The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  Beyond the waiting helicopter below, beyond the double chain-link fence that surrounded the terminal building, the Heathrow Relocation Centre sprawled into the distance, a seemingly endless landscape of prefabricated flat rooftops marching toward the dark horizon. The two-storey structures covered the disused runways, the aprons, the taxiways, the grass verges, crammed together into every available space. Halogen lamps clustered on steel towers glowed above the rooftops, rain sweeping through their bright shafts of light. The nearest accommodation blocks were five hundred yards away, curving into the distance in line with the well-lit perimeter fence. Rubbish piled against the chain link and strands of material fluttered in the wind, caught in the crown of razor wire that topped the fence. Distant lights glowed in the old terminal buildings.

  Bryce turned away from the window, pulling off his overcoat. He was dressed casually, grey slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. ‘Quite a sight when you see it up close,’ he remarked.

  Davies hung his coat on a stand behind the door. ‘You should see it in daylight. It’s more like a city.’ He took a seat behind his desk, inviting Bryce and Ella into empty chairs opposite.

  ‘Looks deserted out there,’ Bryce observed.

  ‘Friday’s a busy day for the population here. Prayers, followed by all sorts of meetings and sit-downs. The main arrivals hall in Terminal Five is being used a mosque, as are the ones in the other terminals, plus there are several more scattered around the site. We’ve estimated they’re cramming in between five and ten thousand in each of the main buildings, nose to socks.’

  There was a tap on the door and an Asian man entered, a tray of coffee and biscuits held before him. He wore a navy Border Agency fleece zipped up to the chin, partly obscuring his wispy beard. He nodded politely, while Davies cleared a space on his untidy desk and began pouring the coffee. Bryce shot a look at Ella as the man backed out of the room. Davies caught the exchange as he passed around the mugs.

  ‘Don’t worry, Taj is my right-hand man, one of my senior interpreters. Very high clearance.’ The security chief leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, you can see the operation has grown immeasurably since you were last here. As I explained on the phone, we’re struggling to cope.’

  Bryce sipped at the steaming liquid as he registered the untidy mess of papers on Davies’ desk. Behind him, a high spec printer beeped continuously, spitting out sheets of paper. ‘I was aware of a certain level of pressure on resources here, Mr Davies, but nothing like you described during our conversation.’

  ‘The place is falling apart, Prime Minister. To all intents and purposes we’ve lost control.’ Davies unlocked a desk drawer and removed a single sheet of paper. He handed it to Bryce. ‘This is why I couldn’t talk on the phone.’

  Bryce gave Davies a puzzled look, then began to read:

  Originator: DAVIES, Michael, Chief of Operations, Border Agency, Heathrow Relocation Centre, Middlesex. CONFIDENTIAL SECURITY INCIDENT REVIEW – NOT FOR CIRCULATION – EYES ONLY.

  12-01: 661/541: Female stoned to death by large crowd of male assailants between blocks 227 & 228, sector 14.

  11-02: 1025/445: Two security officers seriously assaulted in sector 09 during routine patrol. Personal protection equipment, swipe cards and radios stolen.

  29-03: 256/091: Teenage girl doused with flammable liquid and set on fire outside maternity unit at Terminal 2. Three family members detained. Released due to lack of evidence.

  27-05: 199/472: Male killed during large disturbance at wedding ceremony in Terminal 4.

  22-08: 088/190: Two males found gagged, bound and hung in washroom in block 17, sector 3. Murdered by unknown assailants for alleged homosexual activities.

  Bryce looked up, his face pale. ‘These incidents happened here?’

  Davies crunched on a biscuit and nodded. ‘All in the last eight months. I assumed you knew because detailed reports of each incident were sent to both my own superiors and to Minister Saeed. He ordered a blanket censorship.’

  Tariq.

  Bryce held up the sheet of paper between his thumb and forefinger, as if the contents were somehow contagious. ‘What about the suspects? The witnesses?’

  ‘Some of the incidents were captured on CCTV, but Minister Saeed had the footage seized. He promised an internal inquiry but it’s yet to happen. The casualties have been explained away as accidents, suicides, that sort of thing.’

