The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  After midnight a fine drizzle had begun to fall. Danny found an orange hi-vi raincoat amongst a dozen others on a coat rack beside the door and ducked outside. Behind the portacabin was a thick copse of birch and ferns and Danny decided to explore it, wading through the damp undergrowth. Deep in the trees, in a small clearing, he found what he was looking for. The mound of gravel was covered in weeds, a wheel-less barrow overturned on its summit. The pile of railway sleepers stood adjacent to a set of rusted tracks that were choked with vegetation. A disused spur, leading to who knew where, unused, forgotten.

  He manoeuvred the sleepers until he’d created a chamber, a deep crawl space where he could keep dry, where the thermal imaging cameras couldn’t penetrate. Next to the sleepers he found some sackcloth and made himself a bed inside the chamber. Returning to the portacabin, he stole a few newspapers from the untidy pile on the chipped coffee table, a plastic bottle of fresh water and a toilet roll. Lying inside his hide, listening to the rain drumming on the wood above him, he felt safe. Now he had a chance to grab some sleep, to feed himself, to think about his next move.

  The sound of the returning engine snapped Danny out of a fitful doze. He threw off the raincoat he was using as a blanket and crawled outside. It was still dark. Through the trees he saw the night crew stretch and yawn, grab their personal bags and trudge away in a long, luminous line towards the station at Neasden. The next shift arrived after daybreak, enjoyed a noisy, good-natured breakfast and headed off on the service engine. Danny discovered fresh food in the fridge and helped himself to the older stuff, knowing each shift would blame the other for any discrepancies. He washed, trimmed his hair a little more, allowing the stubble on his face to grow. Back in his den, he leafed through the Guardian to pass the time. There was a lengthy article about him, the photo a sneering police mug shot that highlighted his dishevelled appearance, the lank hair, thin face and dark-circled eyes that glared at the camera lens. A drug user, criminal, waster – terrorist. The article picked his life apart, his unremarkable education, his service with the Logistics Corp, the drink-driving episode and subsequent sacking from the civil service, the arrest for leafleting with the banned English Freedom Movement. The article depressed him, his life laid bare, every major event analysed, summarised and concluded. It was all tied nicely together, all so convincing that even Danny believed it. But worst of all was the picture of his dad being bundled into a van. He almost wept.

  One night turned into two, then four. During the day he would stay close to the hide, wary of helicopters and blimps, scuttling beneath the sleepers when he thought he heard one approaching. He kept his cell off, knowing someone, somewhere would be waiting for its unique signal to appear on the grid, for his position to be triangulated, then targeted by men with dogs and guns. He dozed restlessly in his den, like a fox waiting for the world to darken, hoping that each passing hour would see the hunt slacken, the investigation move in a different direction. But the newspapers told a different story, the constant images of death and destruction, his picture everywhere, the country clamouring for justice. As the sun set on his fifth day in hiding, Danny realised they’d never stop searching for him. He had to run, get away as far as possible. To do that, he would need help.

  The whistle of the service engine echoed through the trees. Danny heard it rumble past, headed up the track with the latest night shift. He broke down his den, dumped the sacking in the undergrowth, the papers in the waste bin. He filled his water bottle, took a little food and some fruit and stuffed it all into a carrier bag. As an afterthought, he rummaged through the personal belongings of the night shift. He found a pair of heavy duty cutters and a pre-pay travel card, then extracted a couple of twenty pound notes from two separate wallets. In a final criminal act, he took a black beanie hat from a hook by the door and headed off into the night, reasonably confident his temporary stay would never be discovered. He tramped noisily along the stones by the side of the tracks, the orange raincoat turned inside out, following a branch line that curved northwards. After a mile or so, he dumped his ID card and cell phone in a deep rabbit hole along the embankment. The embedded chips frightened him, mindful of the urban myths about remote tracking. He felt naked without them, but now he was on the run his paranoia cut deep.

