The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  After the day he’d had, he’d certainly earned it, hadn’t he?

  Downing Street

  ‘Are we ready?’ Bryce asked.

  He buttoned the front of his suit jacket, checking the Tag Heuer Monaco on his wrist as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. It was almost time. He felt energised, ready to face his audience; but as he envisaged the expected storm of criticism that would surely follow his speech, his nerve momentarily faltered. He was about to turn into a road he’d never travelled before, with no way of knowing where it would lead him. He refocused his thoughts as Ella fussed around him, all business.

  ‘Your speech has been uploaded into the teleprompter and these are your notes, just in case.’ She handed over a small white card. ‘The press are waiting and most of the Cabinet are here, too.’

  Bryce raised an eyebrow. ‘And Tariq?’

  ‘Running late,’ Ella informed him. ‘He’s leaving Millbank now.’

  Bryce shook his head. ‘Arrogant bloody fool.’ He began rummaging through the neat stacks of folders and documents piled on his desk. ‘Where the hell did I put that Heathrow dossier?’

  ‘In your safe,’ replied Ella, pointing to the opposite wall.

  ‘So I did. Where’s Davies now?’

  ‘I’ve got him squirreled away downstairs. Sam’s briefing him before the media eat the poor man alive.’

  Bryce nodded and crossed to the wall safe. His private study was situated on the first floor, a reasonably sized room tucked away at the rear of the building, a quiet bolthole where Bryce could escape the unrelenting demands of office. He liked its size and its light, its lack of formality. It was modestly furnished with a mahogany writing desk and a red leather Chesterfield sofa along one book-lined wall. The opposite wall boasted three large French windows that overlooked the rose garden below, a unique selling point for any study in Bryce’s opinion. It was quiet, cosy and, in the depths of winter, a fire smouldered in the grate at Bryce’s feet.

  The slim wall safe was mounted inside the chimney breast, hidden behind a hinged replica of Aivazovsky’s ‘The Ninth Wave’. Bryce had a fascination for seascapes, stemming from the sailing holidays of his youth and his all too brief flirtation with offshore racing during university. There was never any time for it now and he often missed it. He studied the painting for a moment, the castaways clinging to a broken mast, helpless as the sea threatened to engulf them; today, he thought he understood how those people felt. He punched a code into the safe’s keypad and the thick hatch swung open. Bryce turned around. Rana Hassani’s tiny figure stood in the study doorway.

  ‘The relocation programme is to be suspended?’

  Bryce shot a glance at Ella, who immediately moved to intercept the Deputy Communities Minister. ‘I’m afraid the Prime Minister can’t see you right now, Rana. If you would-’

  ‘Well?’ Hassani demanded, dodging Ella’s outstretched arm.

  Bryce retrieved the dossier and closed the safe door. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘So, the rumours are true,’ she glowered.

  Bryce struggled to keep his own temper in check. ‘Rana, this is neither the time nor the place for this and, besides, you’re overstepping the mark here.’

  Saeed’s diminutive deputy stood her ground. ‘Prime Minister, with respect, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.’

  ‘Really?’ he bristled, waving the dossier in the air. ‘I think when you’ve heard the contents of this report you may reconsider that opinion. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’

  Hassani didn’t move. ‘I’d like two minutes of your time.’ She tilted her veiled head respectfully. ‘Please.’

  Bryce took a deep breath. ‘Fine,’ he relented, ‘two minutes.’

  Behind Hassani, Ella shook her head vigorously. Bryce ignored her as he took up position by the window. The sun had already set, the sky a palette of deepening blues, the few clouds to the west brushed with streaks of pink and red. He looked down, where the evening shadows invaded the garden. The lawn was immaculate, the flower beds still quite colourful despite nature’s autumnal assaults. He looked beyond the perimeter wall and over the black steel spikes towards St. James Park, where stubborn leaves clung to the trees, shivering in the evening breeze. Nearby, scattered groups of tourists gathered in small knots on Horseguards Parade. The historic square once heaved with tour parties, all flocking to London in their millions to visit its multitude of attractions. Now it appeared desolate.

  Two families in our village have already gone...

