The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  Hertfordshire

  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.’

  A figure l
oomed in the doorway and Joe appeared, wet hair plastered to his head, dressed in an old combat jacket and jeans, the Mossberg hanging from his shoulder. Danny noticed the barrel was pointed down, to avoid the rain that drummed noisily on the metal roof. Old habits die hard for soldiers.

  ‘Ah, Joe. Get the door please.’ Ray threw a light switch and fluorescent tubes, suspended from a metal grid overhead, buzzed loudly then blinked into life. Danny had a good look around. From the cinderblock walls hung an impressive array of engineering tools, while the workbench that ran the length of the far wall was covered in battered technical manuals, sprays and lubricants and piles of oily rags. Scattered around the other walls were Jerry cans, oil drums, agricultural equipment and various motor spares.

  ‘All part of the deception,’ chuckled Ray, waving his hands around the barn. He approached the workbench and slapped his hat down on the surface. He stood near the centre, gripping a section of the bench while he fingered something beneath the oil-stained wood. There was an audible click, then Ray pulled a part of the unit away from the wall. He ducked behind the gap, sliding out a cleverly-disguised drawer, and produced two items that he placed on the soiled wooden surface. The first was clearly a pistol, its undeniable shape wrapped in a faded green cloth. The second was a black plastic shockproof case which he laid gently on the workbench. He brushed his hands on the legs of his corduroy trousers.

  ‘This is it, Danny. This is what it’s all been about.’

  Danny stared at the cloth, bewildered. ‘What’s the gun for, Ray?’

  ‘Self-defence, son. For you. And us.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Course you don’t. Let me explain.’

  He strode towards the vehicle in the centre of the barn and dragged the tarpaulin off its smooth lines. It was a Vauxhall as Ray had declared, a modest four-door hatchback saloon, dark blue in colour, the type used by families with small children.

  ‘As I said, one of the last off the production line,’ Ray explained, slapping his hand on the roof. ‘And because Vauxhall were going out of business there were quite a few problems with this particular model. With the Tracker units, in fact. They were all recalled and the problem rectified. Well, most of them, anyway.’

  Danny looked confused. ‘What problem?’

  ‘A design flaw in the Tracker unit hardcode. Made in China of course, so the rumour was some sort of industrial sabotage. Probably was, knowing the bloody Chinks.’ Ray winked at Joe and the ex-soldier laughed. It didn’t look right. ‘The thing is, the maintenance interface of this unit is completely programmable,’ Ray explained. ‘For our immediate purposes it’s been uploaded with a bogus journey history, toll road payments, even a fictitious owner.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his Barbour. ‘Here, you might as well take this now, get familiar with your new persona.’

  Danny took the ID card from Ray’s outstretched hand, studying his photograph, the personal details. ‘I still don’t get it,’ he muttered.

  ‘Remember when I spoke about action, not words? Well, that time is now.’ Ray rummaged in the hidden drawer and produced an old iPad. His fingers danced across the touch screen and then he passed it to Danny. A slideshow of high-resolution images scrolled across the display.

  ‘What you’re looking at is the Muslim Council of Regional Representatives’ building in Birmingham, a huge concrete monstrosity built with taxpayers’ money. In their ongoing efforts to integrate with British society, the Council has decided to forgo the Christmas holidays and hold their annual General Meeting in the building on Christmas Day. Keep scrolling through the pictures, Danny.’

  He did as he was told, the images changing from external shots to well-lit interiors, long carpeted hallways with potted plants and exotic artwork lining the walls. There were other shots of ceiling vents and pipe works, of maintenance covers and plant rooms. Ray’s gravelly voice echoed around the barn.

  ‘On Christmas Eve you’ll travel up to Birmingham in the Vauxhall. You’ll go to the Council building after nine o’clock that evening, when the recently employed security guard will be on shift. This bloke is brand new, a complete muppet by all accounts. In any case, you’ll be posing as an air con engineer attending a call-out. Don’t worry, I’ve got all the paperwork. Once you’re in, you’ll head to the plant room on the top floor, where you’ll find an access hatch near the main condenser. All the plans are right there on the iPad.’

  Danny’s eyes flicked between Ray and the images on the screen. ‘And do what, a bit of vandalism? Flood the building or something? Sure, I can do that,’ he blurted, hoping, praying it was nothing more.

  ‘Vandalism?’ Ray glanced at Joe. ‘What’s he like, eh?’ He slapped Danny on the back, then the smile slipped from his face like melted wax. ‘You think I’d go to all this trouble just to break a couple of fucking windows? I could get kids to do that. No, this is bigger, Danny, much bigger. More your style. Here, look at this.’ He snapped open the black case on the workbench. Inside was a white plastic container nestled in purpose-cut grey foam. On its uppermost surface, fixed into position with blue electrical tape, was a small digital timer. Danny took a step back, his bearded face draining of colour.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It’s not armed.’