  ‘He’s covered this up?’

  Davies hesitated. ‘Well, that sort of accusation is above my pay grade, Prime Minister. However, I can tell you that Minister Saeed’s office makes very little attempt to liaise with Operations these days, unless it’s to restrict our effectiveness in some way. I’ve raised concerns with my own chain of command, but I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to shut up and crack on.’

  Bryce handed the sheet of paper back to Davies. ‘This is unacceptable.’

  Davies locked the report away and swept a hand towards the window. ‘The simple truth is, out there beyond the wire the rule of law is an imported one. They have their own leadership hierarchy, operate a working Sharia court system, manage their own disputes, you name it. One by one our integration programmes have been scrapped and my staff no longer patrol the accommodation blocks or any of the public areas.’

  ‘Why?’

  Davies looked pained. ‘Minister Saeed believes our presence intimidates the refugees.’

  Bryce got up and went to the window. Rain continued to lash the camp, urged on by the strengthening wind. The roof above creaked before its power, but Bryce was oblivious to the fast approaching storm. ‘You’ve spoken to the minister directly about your concerns?’

  ‘I managed to get a moment with him a few weeks ago. He told me in no uncertain terms that the running of the camp must not be interfered with.’ Davies leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware of the influence he holds here, Prime Minister. He gave a speech in Terminal Five the other week. You could hear the roar of the crowd from here. It was more like a political rally.’

  Bryce pointed to Davies’ computer screen. ‘Can you show me the footage?’

  The security chief shook his head. ‘All monitoring systems in the terminal buildings are disabled when Minister Saeed visits. Privacy issues.’

  Bryce stared across the dark expanse of Heathrow. This was getting worse by the minute. ‘You were right to contact me directly, Mr Davies.’

  The Chief of Operations took a sip of coffee. ‘There are other concerns, Prime Minister.’ He put his mug down and began ticking them off on his fingers. ‘We have a rising birth rate that our medical facilities cannot cope with, we’re seeing disease outbreaks, we’ve got tribal and family disputes, many ending in some form of violence. And we’re losing refugees too, a thousand in the last six months, just disappearing into the night. Some we pick up outside the wire, most we don’t. I haven’t got the resources to combat it.’

  Bryce thought he’d misheard. ‘Escaping?’

  ‘Every day. We can’t cope,’ Davies admitted, holding up his hands.

  Bryce was finding it hard to take it all in. Control of the site had been lost, that much was clear, and Tariq had allowed it to happen. Worse, he appeared to be actively encouraging it. Behind him, Davies took advantage of the Prime Minister’s silence.

  ‘It’s like another country out there, a country of over one hundred thousand. And rising.’ Davies lowered his voice and Bryce had to face him to hear what he said. ‘The fact is, it doesn’t feel like a humanitarian effort anymore. It feels more like a siege.’

  ‘That’s dangerous language, Mr Davies.’

  The security chief didn’t blink. ‘It’s the truth.’

  Bryce turned back to the window. So, the monthly brief he’d been receiving from Tariq’s office was deliberately evasive, a smoke screen to hide the true nature of what was happening here. But why? He marched back to his chair and pulled his coat on, helping Ella into hers.

  ‘I want a detailed dossier on what yo
u’ve just told me. Include everything, Mr Davies. Media files, departmental communications, minutes of meetings, the lot. I’m putting a stop to this shambles.’

  Davies hesitated, his hands folded nervously on the table. ‘You’re shutting us down?’

  Bryce nodded. ‘That’s why you contacted my office, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, I’ll need some assurances. Being a whistleblower doesn’t exactly look good on one’s CV. I’ve got financial commitments, a pension to consider-’

  Bryce cut him short, snapping the collar of his coat around his ears. ‘You’ll be taken care of, Mr Davies, you have my word. It’s your superiors who may be seeking new employment opportunities.’

  Davies rose from behind his desk, clearly relieved. ‘I appreciate that, Sir.’

  ‘As soon as possible, Mr Davies.’

