The Horse at the Gates (7 page)

His close protection officers kept a discreet distance as Bryce approached the grave, easily distinguishable from its moss-covered neighbours by the glint of white marble and a colourful splash of flowers. Still fresh, noted Bryce. That would be Jules, Lizzie’s green-fingered sister who lived a few miles from the cemetery just outside Guildford. He never brought flowers himself, mindful of Lizzie’s hay fever and the discomfort it brought her. Jules was a decent woman, but Bryce had never really clicked with the rest of her family, the pressures of his work and their strong Conservative values denying them the common ground that neither party had really sought.

Lizzie was different, the rebel of the clan, a political science student when they’d first met at Cambridge. The relationship had quickly blossomed into something more serious, the firebrand socialist and the daughter of a Tory Peer proving to be a real power-couple at Emmanuel College. Marriage followed shortly afterwards, the joy of their union tempered by the revelation of Lizzie’s inability to conceive. She’d made up for the disappointment by enthusiastically supporting her husband through his career, from junior political analyst to head of the party’s Policy Unit, after which he was elected to parliament for the Wiltshire seat of Swindon North. She never saw him enter Number Ten, the cancer that killed her discovered during a routine doctor’s appointment less than eight months before the general election. The cruelties of fate; not God’s will, as some of Bryce’s friends had suggested, reasoning that a divine hand had other plans for the only woman he’d ever truly loved. Bryce believed that any God wouldn’t be that cruel.

He squatted down and tidied the grave, carefully, brushing away the twigs and fingering the wet leaf mulch from the inscriptions on the smooth white slab. The marble was cold to the touch, a sensation that Bryce always found mildly unsettling, a reminder of the frozen eternity of death, of the pale bones that lay a few feet beneath his fingers. He withdrew his hand and stood, his knees cracking painfully in protest. He took a few steps and sat down on a nearby bench, pulling his overcoat tightly around him and thrusting his hands deep into its pockets. At either end of the row his security people watched from behind dark glasses, ready to turn others away, selfishly guarding Bryce’s quiet contemplation. Lately it was making him feel guilty, denying others access to their loved ones’ final resting place. During his first visits he couldn’t have cared less if the queue went twice around the cemetery, consumed as he was by grief. Yet now, as the years passed, he had become sensitive to the inconvenience his security arrangements inflicted on others.

As if on cue, he saw an elderly lady turned away by one of his bodyguards. She was a small, sad-looking woman wrapped inside a pale green overcoat, grey hair spilling out from beneath a matching woollen hat. Bryce watched her through guilty eyes as she shuffled a few yards away, a posy of flowers clutched to her chest, a large handbag dangling from a bony hand, as she waited patiently for Bryce to finish. He winced with embarrassment.

Despite the cold it was a beautiful day. A late September sun shone in the sky, a cobalt-blue dome that stretched from horizon to horizon, randomly dotted with tiny cotton-wool clouds. Closer to earth, birds flitted across an untidy mix of tilting headstones and cheerless stone angels, and dead leaves tumbled and scraped along the path, piling around his feet before scattering on a gusting breeze. It was only on days like these that Bryce visited, days when the sun shone. It was a poor excuse for his less than regular visitations, but he truly hated winter here, the cemetery ringed by lifeless trees, damp soil under leaden skies, the depressing Victorian spectacle of organised bereavement. How he wished that Lizzie’s family had opted for cremation.

He glanced toward the old woman again. Still she waited. He waved at the bodyguard to let her through, after which she had to suffer the indignity of having her bag searched. Bryce watched her as she walked stiffly towards a nearby grave, changing the flowers that wilted in a small vase. The memorial was a basic arrangement, a simple weather-beaten headstone, a border of white gravel littered with dead leaves. A small Union Jack planted at the base trembled in the breeze, and a photograph in a silver frame lay propped against the stone, the soldier’s proud pose faded by time and the elements. Bryce nodded politely to the woman and looked away.

The graves marched down the hill in solemn ranks toward a distant line of poplars that bordered the cemetery. Dozens more flags caught his eye, adorning the headstones of soldiers killed in the meat grinder that was Afghanistan. He shivered, burying his chin deep inside the cashmere folds of his overcoat.