  The night was quiet, the sky clear and littered with stars. The track was deserted, not a single train interrupting his silent journey north. Where the line bordered houses and main roads Danny moved carefully, crouching, crawling, keeping to the shadows of bridges, walls and trees. Gradually he left the lights of the city behind, relaxing a little as the track wound its way northwards through fields and woods. Lights shone to the left and right, isolated farms, houses, darkened industrial estates. The only living things he saw now were wary foxes and darting bats.

  Ten miles beyond Neasden, the railway line dipped into a high-sided embankment and disappeared into a tunnel that ran beneath the M1 motorway. Danny stood at the mouth, unnerved by the inky blackness of its unknown length, the proximity of the walls to the track. Too dangerous, he decided. He’d have to go around.

  He struggled up the heavily wooded embankment, finally reaching the summit where exhaustion overcame him. He curled up on the damp ground, the raincoat wrapped tightly around his body, falling asleep just as a weak sun broke the horizon.

  The bug woke him some time later, humming beside his ear, its tiny legs brushing his skin. He rolled over with a start, slapping his face in revulsion. He sat up wearily and yawned, his limbs aching from the cold, his eyes red-rimmed and gritty. The daylight gave him a clearer view of his surroundings. He was deep in the undergrowth, fenced in by a few spears of sunlight slicing through the overhead canopy. He took a swig of water and got to his feet, stretching languidly. He was on fairly even ground but a short distance away through the trees was a steep embankment that dropped towards the motorway. There were no paths nearby, no bridleways or trails. The wood was bordered by the train line on one side and empty fields on the other. For now he was reasonably safe. He’d wait until nightfall before moving again.

  He explored the undergrowth, finding the dead branches and ferns required for a rough bed. When he was finished Danny studied his handiwork, enjoying a rare moment of satisfaction in recalling long-forgotten woodland skills. He lay down on the thick bed of ferns and slept fitfully during the afternoon. Later, as the sun began to set, he got up and watched the traffic on the M1 from the safety of the embankment. The road was busy, but there were no obvious police patrols to be seen. There were no junctions nearby either, which – he hoped – meant little or no CCTV coverage. He returned to his rough bed and waited a while longer, dozing as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.

  The woods were dark when he woke again, startled by a sudden movement in the bushes nearby. He looked around, his head swivelling right and left, trying to locate the source of the noise. Nothing. The gloom between the trees was barely penetrable, cloaking whatever lurked there. Danny scrambled to his feet, cursing his irrational fear. He brushed himself clean and scattered his temporary bed with a few lazy kicks. It was time to push on.

  He side-stepped carefully down the steep embankment, using the trees to slow his descent, then crouched behind a bush at the roadside. The rush hour traffic had thinned out as the evening wore on, until the gaps in the traffic were wide enough for Danny to risk it. Choosing his moment carefully, he hopped over the metal crash barrier and ran across the motorway towards the woods on the far side, scrambling up the opposite bank as the nearest car flashed past. He kept on going, climbing a wooden fence and crossing a field of long grass until he found the train tracks once more. He trudged on, headed north.

  Before dawn he left the line just south of Radlett station, climbing a wire fence and landing on an empty footpath at the southern end of the empty high street, deserted in the pre-dawn stillness. He’d heard the bus before he saw it, quickly deciding to take a chance and continue his journey in speed and comfort. He was far enough away from Londo
n now and he felt the need to test his disguise, check the credit on the travel card. Despite the awkward bastard of a driver, he’d boarded the bus unnoticed, just another early morning commuter in his rail worker’s uniform. No-one was looking for a rail worker. Yet.

  He sat quietly in the rear seat watching the countryside flash by, fields of green and brown, the sky a dark grey. The TV droned on, the vent beneath his muddy trainers blasting diesel-tinted warm air, the motion of the bus dulling his senses. Danny’s head lolled once, twice. He slid lower in the seat as the drowsy cocktail lulled him into a deep, dangerous sleep…

  He bolted upright, disorientated, his chin damp with saliva, a painful crick in his neck. Blue lights throbbed across the windows and a siren wailed deafeningly close. They’d found him. Panicked, he grabbed the handrail and stood, swaying awkwardly as the bus veered across the road and braked sharply. He lost his balance, glimpsing the ambulance as it swept past, and tumbled along the aisle to the floor. Helping hands came to his aid immediately, supporting him as he climbed to his feet.