  Outside, helicopter rotor blades beat the air, whipping clouds of spray across the tarmac. Thirty seconds later they were airborne, the nose of the helicopter dipping as it cleared the boundary fence. As they climbed higher, Bryce settled back in his seat. The whole relocation programme was experiencing a fundamental breakdown and refugees were still arriving, hundreds every day. Bryce felt a mixture of emotions: anger, confusion and a lingering sense of unease. Davies had painted a picture of growing lawlessness, coupled with a burgeoning cultural assertiveness that was given legitimacy by Tariq’s deep involvement. Murders, for God’s sake. Something had to be done.

  Next to him, Ella said, ‘You’re kidding, right? About shutting down the programme?’

  ‘Does it sound like I’m kidding?’

  Ella’s eyes widened behind her frames. ‘You can’t. Brussels won’t allow it; and besides, EU immigration laws prevent us from excluding members of extended families already settled here in Britain. We’re legally bound to accept them. We’d be overruled, Gabe, and the press will hang you out to dry.’

  ‘To hell with the bloody press,’ Bryce seethed. ‘People have been killed back there, Ella. This is exactly the sort of ammunition I need to block Cairo.’

  The Special Advisor’s face paled in the dim cabin. ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Look, if we can’t deal with a few hundred thousand refugees, what d’you think will happen if we ratify Cairo?’

  ‘Jesus, think about what you’re saying, Gabe. You can’t block it. Anyway,’ she warned, ‘you’ve already signed off on the framework document. The wheels are in motion. They’re building the bloody stage as we speak, for Christ’s sake. It’s too late.’

  ‘Without my signature the treaty is a no go,’ Bryce reminded her.

  ‘But we need that deal,’ Ella stressed. ‘Egypt is sitting on top of some of the biggest shale gas fields the region has ever seen, not to mention the oil finds; they’re practically giving it away compared to our existing deals with Russia and the Gulf states. Accession is a small price to pay in comparison. We have to be realistic, Gabe.’

  Bryce’s nostrils flared. ‘It’s not the prospect of Egypt joining the EU that bothers me; it’s the millions of refugees they’re trying to unload on the rest of us.’

  ‘Oh, please. Now you’re beginning to sound like your own hate mail.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Bryce found it difficult to filter the frustration out of his voice. ‘Look, we’ve already given leave to stay to over four hundred thousand refugees, plus the hundred thousand back there at Heathrow still waiting to be processed, and tonight we’ve discovered that the whole place is a complete and utter shambles. No,’ he declared, chopping the air with his hand, ‘there’ll be no more refugees. And no treaty, not until we get our own house in order.’

  Ella took a moment to remove her glasses, polishing the lenses with the cuff of her sweater. ‘And when are you thinking of dropping this bombshell?’ she finally asked.

  ‘As soon as Davies delivers that dossier. A week, maybe two. Then we can push some temporary legislation through parliament.’

  Ella slipped the glasses back on her face. ‘Gabe, you need to think about things very carefully. All this could play straight into the hands of the far-right, not to mention the Opposition.’

  ‘And what about the murders? The security breaches? If that gets out before we get a chance to denounce it we’ll look even worse.’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to Oliver first, before you take this any further.’

  Oliver Massey, billionaire former party treasurer and major financial contributor, was an old friend of Bryce’s and still held significant influence over party strategy. Bryce had impressed Massey as a young MP, the textile magnate subsequently funding Bryce’s campaign for party leadership and later donating a large percentage of his election-winning war chest. He was a good friend, yet a distant one, a very private figure who preferred the sunnier climbs of the Caribbean than the wind-swept shores of Britain. Looking out of the rain-streaked window, Bryce didn’t blame him. Yet, Massey was a believer, one still convinced that his old friend was the right man for the job.

  ‘He’s aware of my doubts about Cairo, and shares them. He’s prepared to back me whatever decision I make.’

  ‘But you just can’t-’

  ‘Enough,’ scowled Bryce. ‘I won’t be swayed on this, Ella. Your job is to keep on top of Davies, make sure that dossier shores up my decision. We need to spin it aggressively, so when we do go public people fully understand the scale of the problem.’

