The Horse at the Gates (36 page)

‘Yes,’ Saeed smiled, ‘although he will be leaving us shortly.’

‘Leaving?’ Polly looked nervous, as if whatever fate was about to befall Hooper would apply to her also. Saeed didn’t blame her. Her boss had been under tremendous pressure for the last week, and her job couldn’t have been easy. In addition, her office had just been invaded by a large group of people who were under strict instructions to say absolutely nothing to anyone.

‘Don’t worry, Polly, you’re an integral part of the team. I’ll be needing you.’

Polly’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Anything I can do to help, Sir.’

For now
, Saeed didn’t add, just until the fuss died down. Then you’ll be moved, quietly, to another department, just one more change in a long list of changes that people were going to start seeing. Now, where the hell was Hooper?

He saw his bulk through the frosted panels beside the door, moving around the room towards the door. Finally.

Everybody in the outer office heard the solid click as the doors were locked from the inside. Puzzled, Saeed stepped forward and twisted the brass door knob. He turned to Polly. ‘Get security up here now.’

There were several thumps from inside the room, loud ones that Saeed felt through the soles of his shoes. He rapped the thick wood with his knuckles. ‘Jacob, open the door. Jacob!’ There was no answer, only several more thumps, each one successively louder. What was this, some sort of last minute tantrum? Whatever dignity Hooper had left was now gone. Saeed had a mental image of him being led out into the street in handcuffs. Or maybe even a restraining jacket, like a mental patient. He must make sure the footage was released to the media at the earliest opportunity.

The loud crash of glass behind the door startled everyone. Polly uttered a shrill yelp of fear.

‘Everybody out! Clear the room!’ Saeed ordered. Just then two government security men appeared, dark suited, with wide shoulders and large hands. Saeed pointed to the thick double doors. ‘Break it down.’

The men set about the task with relish, taking turns to aim ferocious kicks against the brass mechanism. Rough hands rattled the door knobs, pummelled on the thick mahogany wood. Within thirty seconds both men were sweating, within a minute they were panting for breath, their faces twisted in anger. Suddenly, the wood beneath the door knobs splintered, cracking like a pistol shot. The younger of the two men took another step back and drove his foot into the area around the lock, sending one of the doors flying inwards and crashing against the frosted panel, shattering it. Saeed bundled in after them.

Everybody froze. Hooper stood by the broken glass wall as a cold wind barrelled around the room, swirling and snatching at discarded newspapers and documents and tossing them into the air. Saeed saw the chair was gone, Hooper’s heavy leather chair, no doubt lying in the street below. Hooper’s shoes were inches from the edge, his gaze off towards the distant horizon. Saeed turned to the security guards and ordered them to stay back. He took a few paces toward the window and stopped.

‘Jacob,’ he said quietly.

Hooper turned, just as Saeed heard the shouts, the muffled thump of boots on carpet, the rattle of equipment. He turned and waved his arms furiously, barring entry to the police officers who spilled into the outer office behind him. He raised a finger to his lips, silencing the new arrivals, who backed away from the open door. No one spoke, no one made a move, allowing Saeed to take a pace closer towards Hooper, then another. He studied the Prime Minister carefully; his behaviour was so much more than childish frustration, so unexpected, yet tantalising for its potential. He saw Hooper’s face streaked with tears, saw the resignation in those bulbous, bloodshot eyes, the prospect of a life without meaning, without purpose, a life lived at the outer fringes of obscurity. The eyes shifted, locking with Saeed’s, searching for hope, for forgiveness, and finding none. Instead, Saeed nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of the head.

Hooper took one more look at Saeed, at the uniforms that filled the room behind him. Shirt soaked by the invading rain, his tie flapping wildly in the wind, Jacob Hooper closed his eyes, took a sharp breath, then stepped over the window ledge.

Kneeling on the carpet, Danny traced the green plastic cable along its length, his fingers groping between the prickly needles of the Christmas tree – an imported Norway spruce, according to Ray – until he found the offending bulb. Its tiny filament was burnt black, so Danny replaced it with another then reached over to the skirting board and threw the switch. The room was instantly bathed in the soft glow of decorative lights and he scrambled to his feet to admire his handiwork. All he had to do now was hang a few baubles, put the fairy on top, then vacuum the million bloody needles that had fallen off while he fixed the stupid lights.

A real tree? A real pain the in arse, more like. Danny recalled a drunken Christmas a few years ago, staggering out of the King’s Head and seeing the van parked outside, crammed with rows of genuine fir Christmas trees. He’d parted with a few quid then waltzed it across the estate, singing merrily. The lift in his block was busted, of course, and by the time he had reached Dad’s flat the tree was almost naked, a trail of dead needles leading from the front door back down the stairs. He remembered his Dad laughing as he fetched the broom, the valiant attempt they both made to decorate the sorry-looking tree as it stood virtually naked in the living room. Danny tried to recall exactly when that had been, but failed. The festive celebrations he’d experienced over the years had jumbled into a confusing mix of fleeting memories, most of them spent stoned and pissed in the King’s Head. But this year would be different, he was sure of that.

He delicately positioned the last golden bauble then turned off the main light, the mood of the drawing room changing instantly.
Now
it felt like Christmas. The air was sweetly scented with balsam and a fire crackled in the grate, filling the room with what Danny could only describe as Christmas cheer. For a moment he felt like a kid again.

Satisfied with his efforts, he picked up a dustpan and brush and dropped to his knees, beginning the painstaking task of needle removal. Behind him, the door swung open and Tess poked her head around the frame.