  ‘Y’ alright, dear?’ smiled a large black woman, her teeth as white as pearls, her nurse’s uniform visible under a bright yellow raincoat. Her trained eyes bored into Danny’s, searching for signs of damage or illness.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, turning away from the intrusive stare. ‘Lost my footing. Clumsy idiot.’

  ‘If you’re going to have an accident it might as well be on a bus full of nurses,’ she chuckled. Danny thanked her again and looked out through the windscreen. Up ahead, the dark hedgerows and fields came to an abrupt end, dissected by the lights of a sprawling industrial estate on one side and row after row of terraced housing on the other.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘Watford. Ten minutes to the hospital,’ she smiled.

  ‘You sure you’re ok?’

  Danny nodded and returned to his seat, rummaging in his carrier bag for the water and gulping several mouthfuls. He wasn’t that far away now, about eight miles the other side of town. A short time later the bus turned into the car park of Watford General.

  Danny hopped off quickly and weaved through the ranks of parked vehicles towards the bicycle shelters, the orange coat bundled under his arm, plastic carrier bag dangling from the other. It wasn’t long before he found the perfect candidate, a well-used but serviceable all-terrain model. The CCTV post was a short distance away, the black bulbous eye of the camera dome hanging like a ripe berry from the curved neck. He was partially hidden beneath the shelter but he had to be quick. He snapped the cheap lock with the stolen cutters and wheeled the machine across the car park, plastic bag dangling from the handlebars. The sun was starting to rise as he pedalled away from the hospital, heading for the north-east of town where the bicycle hummed along the empty footpaths of Cassiobury Park, cutting across the Grand Union canal and crossing the bridge over the M25 London orbital.

  After his brief brush with civilisation it was a relief to be swallowed up by the countryside once again. The sun climbed into the morning sky, its rays chasing the pre-dawn mists from the fields. As he coasted down an empty lane, Danny felt far removed from the Longhill estate, from the stink and poverty, from the integrated camera systems that tracked every movement, from the surveillance blimps that hovered over the skies of London. Out here things seemed clean, fresh, a place where English people toiled over English soil, where the peal of village church bells sounded across the fields and birdsong warbled in the hedgerows. England, my England, smiled Danny.

  The house he sought wasn’t far away. He’d googled it many times, heard rumours of the meetings that were once held there, meetings that mapped out a new future for Britain. He’d even borrowed a mate’s car once, driving up here just to see it, his envious eye noting the high walls, the gravel driveway that curved towards the Georgian mansion whose distinctive chimneys climbed above the surrounding trees. He hoped – no, prayed – the man was still there.

  He cycled through the village of Marshbrook, a collection of small shops with whitewashed walls and dark timber beams that sported neither security grills nor graffiti. Even the pavements were free from litter. A tractor rumbled past in the opposite direction, the driver waving cheerfully. Danny kept his head down, pedalling past the village pub, where a middle-aged woman on a step ladder tended to a row of hanging baskets. Two early-morning joggers bounced across the road in front of him, their faces flushed with effort, a blur of expensive trainers and lurid running gear. Then he was through the village, the well-kept high street surrendering to fields and hedgerows once again. The lane he sought was the last turning on the left, just beyond the edge of the settlement.

  Danny leaned into the corner, the tarmac of the road giving way to a well-worn dirt lane. There was an open field to the right and the houses of the rich to the left, set well back from the lane itself and partly hidden by walls and trees, exclusive dwellings where privacy was highly valued and earnestly defended. Danny felt like a trespasser.

  At the end of the lane, a pair of black-spiked gates set into a high wall barred any further passage. Danny climbed off the bike, rivulets of sweat running down the sides of his thin face, his t-shirt beneath the orange raincoat damp from exertion. Through the bars of the gates, he saw thick banks of rhododendron bushes lining the gravel driveway towards a stand of tall cedars. He could just make out the roof of the distant house.