  ‘Prime Minister,’ Hassani began in a quiet voice behind him. ‘The relocation programme is a humanitarian effort on an unprecedented scale, a challenge that we here in Britain have met with resounding success.’

  Bryce turned to face her. ‘I’m afraid that’s not the case-’

  ‘Let me finish,’ Hassani commanded, holding up her hand. Bryce fumed silently. True to form, she’d completed the predicted mood swing from respectful colleague to irritating nuisance in one small sentence. He’d look forward to sacking her, too, if he ever got a word in.

  ‘Suspending the program, or whatever it is you intend to do, is not only illegal, it will also damage international relationships, especially across the Islamic world. Furthermore, it will cause great distress among the seven million Muslim voters right here in Britain. To even suggest such a course of action is unethical, unconstitutional and, quite simply, unacceptable.’ Her voice had risen steadily as she spoke, the last word delivered just short of a bark. Before Bryce could answer, the Communities deputy continued her lecture.

  ‘Both Britain and Pakistan have enjoyed a long history together and many of the refugees see Britain as a spiritual home. To deny them the opportunity to come here is an abuse of their human rights. The programme must continue, so that displaced friends and relatives may be welcomed into the bosom of the Pakistani community. It is our duty to-’

  ‘A duty we can ill afford,’ Bryce cut in. He took a deep breath, knowing he had to tread carefully. ‘Rana, I sympathise with your argument, but it’s a fact that the refugees have travelled through some extraordinarily prosperous countries to arrive at the gates of Europe. As well as a temporary suspension, I intend to pursue agreements with the Gulf states, encourage them to accept a share of the burden until the situation in Pakistan is resolved.’

  Hassani’s eyes bored into him. ‘The refugees are a burden to you?’

  Bryce chewed his lip; this debate was going nowhere. He glanced at his watch. ‘Your two minutes are up.’

  ‘I strongly advise you to reconsider your position,’ Hassani urged, wagging a slender finger at the ceiling. ‘Much hatred has been directed towards the refugees and this suspension will only fuel such loathing, a state of affairs you will be held responsible for.’

  Ella stepped between them, towering over the tiny minister. ‘That’s enough, thank you Rana. I think you’ve made your point. Now, if you don’t mind, the Prime Minister has a press conference to attend.’ She glared at Ella then left the room, leaving the door wide open. Ella swung it closed behind her.

  ‘Jesus Christ, that bloody woman.’

  Bryce stared at the door. ‘How the hell did she find out?’

  ‘Must be someone at Heathrow, one of Davies’ team probably.’

  ‘I warned him, no leaks.’

  ‘If Rana knows, then so does Tariq.’

  Bryce let out a long sigh. ‘Well, in a few minutes everyone will know.’

  ‘She’s right about one thing,’ continued Ella. ‘The Muslim community will see this as a bad day for them.’

  ‘Which reminds me.’ Bryce produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘A shortlist of prospective candidates to replace Tariq, all with the necessary credentials. Go over it, would you? Let me have your thoughts?’

  Ella plucked the paper from his fingers and scanned it quickly. ‘I will.’ She stood in front of Bryce and her hand reached out and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. ‘You look very nice,’ she s
miled. ‘Very handsome.’

  ‘Ella-’

  ‘I can have an opinion, can’t I? If I can’t have you, then at least allow me that.’ Bryce said nothing as she picked a thread of lint from his shoulder. She smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘I’m always here for you, Gabe. You know that.’ Bryce saw the pain of rejection flash momentarily in her eyes, then she blinked several times and took a deep breath, once again in total control. ‘Ready to face the mob?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he smiled grimly.

  ‘Then let’s go. We’re late.’

  They left the room, striding past Bryce’s apologetic private secretary and out onto the landing. As Ella trotted down the Grand Staircase, its walls lined with portraits and photographs of previous Downing Street incumbents, Bryce paused beside his own image. It was a moody black and white study of sincere statesmanship, his thick grey hair swept back off his suntanned forehead, the sharp lines of his tailored suit more Vanity Fair than the Labour Review. Bryce studied the photograph intently, unsure if he recognised the man who held his gaze with such confident ease. It was an old picture, taken before Lizzie fell ill, when life promised to deliver everything he’d ever worked and hoped for, halcyon days that were now nothing but a distant memory. Feeling faintly unnerved, he headed quickly downstairs after Ella.

