The Horse at the Gates (25 page)

The shouting invaded his dreams, the screams rising only to fade again, before rising once more. They were screams of anguish, a wailing that was both familiar and disturbing. The darkness turned to grey, then to a bright white as he drifted upwards through the layers of fatigue. The room swam slowly into view, the TV on the wall, the chairs and coffee table by the window, the brick wall beyond. It was all as familiar as a prison cell and, in some respects, not that much different. The screaming was louder now, more intense, yet Bryce was still finding it difficult to focus.

It wasn’t normal to still be feeling like this. November was almost upon them, his wounds were much better, and yet some days he felt as weak and exhausted as he did when he’d first arrived. It was the drugs, of course, the sedatives that were being fed into his system. At first he welcomed them, numbing his body from the pain of his wounds, his mind from the shock of the bomb, the miracle of his survival, the loss of so many friends and colleagues. Now it was different. His body was healing but his mind was still clouded, his thought processes often vague and confused, until it was too much of an effort to keep his eyes open. He wanted to shout at the consultants as they pored over his charts, at the nurses who cleaned and dressed his wounds, at Orla, who tampered with his drip as Bryce watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. But he didn’t possess the strength. He wasn’t getting better, he was getting worse. And the screaming was getting louder.

Sirens.
As Bryce finally realised what the awful sound was, the door to his room flew inwards and crashed against the wall. The overhead lights snapped on and a group of doctors marched in, flanked by several nurses. A policeman in black body armour and brandishing an automatic weapon yanked the curtains closed, shutting out the night. More policemen funnelled into the room and Bryce heard shouting in the corridor outside. The sirens were louder now and a red strobe light pulsed near the doorway. Bodies crowded around his bed and the he heard the coffee table tip over, spilling the magazines that Bryce had never read across the floor.

‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’

Medical staff pressed in from all sides. Practised hands went to work, stripping the bed covers off, unplugging his body from the complex machinery, his veins from the mind-numbing drip. ‘Someone talk to me, please!’ He saw a familiar face lingering behind the medical team, talking earnestly to a helmeted policeman. ‘Suleyman!’ The orderly stared at him for a moment then looked away. His purple uniform was gone, replaced by a dark roll neck sweater and winter jacket. Then Bryce smelt something burning and suddenly the sirens, the flashing lights and the urgency all made sense. The building was on fire.

The doctors loomed over him, tugging at his eyelids, blinding him with pen torches, checking his vision with waving fingers. Bryce could see the hairs in their nostrils, caught the whiff of breath mints and tobacco. They spoke to each other in their own language, of pressures and pulse rates, of medications and observations. A stretcher trolley was wheeled next to the bed and firm hands gripped his limbs, supported his neck.
One, two, three, lift...

Smoke drifted across the ceiling, faint wisps of white and grey. A blanket was thrown over him, a pillow placed beneath his head, transport straps secured around his chest and legs. Orla was at his side, a rain coat draped loosely over her uniform. They were going outside, probably into the car park, or down the street perhaps, a fire assembly point. Bryce almost smiled. At last he’d feel the cold night air on his face, in his lungs. The doctors, gathered together at the foot of his trolley like a stone-faced jury, finally nodded their consent. Responsibility was passed, commands were issued in harsh voices and the trolley was set in motion. Suleyman appeared at his side, hands on the safety rail, guiding Bryce out of the room and into the corridor outside. If he had the strength Bryce would’ve cheered.

‘Don’t worry Mr Gabriel, we’ve got a security situation here. Just relax, everything’ll be fine.’

Bryce replied with a satisfied smile. He didn’t care what was happening, as long he got to leave his room for a while. There was more smoke in the corridor, the squeak of rubber boots on the floor, more shouting. Alarm strobes pulsed on the walls and strip lights passed overhead like white lines on a road. Black helmets bobbed in and out of his vision and he caught a glimpse at the clock on the wall behind the nurses’ station:
02:14
. Orla looked down at him several times, concern knotting her brow. A stethoscope dangled from her neck, swinging like a pendulum as they trundled along the corridor. They turned left, then right, then the trolley bounced over something hard and suddenly he was inside a large elevator with walls of brushed metal and bright overhead lights. The doors rumbled closed, the chaos of the corridor left behind. Suleyman on one side, the nurse on the other, two policemen by his feet, weapons clasped to their chests, all silent as Bryce felt the elevator travel downwards. They were definitely going outside.

