, we’re raising the main sail and I’ll need all hands on deck. Fancy a job?’ Bryce nodded, eager to put distance between himself and the shoreline. ‘Good. How about a round of coffees?’

‘No problem. I’ve got a pot on the go already.’ Bryce took orders from the rest of the crew, then headed back down to the galley. He filled a tray with five no-spill mugs, made some toast and brought the whole lot up to the wide aft deck. There was a curved bench seat there, sealed in thick plastic, and a table similarly covered and bolted to the deck. Bryce set the tray down and called the others. He took Mac’s mug up to him, plus a couple of slices of toast. Mac attacked the toast first.

‘Mmm, nice,’ he mumbled between mouthfuls, ‘sea air always gives me an appetite.’

‘Me too,’ Bryce admitted.

‘But you’re not eating. You alright?’

Bryce stared off to starboard, watching the long spit of land curving towards them, like a shingle finger beckoning them to shore. There was someone there, at the water’s edge, a boy with a fishing rod, wrapped up in a green jacket and a red and white football scarf. He lifted his head as the
Sunflower
drifted past, then raised his hand and waved. Bryce waved back.

‘Thanks to you, a lot better,’ he said. ‘I’m not match fit yet. The nights are difficult, and I’m still suffering a bit of memory loss, but I’m getting there.’

Mac polished off the last of the toast. ‘I’m not going to push you on this trip, you know that. If you need a break, if you don’t feel well, then let me know. We’ll cope. We’ve all done this journey a dozen times.’