  His Special Advisor carved a path through the expectant faces packed into the corridor outside the State Dining Room where the press conference was being held. Most were familiar: Cabinet ministers, their expressions ranging from curiosity to indignation, anxious advisors sporting glowing cell earpieces and a sprinkling of Downing Street staff, all drawn by the mystery of the moment. They pressed against the walls to facilitate the Prime Minister’s smooth passage, a few quiet words of greeting and encouragement following him along the corridor. Ahead, the bright glare of the press conference beckoned, the buzz from the assembled press corps rising as they neared the room. Ella peeled away at the threshold and the chatter died away. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered and took up position just inside the room. Dossier tucked beneath his arm, Bryce took a deep breath and swept through the mahogany doors into the glare of the TV lights.

  The roller shutter rattled slowly upwards, the mouth of the warehouse gaping open to reveal nothing but blackness. The silver Ford delivery van emerged almost silently from the dark interior, lights extinguished, the driver a vague shadow behind the wheel. In his rear-view mirror he saw the swarthy man lower the shutter then melt into the darkness of the warehouse. The driver shifted in his seat and concentrated on the road ahead, steering the vehicle through the narrow backstreets of Waterloo, only flicking the lights on when he spotted a lone car approaching. He sat a little straighter then, accelerating to a reasonably sedate speed, unwilling to draw unnecessary attention to himself or the van. He cruised past empty industrial units and scruffy local authority tenements, past brightly-lit convenience stores and boarded-up pubs, until he reached the roundabout at the southern end of Waterloo Bridge. From there he headed north across the river Thames. He glanced to his left, where the lights along the embankment were strung like pearls, curving towards the Palace of Westminster and the seat of power in Britain.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ announced Bryce, settling behind the lectern. There was an enthusiastic chorus of replies from the press corps packed within its wood-panelled walls, pens poised expectantly above notepads, recording devices held aloft. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat, blinking into the bright TV lights arranged across the back of the room. He glimpsed his reflection in the teleprompter next to the lectern, the lighting catching the expensive sheen of his grey Hugo Boss suit and the rich red of his perfectly knotted silk tie. He looked every inch the European statesman he was and today he would prove how seriously he took that role. Words glowed on the teleprompter, scrolling slowly upwards.

  ‘For some months now the focus of this government has been centred on divisions in international relations. As I speak here today, US and Chinese warships eye each other suspiciously in the South China Sea as the localised military build-up accelerates. In the Middle East, Iraqi and Iranian citizens are digging nuclear fallout shelters, a depressing phenomenon not witnessed since the darkest days of the Cold War of the last century. Closer to home, Polish terrorists persist in their attacks on Russian interests as the New Soviet Army sends more and more tanks toward their neighbour’s frontier. In short, the world is witnessing worrying divisions. I have spent many months, both here and abroad, attempting, along with my colleagues in Brussels and the United Nations, to pull people round to a common position. Today, that is still the goal of this government, the search for peace and greater understanding amongst the international community, under the guidance and governance of the United Nations.’

  Bryce took a moment to allow the weight of his words to percolate amongst the journalists around the room. He caught the eye of the well-known lead anchorman from the Islamic News Network, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his dark eyes glaring at him from the back of the room. Perhaps he knew what was coming, Bryce speculated, but it hardly mattered. In a few moments the whole of Europe would know.

  ‘But the quest for peace should begin at home, for how can we lecture others on peace when the concept is an alien one for some of our own citizens?’ Bryce glanced down, flicking over the cover of the dossier. He frowned, his eyes scanning the words uncomprehendingly. Something was wrong. A low murmur began to fill the room, banishing the awkward silence.

  Bryce held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, there seems to be a slight-’ His voice trailed away. He was looking at an intelligence briefing document, not the Heathrow dossier. Bryce realised he’d picked up the wrong bloody report, distracted by Rana’s interruption and the similarity of the buff-coloured unmarked binders. He turned to Ella and shook his head. She peeled away from the wall and marched forward. Bryce clamped a hand over the microphone as the chatter in the room rose.