‘Danny love, can you – oh wow!’

She swished into the room, bundled up inside a green Berghaus parka and white roll-neck sweater. Her cheeks were flushed red by the central heating, her eyes fixed on the glowing, sparkling evergreen that reached majestically towards the high ceiling. ‘Oh Danny, that’s beautiful. Really lovely. You’ve done a wonderful job.’

He got to his feet, smiling. ‘Cheers, Tess.’

‘Ray’s useless at that sort of thing,’ she told him, her fingers making her own delicate adjustments to the ribbons of light and shimmering tinsel. ‘You’ve got a real eye for it, though.’

‘Took me ages,’ Danny confessed, warming to the appreciation. ‘To tell you the truth I had a spot of bother with–’

‘Make sure you get rid of all those needles, won’t you?’ Tess tutted, clicking her tongue loudly. ‘Look at them, all over my good carpet.’

Danny forced a smile. ‘No worries, Tess. I’ll sort it.’

‘Good. When you’ve done that, the pickup needs unloading.’

Outside, the light was fading fast and the freezing rain threatened to turn to sleet. The rear of the Nissan was filled with cardboard boxes and plastic carrier bags bulging with groceries. Despite the cold, Danny was sweating by his third trip, trudging around the side of the house where he piled the supplies up just inside the kitchen door. It took several more trips before the task was complete, then Danny slipped his wellington boots off outside and padded around the kitchen in white socks, his feet making sweaty footprints on the highly polished floor tiles as he marched back and forth between the back door and the kitchen’s impressive centre island. He hefted the last bag onto the flecked black marble surface and let out a sigh of relief.

‘There you go,’ he puffed, ‘last one.’

‘Thanks,’ Tess mumbled, tapping away at her cell phone. ‘Put the meat away, would you, love? Took me an age to find non-Halal chicken in Watford.’

‘Right-ho.’ He rummaged through the bags, found several packs of chicken breast, and carried them over to the American-style refrigerator. ‘Fridge or freezer?’

‘Mmm?’ Tess turned around. ‘Oh, freezer please, Danny. We won’t need it straight away. Ray’s organised a couple of turkeys for Christmas Day.’

Danny stacked the shrink-wrapped packs of chicken neatly inside the icy compartment and closed the door. ‘You expecting many this year?’

Tess shook herself out of her parka and pulled the hem of the roll neck jumper over the wide expanse of her bottom, her wrists jangling with trademark jewellery as she stowed groceries in various cupboards.

‘There’ll be eight of us on Christmas Day and about twenty for the party on Boxing Day.’

‘Nice,’ Danny smiled, leaning against the centre island. ‘My dad usually does Christmas dinner, but he’s not the best cook in the world. To tell you the truth, it gets a bit boring, and dad usually sleeps all afternoon anyway, so I’m sort of on me own. It’ll be different this year. I’m really looking forward to it.’

Tess’s hand froze momentarily as she stacked tins of pineapple rings away in an overhead cupboard. She positioned the last can carefully and closed the door.

‘I’m sorry, love. I don’t think you’ll be joining us.’

Danny swallowed hard, his cheeks burning bright red. ‘Oh,’ was all he could manage to say.

The security light over the kitchen door blazed into life and Ray peered in through the glass. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his Barbour jacket and wide-brimmed Bushman hat spotted with water droplets.

‘Bloody rain. Freezing out there.’ He slammed the door behind him and crossed the kitchen, his footprints leaving a damp trail across the floor. ‘You get everything?’

Tess nodded. ‘Pretty much. Had a real job finding proper chicken. In the end I went to the one on Upton Road. Butcher there says it won’t be long before he’s forced to stock just Halal.’

‘It’s happening everywhere,’ Ray grumbled. He pointed to the TV on the wall, where Prime Minister Saeed was giving his first speech to the European Parliament. ‘What do you expect with him in charge? It’s only going to get worse, am I right Danny?’

‘I told Danny about Christmas,’ Tess said, emptying the contents of another carrier bag on the counter. Danny caught the look between them and felt instantly uneasy. Ray motioned him towards the door.

‘That’s alright, my love. I think it’s time me and Danny had that little chat anyway. Would you give Joe a buzz, ask him to join us in the barn?’

Outside, Danny pulled his boots back on and followed Ray around the house, snapping the collar of his waterproof jacket up as another belt of rain swept overhead, lashing the driveway in cold sheets. He felt nervous, apprehensive. A little chat. People only said that when they had bad news. Was Ray going to ask him to leave? One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be having Christmas dinner in the main house. Maybe that’s what Tess meant. Maybe he’ll still be here, but confined to his little flat above the garage. If that was the case then great, he could hack that, but what if it was something else? His heart thumped loudly as he followed Ray beyond the garage and past a row of tall conifers that swayed and hissed in the wind.

The barn was tucked behind the trees, a single-storey construction with a curved, sheet metal roof streaked with rusty stripes. Despite the obvious assault from the weather, Danny thought the barn looked fairly new. Ray took a key from his pocket and unlocked an industrial-sized padlock, sweeping aside the large concertina door. He crossed the threshold and ducked to his left as an urgent beeping echoed around the darkness. Danny stepped out of the rain and watched Ray disable the alarm, the lights of the control panel glowing brightly. Despite the gloom, Danny could see the outline of a car under a thick tarpaulin in the centre of the concrete floor.

‘That’s a Vauxhall under there,’ Ray explained, ‘one of the last to roll off the production line. We’ll get to that in a minute.’