  Ella stayed quiet, knowing better than to argue with him when he had the bit between his teeth. His premiership had been a tough one, born on the back of a serious economic downturn and a failing power infrastructure. Ella was right, the country needed Cairo, but at what price? Super-cheap energy would certainly boost the economy, but if they couldn’t then the whole exercise was pointless. And there were other, darker repercussions to consider. Violence had begun to sweep the country, a spate of attacks that bore all the hallmarks of religious intolerance: two churches burnt down in Lancashire, Jewish cemeteries desecrated, the Israeli embassy in London firebombed. Bryce had ordered a media blackout in an effort to quash any subsequent escalation but the warning signals were clear. There could be no more refugees, no Treaty of Cairo, until the situation had been brought firmly under control. The country, and Brussels, would understand.

  Ahead, the sparkling towers of London shimmered in the night as the helicopter began its descent. ‘When does Tariq get back from Istanbul?’

  ‘Next week.’ Ella reached for her cell. ‘You want me to pull him out of the conference now?’

  Bryce shook his head. ‘No. The Islamic Congress will kick up a stink if we yank one of their guest speakers.’

  ‘So, how do you want to play this?’

  ‘We keep it to ourselves,’ Bryce ordered. ‘Just you, me and Davies. As soon as the dossier’s ready we go public.’

  Ella turned the cell over in her hand. It was a nervous gesture, Bryce knew. ‘What about Cabinet? You’ll have to brief them.’

  ‘No. I can’t afford any leaks on this one.’

  ‘That’s a risky game, Gabe.’

  ‘I’ll chance it. I’m fed up with off-the-record briefings making the front pages.’

  ‘And Tariq?’

  ‘Screw Tariq,’ Bryce snapped. ‘This whole mess could sink us thanks to that idiot. As soon as we’ve got that dossier Tariq is out. Finished.’

  Below, the ghostly luminance of Battersea’s chimneys swept into view as the helicopter circled the power station to land. Bryce unbuckled his seat belt as the aircraft settled on the glowing pad. It was only after he’d stepped out into the rain swept darkness, as he settled into the back seat of the waiting car, that he realised he hadn’t noticed the turbulence of the return journey at all.

  North London

  The man slipped past the shaven-headed bouncer and yanked open the heavy wooden door, careful to grasp the worn metal handle with only two fingers. The door swung shut behind him and he wiped his fingers on the leg of his jeans. The King’s Head public house was, as expected, a
shithole. Situated at the heart of the Longhill estate in north-west London, the single-storey concrete block sported mesh-covered windows, graffiti-daubed walls and a chalk notice board that promised satellite TV and home-cooked meals. The only thing cooked around here was heroin, the man speculated. In any case, the King’s Head was a focal point of dubious entertainment for the residents who occupied the surrounding concrete towers, and it was here he’d find the man he sought.

  The inside was gloomy, the narrow windows set high around the walls beaming thin shafts of milky daylight across the floor. The man clamped his cell phone to his ear, faking a conversation while his eyes adjusted to the shadows. The bar was directly in front of him, enveloped in a layer of blue smoke. Smoking laws were unenforceable here, a pointless and potentially dangerous exercise for any local official who might be bothered to try.

  To his left, along a short corridor, a dimly-lit pool room reached towards the rear of the building. More smoke swirled over the tables, a heady mix of tobacco and cannabis leaking along the corridor. Young men drifted in and out of the table lights, feral street roughs with pale chins jutting beneath baseball caps and hooded sweatshirts. Pool balls cracked noisily, the air punctuated by harsh laughter and coarse street talk. The man looked away, careful not to make eye contact with the players. To his right several tables and chairs were clustered together, their occupants bathed in the light of a huge TV. A cry went up, cruel encouragement for the horses that galloped across its high-def surface. Gambling, alcohol, drugs the blatant sins that surrounded him made his skin crawl.

  He charted a course around scattered chairs and heavily-stained tables and crossed the open floor to the bar, his trainers rasping noisily on its tacky surface. He was confronted by a lurid assortment of pump lights advertising cheap lagers and a steel shutter hung above the counter like a guillotine. He finished his bogus conversation and slipped the cell back into his pocket. The landlord, a flat-nosed rough with tattooed arms, glanced up from his newspaper.