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Ray assured him. ‘It does possess some small explosive properties, but essentially it’s just a plastic container. It’s what’s inside it that matters.’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘The ingredients, Danny. The cocktail.’

  Danny’s face was a blank canvas. ‘What?’

  ‘Bloody hell, I thought you’d be used to all this,’ Ray bristled. ‘I’ll spell it out for you, son. It’s a bio-weapon.’

  Danny said nothing, but just stared at the blank timing mechanism, the white powder inside the plastic container, as his mind struggled to process what he was hearing.

  ‘Technically it’s an organophosphate pesticide derivative,’ Ray continued, ‘but you don’t need to worry about the details. All you need to do is place the device behind the correct inspection hatch, remove a few filters, then set the timer for seventy-two hours. On the third day of the Council’s unholy meeting, this little baby will go off with a quiet pop and start working her magic. The air con system will do the rest. I’m told that the nerve agent will be fully dispersed around the main conference chamber within thirty minutes. With luck, if it doesn’t dilute too quickly, it’ll claim a few more lives around the rest of the building. We’re talking about a hundred casualties, maybe a hundred and fifty.’

  Danny stood in silence for a long time, his eyes wide in disbelief. Several times his mouth moved to form words, but no sound made it past his bloodless lips.

  ‘Now, I don’t want you to worry,’ Ray urged, easing the iPad from Danny’s frozen fingers. ‘We’re going to spend the next couple of days going over the details, rehearsing the route, your interaction with the geezer on the gate, that sort of thing. I’ve rigged up a dummy inspection hatch too, so you can familiarise yourself with the positioning of the weapon. Just remember, you’ll have a kosher ID, all the right documentation and an untraceable car. Couldn’t be easier, right? And you’ll have the gun, of course, as a last resort.’

  ‘Nerve agent?’ Danny finally managed to say.

  Ray smiled. ‘Now you’re getting it. Improvised, but very effective. Within twelve hours of getting a lungful of this, those heathen bastards will start to suffer, am I right Joe?’

  The ex-soldier nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right, Ray,’ he confirmed in his West Country drawl. ‘Early symptoms are breathlessness, fatigue, bronchial problems. Later they’ll begin vomiting, then bleeding from every fucking orifice in their bodies. It’s a slow, nasty way to die.’

  Danny had never seen Joe so animated. His eyes burnt brightly, his cheeks flushed with hatred. Danny glanced at Ray, who smiled along with Joe like some sick father and son double act.

  ‘Amen to that
,’ Ray added, snapping the case shut. He patted its closed lid gently. ‘This is it, Danny, the first blow.’ He picked up the cloth-covered pistol and unwrapped it, handing the firearm to Danny who took it without thinking. ‘That’s an Accu-Tek semi-automatic. Go on, get a feel for it, son. Joe will take you in the woods tomorrow, get you properly acquainted.’

  ‘Point three-two calibre, twelve round mag,’ Joe explained. ‘Designed more for concealment than pure firepower, but it’ll do the job if you run into trouble.’

  ‘Ideally, you’ll come back with all twelve rounds,’ Ray said. ‘Keep it with you from now on, alright?’

  As Danny stared at the pistol in his hand, Ray threw an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. ‘Look at him. Cool as a bloody cucumber this one, eh Joe?’ His eyes bored into Danny’s, his fingers digging painfully through the material of his jacket. When he spoke it was with a passion that Danny found distinctly unnerving.

  ‘There’ll be other jobs after this one, son. The country’s in turmoil right now, what with Hooper offing himself and that Paki bastard stepping into his shoes.’ Ray made a face at Joe. ‘Tariq Saeed – what sort of name is that for a British Prime Minister, eh?’

  ‘Fucking disgrace,’ Joe grumbled.

  ‘All the pieces are in place now – the money, the technical support, the weapons. This country is about to witness a campaign of terror the like of which has never been seen before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Danny stuttered.

  ‘I mean violence, Danny. Riots, street battles. The fight back I’ve planned will pitch community against community, igniting the tensions everyone pretends don’t exist: Muslim and Hindu, Tutsi and Hutu, Turk and Kurd, black and white. By the time I’ve finished they’ll all be at each other’s throats. Cities will burn and the streets will run with blood.’

  Ray took a moment, clearly savouring the images of violence in his mind. Danny glanced at Joe, who watched Ray with a look of pure admiration. Ray spread his arms wide. ‘Then, like a phoenix from the ashes, Raymond Carver will step into the light, leading a new party, with a new ideology, one that will banish Britain’s multicultural experiment to the dustbin of history, promising a new period of peace and prosperity, of British power and influence, free from the shackles of political correctness, from the iron grip of Brussels. And people will flock to us, yes they will, because they’ll want to see an end to the violence, to the unbridled immigration and the rape of our laws and customs. The people of this land deserve something better, a new start, in a country that has had a gutful of multiculturalism.’