  A sudden breeze made Danny shiver. What if the man had moved? What if one of the villagers had recognised him? And yet he had no choice other than to push the intercom button next to the gate.

  ‘State your business,’ ordered a voice from the tinny speaker.

  Summoning all his courage, Danny pulled off the raincoat and lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt, exposing the lions passant tattoo to the camera that scrutinised him from above the gate. There was silence for several long moments, then the same voice said: ‘Wait.’

  A couple of minutes had passed before the dog appeared, a German Shepherd, its paws slapping the gravel as it bounded towards the gates. It skidded to a stop just before the bars, its brown eyes locked on Danny, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Danny took a step back, despite the barrier between them. The dog, sensing his fear, bared its yellowed teeth silently. Not once did it bark. Danny, despite his nerves, was impressed. This was a well-trained animal, not like the snapping, vicious fighting dogs that strained at their owners’ leashes back on the Longhill. Suddenly, to Danny’s horror, the gates hummed and swung inwards.

  ‘Inside. Be quick about it.’

  Danny froze as a man emerged from the thick bushes beside the gates. He looked a little younger than Danny, his fair hair cut short, a camouflaged jacket over jeans and green wellingtons. In his arms he cradled a black shotgun, a police-issue Mossberg if Danny wasn’t mistaken. The voice, bearing a slight West Country twang, was the voice on the intercom.

  ‘Don’t worry about Nelson, he won’t harm you as long as you do as you’re told. C’mon, let’s go. Bring the bike inside.’

  Danny pulled his raincoat back on and wheeled the bike through the gates, keeping it between him and the loping Alsatian. The man whistled and Nelson darted away, back around the curve of the driveway. Danny followed him, past the huge rhododendron bushes, the well-kept lawns and open spaces where dead leaves had been raked into wet piles. The smell of wood smoke hung on the air and birds chirped noisily from the trees above. Around the walls, tall evergreens screened the estate from prying eyes.

  The house loomed ahead. Danny thought it was amazing, like a footballer’s house, or a movie star’s. It had big double doors, a porch with white columns and a huge lantern overhead. It was old – no, period, Danny corrected himself – but it had been beautifully restored, the stonework and window frames painted a brilliant white, the walls a shade of soft green that blended in with the surrounding grounds. At a right angle to the house, two cars were parked in the shadows of a large car port, a white Bentley Continental and a more practical Nissan pic
kup. Even the car port construction matched the house, with some sort of accommodation above. Danny was impressed, and not a little intimidated. He continued across the drive, wheeling the bike towards the main door.

  ‘Not that way, round the back. And leave the bike.’

  They skirted the side of the building, following a neatly-cut path through the cedars to the terrace at the rear. The tiles underfoot were limestone, the terrace dotted with flower pots and tubs of every shape and size. Garden furniture was stacked in neat piles and covered with green plastic tarpaulins, while tropical plants ringed the terrace like a Mediterranean hotel. A flight of wide steps led down to another terrace level that housed a large, empty swimming pool, dead leaves littering its tiled base. Further away, beyond a wooden perimeter fence, the ground sloped towards a shallow valley and the distant, sun-dappled Hertfordshire countryside. From the rear of the house there wasn’t a single dwelling as far as the eye could see and, overhead, white clouds drifted across a clear blue sky, chased by a gusting wind.

  Danny was impressed by the house, the huge terrace, by the unrestricted view. There was a sense of security about the estate, as if the world had been shut out behind the high walls and was forbidden entry. For the first time in a long time, Danny felt safe.

  ‘Twenty-four acres, in case you’re wondering.’

  He turned. A man beckoned him from an ornate wrought iron table, a big man, bald, tanned, his eyes shaded by designer sunglasses, his imposing bulk wrapped in a navy blue Barbour jacket. He didn’t get up as Danny approached, the remnants of a hearty breakfast scattered across the table in front of him. In his fist he held a large cigar, the smoke whipped away by the wind. Danny’s armed escort whispered in the man’s ear while Nelson settled down beside him, head between its paws, relaxed but watchful as Danny waited a few yards away.