The elevator jerked to a halt and the doors clattered open. A computerised female voice announced
basement level
in smooth tones. Cold air filled the metal space and the trolley shuddered as Bryce was backed out over the threshold. The two police officers remained inside and one of them leaned forward and stabbed a button with a gloved finger. The doors closed and they were gone, taking the light with them. Bryce lay on the stationary trolley, alone in the dark. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw a low concrete ceiling overhead, festooned with metal pipes that snaked their way across its blackened surface. He could smell petrol fumes and the stale odour of cigarette smoke. He twisted his head and realised he was on a raised loading bay that overlooked a large underground car park. The Turk leaned over him in the dark, fumbling inside his jacket pocket.

‘I have to put these on. Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution.’

‘Suleyman, I really–’

‘It’s Sully. Just Sully, ok?’ He pulled a blue paper head cover over Bryce’s thick grey hair, then secured a surgical mask over his nose and mouth. Finally, he slipped a pair of clear plastic glasses over Bryce’s darting eyes.

‘What’s happening?’ There was still a faint slur to his speech and his voice sounded muffled behind the thin mask.

‘Try and be quiet. It’ll soon be over.’

‘What will?’

‘Shh.’ Sully held a finger to his lips. ‘No talking now. At all.’

Sully turned away and Bryce saw the flare of a match. The Turk was leaning on a nearby railing, one foot propped on a lower bar. Orla stood next to him, bundled in her raincoat and smoking a cigarette. Neither seemed concerned about Bryce’s health, and that both reassured and troubled him at the same time. He heard footsteps, then a man’s voice echoed around the basement, making it impossible for Bryce to hear what was being said. He recognised Sully’s voice, then Orla’s. Footsteps clacked across concrete and doors slammed. An engine started up, then another. Blue lights swept the concrete walls, the ceiling. Bryce strained his neck, saw a police vehicle drive off, followed by an ambulance with all its lights going, then another police vehicle. He watched them as they headed toward the far end of the car park and disappear up a ramp, their sirens screaming into life.

‘Let’s go.’ It was Sully’s voice. Bryce saw him move around the back of his head. The trolley’s brake was released and he felt himself moving forward, his body dipping as the trolley rumbled down a shallow slope towards the floor of the car park. He felt Sully yank him short as a vehicle backed towards the ramp. Bryce noticed it wasn’t an ambulance, more like a small cargo van. He was confused. He looked up into Sully’s thin nostrils, his olive-skinned face glowing a fiendish red in the brake lights of the vehicle.

‘Sully, what’s happening? Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere safe,’ he whispered. ‘Now be quiet.’

The back doors swung open and the trolley bumped against the foot plate. Another man appeared, wearing some sort of uniform, overalls of an indistinguishable colour and a baseball cap. He helped Sully and Orla to lift the trolley and manoeuvre it inside. They climbed in behind Bryce, locking the wheels and fussing over a tangled web of nylon cargo straps as they lashed the trolley to the wall of the van. Bryce saw that the inside of the vehicle was empty, a dark-coloured roof and walls, a ridged metal floor. The rear doors slammed shut and Sully positioned his backside on the raised wheel arch. The driver squeezed past the trolley and into the driver’s cab and a moment later the van’s engine purred into life. Orla leaned across him, gave Bryce a visual check, adjusting the blanket up beneath his chin. She looked over at Sully.

‘He’s fine. Let’s get the heater on back here, though. It’s cold.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Sully banged his fist on the wall of the van. ‘Let’s go.’

The nurse stumbled as the van started rolling, then she disappeared into the front cab. Bryce wanted to quiz Sully again but realised that an answer wouldn’t be forthcoming. Beyond his feet, the rear doors had no windows, the outside world a vacuum of visual references. Frustrated, Bryce decided instead to concentrate on what his senses were telling him, what he could hear, what he could feel. The van swung around and Bryce felt the nose of the vehicle lift as it powered up the underground ramp and out onto the street. Sirens filled the air, much louder now, and flashes of blue and red momentarily illuminated the interior of the van. He heard harsh, urgent voices outside and someone banged the side of the van twice, the metallic echo startling Bryce. The vehicle powered forward again, then slowed and stopped. More voices, the crackle of radios. He heard the nurse talking, her voice pressing, authoritative. He glanced at Sully, who seemed oblivious to the external dialogue, his arms folded across his chest, his legs stretched out before him. Again Bryce noted the casual clothing, the dark jeans, the flashy trainers on his feet. What did that mean?

