by D C Alden
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.
The loud ticking of the indicator signalled an imminent turn. Bryce felt the van drift to the left and then the rhythmic thump of rumble strips beneath the tyres. They were on a motorway, or rather they were pulling off one. The van negotiated a roundabout and then drove for another few minutes before swinging to the left and finally stopping. There was a quiet discussion up in the driver’s cab and then the door opened. Bryce felt cold air on his face, heard the sigh of the wind in the trees, then the door slammed. He heard footsteps outside, walking past the van, then fading to nothing. Orla’s face appeared above his.
‘How is he?’
‘Inquisitive,’ Sully said.
‘I don’t blame him.’
‘Please, don’t talk like I’m not here,’ Bryce insisted.
Sully leaned forward. ‘Well, officially you’re not.’ He slapped Orla’s ample backside. ‘Let’s go. And keep it under seventy.’
She flashed him a smile and climbed back into the driver’s cab. The vehicle swung around and Bryce presumed they were headed back to the motorway. He felt the surge of the engine as the hum of the tyres increased. Outside, he could hear the occasional sound of vehicles moving at high speed. Sully smiled in the dark.
‘Not far now, Gabe. D’you mind if I call you Gabe? I hate using that Mr Gabriel shit.’
Bryce twisted his head, saw the defiance in Sully’s eyes, the mocking smile that played around his mouth. ‘Something tells me you’re going to anyway,’ he muttered.
‘You’re catching on fast,’ chuckled the Turk. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. ‘They found a device, back at the hospital. It went off on the floor below you. Apparently it didn’t detonate properly, just caused a fire. That’s why you’re being moved.’
‘What sort of device?’
‘The sort that goes bang,’ Sully replied. He leaned back against the side panel and folded his arms, yawning.
‘So, where are we going?’
‘Another facility. More secure.’
‘Where?’
‘Not that far.’
‘Where exactly? Come on Sully, don’t treat me like a bloody child.’
‘Relax, Gabe,’ Sully murmured in the dark. ‘Everything’s been taken care of. You’re going to be well looked after.’
Bryce turned away and stared at the ceiling, confused, apprehensive. He was travelling on a motorway in the dead of night, in an empty van with no medical equipment and no police escort, to an undisclosed location. That told him one thing, at least; physically, he was healing well. He felt better in himself, stronger, this sudden journey, while unsettling, somehow invigorating his body. Yet, despite the disruption and the occasional blast of cold air, his brain still felt slushy, though not nearly as bad as it had done. Probably because he wasn’t on that God-awful drip anymore, he realised. It was never feeding him, it was actually draining his life force. He twisted his head to face Sully.
‘I want to speak to the head consultant when we get there,’ Bryce announced. ‘About my treatment.’
Sully’s deep voice murmured in the gloom. ‘Sure. Just get some rest, Gabe. It’ll be a while, yet.’
The journey passed slowly for Bryce. He stared at the roof of the van, the intermittent wash of headlights sweeping above him, the hum of the tyres beneath. He dozed several times, the gentle sway of the vehicle lulling him into a shallow slumber. Passing vehicles would rouse him again and once he heard a police siren wailing, but the van rolled onwards.
His eyelids were half closed when the ticking of the indicator summoned him back to consciousness. He felt the van pull to the left and their speed begin to reduce. They left the motorway and now Bryce was fully alert, feeling every bump in the road, every turn, listening for every sound. Sully still dozed, chin on his chest, legs stretched out before him. Bryce felt the roads were getting narrower, the world outside more remote. The sodium glow of streetlights no longer lit up the interior and the rare passing vehicle sounded dangerously close. Soon there were no vehicles, only the gentle hum of their own passage and the scrape of passing bushes and low hanging branches.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Orla suddenly called from the driver’s cab.
Sully yawned and stretched, balling his fists and rubbing his eyes. ‘How long?’
‘SatNav says less than two miles.’