  ‘I’ve picked up the wrong report. I’ve got to go back upstairs.’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘It’s in my private safe. I’ll be a couple of minutes, tops.’

  Ella nodded and summoned Bryce’s press officer to the lectern with a curt hand gesture. ‘Go. Quickly.’

  Bryce leaned into the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies. Slight hiccup with my documentation. I’ll just be a moment, then we’ll continue.’ He scooped up the intelligence brief and left the room quickly, Ella marching behind him, a buzz of mild confusion trailing in their wake. In the lobby, he paused at the foot of the staircase and turned to Ella. ‘Wait here.’ He took the stairs two at a time, heading towards his private study.

  The silver Ford idled in traffic beneath Big Ben, the Victorian tower reaching towards the deepening blue of the evening sky. Ahead, Parliament Square was thronged with hundreds of protestors. A huge inflatable pyramid dominated the square, lit from inside, its steep nylon flanks decorated with pro-Cairo messages, most in English, others in Arabic swirls. Hundreds of flags and banners fluttered in the evening breeze, declaring their support for the treaty, the refugees, the Islamist fighters in Pakistan, the Palestinians in Gaza. Braziers flickered in the half light, illuminating the faces of the people gathered around them. Most were women, heads covered with veils or shrouded in burqas, seeking warmth as the men chanted nearby, their fists raised in unison, their angry voices competing with the hum of the traffic.

  The Ford entered the square, the rush hour traffic circling the protestors like Apache Indians surrounding a wagon train. The Ford inched its way across the busy lanes, indicating its intention to turn into Whitehall. The driver slowed just before Downing Street, where a large crowd had gathered outside the black steel gates. They were mostly tourists, attracted by the history, by the steady procession of ministerial cars and the rows of high-tech satellite broadcast vans lining the pavement outside the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Armed police officers in black body armour and Kevlar helmets eyed the van as the driver stopped for
the obligatory security checks. He powered down the window and held up his ID card for inspection, the policeman giving a thumbs-up to an operator behind the bomb-proof glass of the control booth. The anti-vehicle trap was lowered, the black gates swinging open. The driver smiled and drove into Downing Street. He had no reason to fear the security checks or any other inspection, his familiar face and the van with the imposing black crest of the Government Mail Service emblazoned on its sides ensuring a trouble-free passage into the most famous cul-de-sac in the world.

  Bryce closed the study door behind him and marched across the floor to the wall safe. Stupid of him, really. He should’ve checked, made sure. Still, he’d only be a moment and the press corps were clearly intrigued by his forthcoming announcement. The safe beeped its approval of the correct code and the door swung open. He extracted the Heathrow dossier, thumbing through the pages to check its contents. Satisfied, he placed the intelligence brief back inside the grey metal womb of the safe and sealed the door.

  He swung the Aivazovsky back in place, once again admiring its composition, its vivid colouring. He made a sudden promise to himself: when all this was over, when the country was back on an even keel, he would make time to once again hear the snap of a wind-filled sail, to feel the shifting deck beneath his feet, to taste the salty air on his tongue. No excuses, no postponements. A day out, someday soon, to ride the swell of the sea.

  He pushed the painting home, feeling the click of the magnetic catch, then turned to leave the room, the Heathrow dossier clutched in his hand.

  Along Downing Street’s narrow confines, shadows deepened and lights began to glow as the warble of evening birdsong competed with the steady throb of the city. Government workers hurried purposefully up and down the cul-desac, the door to Number Ten opening and closing with industrious regularity. A police officer stood guard outside, pistol on his belt, hands behind his back, his boots treading a tiresome path up and down the pavement. The press corps gathered behind steel barriers across the street, camera lenses trained on the Prime Minister’s residence. They chatted quietly, the banter often punctuated by a peal of laughter or the chirp of a cell phone. The silver Ford glided by them all, camouflaged by its banality, a regular fixture in Downing Street’s landscape. It reached the end of the culde-sac, swinging around to face the Chief Whip’s office in Number Twelve before reversing, then heading back up the street. It purred to a halt outside Number Ten, the driver obscured by tinted glass, his lips moving in quiet prayer.