The Horse at the Gates (17 page)

The overhead lights suddenly blazed into life and the poker pod in the corner announced its garish presence with a neon flash and a loud, melodic jingle. A cheer went up around the bar.

‘Bill’s been paid!’ someone joked to a chorus of laughter.

‘Check your phones. Special announcement on the news,’ explained the landlord, pointing to the TV on the wall. The sudden change of vibe only worsened Danny’s mood. He pulled out his cell, saw the Public Information message flashing in his inbox, saw the others around the bar doing the same.

‘Turn it up,’ a voice yelled.

The landlord stabbed at the remote control with his thick fingers. ‘Hang on, for Christ’s sake.’

News channels scrolled across the screen until a cry went up and the familiar logo of the BBC appeared. The crowd pressed in, dragging their chairs noisily across the floor and settling down in front of the wall-mounted TV.
News update, every fifteen minutes,
announced a scrolling banner. There was nothing else, just the usual countdown to the hour superimposed over a rotating globe and surrounded by the animated stars of the EU. The familiar theme of the BBC News filled the pub as the landlord toyed with the remote.

Danny finished his smoke and dropped the butt on the floor, crushing it beneath his trainer. The stopwatch graphic reached zero and the music finished on a long, piercing scrape of strings that Danny found slightly unnerving. His heart began to beat a little faster. He looked over his shoulder, noticing the roughnecks from the pool room had drifted into the main bar, baseball caps and hoods pulled low over glowering faces. He turned back as a sterile newsroom filled the Hi-Def, a sombre-looking man in a suit on one side, a Hijab-wearing female newsreader on the other.

‘Typical!’ protested a voice in the crowd, but he was immediately told to shush by the others.

‘Good evening,’
greeted the man in a serious tone.
‘This is the latest government news bulletin, brought to you by the BBC London Newsdesk.’

‘The Interior Ministry has announced that the Emergency Powers Act remains in force across the country and restrictions on public assembly and movement are currently active. A full copy of the Act has been made available for download and members of the public are advised to familiarise themselves with its provisions.’

‘It’s what?’ another voice mocked. A derisive cheer erupted around the bar. The landlord hissed for quiet, straining to hear the rest of the announcement. It was several seconds before the laughter faded.

‘And now for a news update,’
continued the woman, adjusting her glasses, the navy-blue veil framing her oval face.
‘Prime Minister Hooper has met with President Dupont and representatives from the Islamic Congress of Europe in Brussels to discuss the security situation and the threat to Muslim communities across the continent. In a statement issued earlier today, both the President and the Prime Minister have pledged to tackle rising Islamophobia and are considering amendments to existing hate crime legislation, a move welcomed by leaders of the Congress. In a communiqué issued by the EU Commission a short while ago...’

Danny choked on his lager, coughing violently. He rocked forward on his chair, thumping the glass on the table. ‘Jesus Christ, more legislation,’ he shouted at the screen. ‘Won’t be able to breathe without getting nicked–’

‘Keep it down,’ growled the landlord.

‘...after an extended session in the European Parliament, during which Turkish MEPs called on the British government to reconsider its longstanding opposition to the Treaty of Cairo as a gesture of reconciliation towards greater European harmony. In London, the new Cabinet was formerly approved by British and EU officials and, during a short speech outside the Euro Tower in Millbank, Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Saeed welcomed the Turkish statement and declared that the new government was dedicated to the European Union’s policy of expansion and peaceful integration. Later, Minister Saeed and several other senior figures visited the King Edward the Seventh hospital in Marylebone, where Gabriel Bryce is undergoing treatment for injuries sustained in the blast. A hospital spokeswoman announced his condition as serious but stable...’

‘Peaceful integration? What a joke,’ spat Danny. He shoved back his chair in disgust and headed towards the lavatory.
Bloody BBC,
he seethed.
Ministry of Propaganda more like.
He waded across the piss-covered floor and relieved himself, a familiar vein of anger replacing the fear and apprehension that had plagued him since Luton. He remembered a time when veils were only seen during the BBC’s Middle East hour, or during Rama-bloody-dan. Now they were everywhere, even on kid’s shows.

He wandered over to the sink, checked his reflection. He looked tired, dark circles framing his bloodshot eyes. That would be a lack of sleep and the recent excess of dope. His hair needed a cut and a shave wouldn’t go amiss, either. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah, it was probably a good move anyway, smarten his act up, change his appearance a little, just in case. He yanked the lavatory door open and stepped out into the bar.

‘...a powerful compound used almost exclusively in military applications, according to government forensic officers. So far the death toll at Luton has reached one hundred and four with two hundred and seventy injured, many seriously. Over forty of the dead were Egyptian tourists who’d travelled from London on a day trip to visit the mosque...’

Danny froze, fear gripping his insides like a cold vice. The shattered remains of the Luton Mosque filled the screen, its walls reduced to piles of smoking rubble, the dome tilted at a jarring angle. He looked around the bar. Everyone was riveted to the news bulletin.

Run, Danny...

On the screen the image changed to an aerial shot of Whitehall, the road clogged with police vehicles, ambulances and digging equipment. The Foreign and Cabinet Offices were reduced to piles of blackened rubble and ant-like figures scurried over the debris that was once Downing Street. Only a few walls remained, the teetering brickwork propped with steel supports. In the daylight, the size of the bomb crater and the sheer scale of the devastation brought a gasp from the punters around the bar.