‘Shit.’ The Turk got to his feet, grasping the trolley to steady himself. His big hands found the restraining straps and tugged them hard, trapping Bryce’s arms to his sides, his legs bound tightly together.
‘Jesus Christ, Sully,’ Bryce wheezed, ‘what are you doing?’
‘Relax. It’s for your own safety.’
The Turk pulled the head cover back on, the surgical mask and glasses over his face. Bryce began to panic, his heart rate accelerating. He tried to wriggle free but found his limbs were firmly tethered. ‘I don’t care who you work for, Sully, I’m ordering you to release me and tell me what the hell is going on.’
‘I can see the gate,’ Orla shouted.
‘Slow down.’ Sully reached into his pocket and took out a fat silver pen. Not a pen, Bryce saw, an auto-injector. Cold fear gripped him as the Turk’s large hand clamped around his jaw and twisted his head to one side. ‘Hold still,’ he ordered, ‘it’s just a sedative.’
‘No more drugs,’ Bryce pleaded through Sully’s fingers. ‘Please...’
He winced as a sharp pain pierced his neck, almost like a bee sting. Sully let him go, stepping back as he watched Bryce closely. ‘For God’s sake, Sully. I need to... need to... what...’
And then he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move his tongue. Ice gripped his body, freezing his head, his neck, his left arm. He could feel the icy fingers travelling downwards, towards his twitching feet, then they too stopped. He tried to move his right arm, curled his fingers briefly until they, too, were seized, rigid beneath the blanket. He was immobile, frozen.
He was paralysed.
His mind screamed but no sound came from his mouth. He could hear himself breathing, the respirations loud inside his head, could hear the gentle beat of his heart as the drug calmed him, dispelling the terror, the anxiety.
Sully stood over him as the van veered to the right. ‘He’s deep. We’re good to go.’
Bryce was aware of the van stopping, the chatter of the nurse, a man’s laugh. Something hummed and whirred, a metal gate rattling open. The van pulled forward, the sound of another gate opening and closing, more chatter. The van purred slowly along for a minute, turning one corner, then another, finally coming to a halt with a gentle squeal of the brakes. The engine shut off. They’
d arrived.
For a moment there was silence. Then Sully moved and the rear doors of the van opened, inviting an icy blast inside. Bryce could feel it on his lips, inside his mouth, but nowhere else. The rest of his body had shut down, like a slab of dead meat. His head lolled from side to side as the folding wheels of the trolley hit the ground. He stared up at a building, a dark, Victorian edifice where the windows were covered with steel bars, not a single light glowing in any of them. A prison? Then he was on the move again. Bright lights suddenly blinded him, neon strip lights, passing overhead. A strong smell of antiseptic invaded his nostrils. Not a prison then, a hospital, one where the paint on the ceiling was cracked and blistered.
The trolley turned this way and that, then he was in an elevator, travelling upwards, the single light above blinking intermittently. More ceilings, more lights. Rubber doors flapped open and then he was inside a room, the strip lights turned off, a yellow glow warming a cold corner. A table lamp, he guessed. Then a voice said: ‘At last, I’ve been up half the night. Are you alright?’
It was a man, a voice he didn’t recognise. Orla answered him.
‘We’re fine.’
‘It’s all over the news, you know.’ A figure loomed over him, blond thinning hair, heavy framed glasses, his face lost in shadow. ‘How is he?’
‘Ischemic stroke, less than twenty-four hours ago. He’s undergone thrombolytic therapy and we’ve got him on heparin. His vitals are strong and he’s responding well.’
‘Good.’ The figure moved away. ‘I suggest we move him up to observation for the rest of the night. Have you got his paperwork?’
Silence. Then Sully’s voice, sharp, irritated. ‘You’re aware of this patient’s particular requirements? You’ve been briefed, right?’
The new voice sounded indignant. ‘I have, yes.’
‘Then paperwork isn’t an issue, is it? And he stays here. We’ll move him after breakfast.’