Then the van was on the move again, accelerating cleanly this time, the chatter from the driver’s cabin more relaxed. Shafts of yellow light drifted across the van’s roof with soothing regularity, indicating steady progress along empty city highways. After a while, Sully stood up and removed the articles from Bryce’s head, dumping them on his lap.

‘You’ll need them later,’ he announced, his body swaying with the motion of the van.

Bryce ignored the comment, determined to coax his escort into some sort of conversation. ‘I don’t feel tired anymore,’ he lied.

Sully sat back down. ‘What?’

‘I said I don’t feel tired. Well, not as much anyway. I think this little trip has done me a bit of good.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘What security situation?’

‘Huh?’

‘Back at the hospital, you said there was a security situation. Was it the fire?’

Sully stretched his legs out and yawned loudly. ‘Something like that.’

‘Can’t you tell me?’

‘Get some rest.’

‘That’s all I ever do around here,’ Bryce complained.

Sully drew his legs up, leaned forward. ‘The hospital’s not safe anymore. You’re being moved, as a precaution.’

‘Where to?’

‘That’s enough, now. Just be quiet,’ Sully commanded.

Bryce didn’t argue, unsettled by Sully’s behaviour. His voice was quietly disarming but the dark eyes said something else. Back at the hospital he’d always treated Bryce with courtesy, if not the respect that a man of his standing and authority should be accorded, but that was something to do with his security brief, Bryce supposed. Now his attitude had changed. He seemed indifferent, disrespectful even. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe it was simply a shift in perspective. After all, it was Jacob who now ran the country, Jacob who was always on the TV or splashed across the front pages, Jacob who delivered rousing speeches in the European Parliament, Jacob who waved from the steps of aircraft as he went about the business of government. Bryce was no longer Prime Minister, something he’d come to accept, but it was only a temporary state of affairs. Sooner or later he’d be well enough to hold the reigns of office once more, to lead the new Cabinet and take charge of the country once again. Or so he imagined.

The truth was, things were much different now. Even a cursory glance at a broadsheet, or a brief spell of channel surfing told him that much. The mood of the public had changed, shaped by an enthusiastic media that had given their wholehearted support to Jacob’s fledgling government, a government that was aggressively pushing the Treaty of Cairo, promising a new era of economic prosperity and social harmony, a heady cocktail for any electorate to consume. And consume they had, the opinion polls reflecting an extraordinarily high level of trust in Jacob’s administration, a new sense of hope amongst Britain’s many diverse communities. For Bryce, a return to power could be a hard sell.

And then there were the other stories: the rumours of his imminent resignation, his stubbornness over Cairo, his inability to act in the best interests of the country. The underlying message was subtle, repeated at every opportunity in punchy editorials and popular talk shows – Gabriel Bryce was bad for Britain, Jacob Hooper and Tariq Saeed good. His reputation had been subtly tainted by politically motivated editors and producers on the orders of their masters, reinforcing his lingering suspicions that bad news stories would be thin on the ground for a while. Unless they were about him, of course.

Bryce knew a smokescreen when he saw one. The country’s dark undercurrents still existed, swirling and shifting beneath the sparkling surface of a new dawn. His would-be assassin, Daniel Whelan, was out there somewhere, plotting, conspiring with others no doubt, preparing for the next attack. The public were reminded to stay alert, to keep an eye out for suspicious activity, to monitor friends and neighbours, to report strange behaviour, racist comments, dubious mono-cultural gatherings.

And all the while the relocation programme continued apace, the evidence of its disturbing consequences buried in the rubble of Downing Street. Bryce had once been a master of media manipulation, had used it many times to further his cause. Now it was being directed at his own premiership, his own policies – even him personally. He’d been replaced in the public consciousness, no longer a world leader, just a broken man who once ruled a country, where the electorate’s eyes had been opened by better, wiser men. Bryce was to be pitied but ultimately forgotten.