‘...according to Counter Terrorist Command, and has uncovered strong links between the explosives used in both the Luton attack and the blast that destroyed Downing Street, resulting in a further one hundred and seventy-eight deaths, many of them serving members of the government. Police have issued an image of a man wanted in connection with the attack. Thirty-eight year old Daniel Whelan, from London, was captured on CCTV cameras at the Luton Mosque shortly before...’

Danny was horrified to see his picture flash up behind the newsreader, superimposed over a shot of the hostel in Acton as a dozen armed police officers poured inside the shabby building. He dragged his eyes away from the TV, saw the drinkers around the bar looking at each other in disbelief.

‘Was that Danny boy?’

‘Can’t be.’

‘They’ve made a mistake, bruv.’

‘He’s here somewhere…’

Lost in the shadows, Danny moved towards the main door, head low, legs like jelly, squeezing behind the punters still glued to the news broadcast. He glimpsed the landlord’s puzzled face, the eyes that registered the empty table, the jacket over the chair, the glass of unfinished lager. The roughnecks stood in a tight group in the middle of the floor, pool cues in hand, heads swivelling around the room, bodies like coiled springs. The bar was quiet, the mood of the crowd still doubtful, yet Danny felt the sudden change, the tension that charged the air like static electricity. He kept moving, shoulder to the wall, head down, avoiding all bodily contact. He reached the main door, pushed it open, moving past the oblivious bouncer as the newsreader’s words chased him from the premises:

‘...rightwing organisation, with previous convictions for the distribution of banned literature. The Metropolitan Police has offered a substantial reward for information leading to Whelan’s arrest. Meanwhile, tributes to the victims of the Luton attack continue to pour in from across the Islamic world...’

Run, Danny. RUN!

Cold fear snapped at his heels. Danny twisted through the graffiti-strewn labyrinth of the estate, arms and legs pumping, trainers slapping noisily on the pavement, his heart pounding as he sprinted through canyons of grey concrete. He reached his block in less than two minutes, yanking open the security door with a fumbling hand and staggering against the wall inside, his breath coming in heaving rasps.

Then he heard them.

The rumble of feet on the pavement, the whoops of excitement echoing around the towers. They were coming for him, knew where his dad lived. He was trapped.
C’mon, Danny, think!

He stared through the mesh-covered door and saw the first of them running towards the tower block, the roughnecks coming hard and fast, pool cues in their hands. On instinct, Danny threw himself back against the wall and made for the elevator control room a few yards away. The lock was always broken, the machinery within providing a warm environment for users to get fucked-up in. He ducked inside and pulled the door to, punching the overhead light switch. He held his breath in the darkness and peered through the smallest of cracks as the roughnecks bundled inside the building, ignoring the broken lifts and heading up the stairs, a blur of hoodies and baseball caps, the air punctuated with chilling howls and guttural cries. He watched the last of them flash past, the stampede receding as they climbed higher up the stairwell. Young and reasonably fit they may be, but twelve floors was an effort for anyone.

Danny listened carefully until he was sure the lobby was deserted. He crept out of the machine room and back onto the estate, sick with fear, the guilt of leaving his dad at the mercy of the pack compounding his anxiety. He couldn’t think about that now, had to get away fast.

He dropped down a flight of stairs into an underground car park, a black, rubbish-strewn chamber lit only by ghostly shafts of yellow light, a graveyard of stripped-down, burnt-out vehicles. He hesitated only for a second, then moved through it quickly, bounding up another concrete staircase at the far end. Another alleyway, then he was lost in the darkness of the park, loping across the open space and into the trees on the other side. He stopped, crouching in the bushes, his breath coming in painful heaves. He heard more shouts, saw another posse hunting him, flashlights probing around the tower blocks, flicking across the open spaces for signs of flight. Danny edged further back into the undergrowth, watching their frantic movements as they charged along balconies and thundered down staircases, their cries of frustration echoing across the park, desperate villagers armed with flaming torches, seeking out the monster in their midst.

He’d seen enough. He turned his back on them, on the Longhill estate and the life he knew, and disappeared into the trees.

Somewhere in the darkness Bryce heard a noise. It was an indistinct sound at first, a low murmur lurking somewhere on the outer edges of his consciousness. Then he heard another sound, rather like the first, but pitched slightly higher. Voices. Yes, that was it, voices, out there in the shifting shadows. He could hear them talking, the words unintelligible, muffled, like they were speaking under a blanket. He felt himself moving towards them, the blackness slowly turning to grey, then a milky whiteness. The voices belonged to two dark shapes, directly ahead, very close. They spoke quietly, almost whispering, and Bryce still couldn’t make out what they were saying. Other indistinct objects suddenly morphed into familiar forms. He saw a large TV, a picture frame on the wall, an empty chair by the window. The voices fell silent. Bryce slowly turned his head, heard the familiar metallic clatter of his chart at the end of the bed, caught a glimpse of a man leaving the room, the door closing with a soft click. His eyes snapped fully open and he balled his fists, rubbing the sleep from them, yawning loudly as he finally returned to the land of the living.