And what had it all been for, anyway? Despite the continued presence of the United Nations, the Afghanis had returned to their feudal existence, the Mullahs once again ruling from the ruins of Kabul, the provinces carved up amongst the warlords, the poppy fields thriving. And the drugs continued to pour into the west, an unstoppable tide of misery that plagued Europe in ever more inventive chemical manifestations. It was just one more problem to be tackled, a growing list that was rapidly piling up outside Bryce’s door. A drum began to beat behind his forehead and Bryce pinched the bridge of his nose to stem the growing headache.

He stared at Lizzie’s headstone and whispered: ‘Where are you when I need you, love?’ She never answered, of course. Lizzie had been dead for over four years now, and in truth she’d been his only real friend, a true companion. She was always at his side, beautiful, smart as hell, a pressure valve when things got tough. Bryce often joked that she should of been PM instead of him, but now there was no-one to laugh with, no-one to confide in, to lay down by his side. He was the leader of a nation of seventy million inhabitants, surrounded by advisors, ministers and bodyguards – and yet he was alone. He still wasn’t ready to meet anyone else, to endure the awkward first dates, to discuss Lizzie with another woman, to live with the guilt of never visiting this bleak cemetery again. It still seemed too soon.

He glanced to his right where the woman sat on the next bench, handbag resting on her lap. Bryce got to his feet and approached her, hovering a short distance away. The woman turned, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.

‘Good morning.’ Bryce gestured to the bench. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Please,’ the woman replied, inching further along. She was well-spoken, in that bland, Home Counties Way, and subconsciously Bryce pegged her as a probable Tory. He perched himself on the edge of the bench and extended his hand. ‘Gabriel Bryce.’

She took it, her hand dainty in his, her grip surprisingly firm. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. She didn’t offer her own name, which Bryce regarded as loose confirmation of her political loyalties. She was also unfazed by his company, which was a rare experience for the Prime Minister. He didn’t normally meet random members of the public and, when he did, they were carefully screened supporters or party members, sycophants in the main, the type of people who would queue for hours just to shake his hand or have their picture taken with him. This woman wasn’t like that, and neither did she seem as old as she’d first appeared. Her skin, though lined with age, was coloured a healthy pink by the sharp air, her brown eyes bright and intelligent. Perhaps it was bereavement that had aged her, knowing the debilitating effect that loss can have on a person’s health. Her clothing was smart but old-fashioned, the woollen coat and knitted hat neither waterproof nor insulated against the cold. Bryce guessed she was in her sixties.

He indicted the nearby headstone. ‘Your son?’

‘Gavin. An only child.’ The smile never made it to her eyes, Bryce noticed. ‘He’d be in his thirties now.’

The faded picture propped against the cold stone showed a young man wearing full dress uniform, his back ram rod straight, his hands placed stiffly on his knees, chin tilted upward towards the camera. His face was frozen in that serious boy soldier expression, pride and vulnerability all in one, his eyes barely visible beneath the gleaming peak of his service cap.

‘Afghanistan?’ Bryce asked.

The woman nodded. ‘Part of the peacekeeping mission. Such a waste, all those lives, don’t you think? You know, it still pains me to see world leaders fawning all over those Taliban creatures. Such a betrayal.’

Bryce felt a little uncomfortable, recalling last year’s visit to Downing Street by the robed and turbaned delegation from the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. ‘I know it sounds harsh, but that’s the reality of politics, madam. Every conflict ends with dialogue and compromise, if only to prevent more loss of life.’

The woman sniffed, sitting a little straighter on the bench. ‘I’m not a fool, Mr Bryce, I understand the way the world works. I just don’t think it was worth losing my boy over. Any of those boys.’ She nodded toward her son’s grave. ‘His best friend Miles ended up in a hospital near Birmingham, one of those ghost wards for veterans. It sounds like a terrible thing to say, but I’d rather Gavin be here, in his grave, than rotting in one of those godforsaken institutions.’ She turned and fixed Bryce with a cold stare. ‘You really should do something about them, you know. Disgusting places.’

Bryce knew about the ghost wards, where damaged and distressed servicemen and women lived out their days in NHS isolation units dotted around the country. The spectres that roamed their halls had been long forgotten by the media and quietly ignored by politicians, any political capital to be gained from their recognition spent long ago. Bryce himself had never visited one.

Before he could muster a suitable response the cell in his pocket began to vibrate. ‘Excuse me.’ He glanced at the screen, then up the hill towards the cemetery access road where Ella stood watching him. She held up her arm and tapped her wrist. Bryce waved and got to his feet.

‘Time I was going,’ he announced. ‘Pressures of work and all that.’

The woman looked away. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘And I for yours,’ said the woman, and Bryce thought she meant it. He’d only taken a few steps when her voice called after him: ‘Do you despise this country, Mr Bryce?’

He stopped and turned around. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Our culture, our values. Do you despise them? If you intend to sign that Cairo treaty then you must.’

Bryce offered a confused smile. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because it’s the truth.’ The woman nodded towards her son’s grave. ‘That’s a temporary headstone, the second this year. The others were smashed, Gavin’s picture torn up, the flags trampled on. I’m not the only one.’ She waved a hand around the cemetery. ‘Most of the other soldiers’ graves have been vandalised too, and the Jewish ones. The police say its kids, but everyone knows it’s not.’

Bryce shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have-’

‘Jihad, Mr Bryce. That’s right, and I don’t mind saying it, although most people are either too blind or too stupid to see it. Our cities are changing every day, slowly but surely, and Cairo will be the final nail in the coffin.’ The woman regarded Bryce for a moment, then said: ‘I’ve offended your socialist sensibilities, haven’t I? It’s interesting, without your teleprompters and prepared speeches you people are lost for words. Is it because you know I’m right, Mr Bryce?’

It was strange to hear such uncomfortable language from a respectable-looking woman; but, despite that, her words resonated with him. He remained silent as she produced a tissue from the sleeve of her coat and dabbed at her nose.

‘Politicians always make the mistake of confusing opinions with facts, and facts can be so politically inconvenient, can’t they? It’s no wonder people are leaving.’

‘Leaving?’

‘Yes, leaving. Emigrating.’ Her sharp eyes narrowed as she studied his face. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr Bryce. We’ve all seen the queues outside the embassies in London. Two families in our village have already gone. It seems everyone knows somebody who’s left, or is thinking of leaving. People are fearful of the future here, that’s why they’re moving away.’ She nodded toward her son’s headstone. ‘I’d go myself, but I can’t leave my boy.’

In fact, the figure for last year’s émigrés was five hundred and seventy-two thousand, Bryce recalled; but who knew if those were all migrants or holiday makers, or others simply returning to the land of their birth? The system had stopped recording the details decades ago.

‘I wouldn’t believe everything you read,’ he lied.

The woman’s face flushed, her heavily-veined hands twisting the straps of her handbag. ‘Don’t patronise me, Mr Bryce. Those two million refugees camped in the Egyptian desert will have the right to become EU citizens if that terrible treaty is signed, and we both know where most of them will be headed.’

‘Well, that’s not strictly-’

‘And why won’t the Arab nations or Turkey take them? It’s always us, isn’t it? I’m a Christian, Mr Bryce. I believe in charity, in helping those less fortunate than ourselves, but the system won’t be able to cope with so many people. If you sign that treaty it will mark the beginning of the end.’

Her eyes bored into him, her lower lip trembling. Bryce could feel her anger and was momentarily lost for words. It had been a long time since he’d encountered such animosity from a member of the public, certainly not since his days as a young MP, door knocking around shabby council estates. He glanced again towards the grave she visited, her only child, lying dead beneath her feet all these years. Was it any wonder she was bitter?

‘These are complex issues, Madam.’

The woman chuckled without humour. ‘Yes, of course, silly me. How could I possibly understand them?’ She got up from the bench and took a few steps to her son’s grave, kissing her finger tips and laying them gently on the headstone. ‘And besides,’ she said, stepping back onto the path, ‘I’m just a law-abiding taxpayer whose family has lived here for centuries. On what planet would someone like you ever have the interests of someone like me at heart?’ Before Bryce could reply the woman said, ‘Good day, Mr Bryce,’ and turned away.