The Horse at the Gates (18 page)

Which was funny, because he didn’t feel very alive. In fact, since he’d been in hospital he’d felt disconnected from the real world, drifting in and out of consciousness, a sensation rather like an out of body experience, he imagined. He felt no pain, only fatigue. He couldn’t stay awake longer than an hour or two, his limbs like lead, his eyelids often struggling to stay open. He was told he needed to rest, the cocktail of drugs that seeped into his veins fighting the infections, bolstering his immune system, feeding his battered body. Rest, the consultant ordered, rest the nurse insisted, rest the orderly advised. All he did was rest.

He turned towards the window, where the view was distinctly uninspiring; a windowless building blocking out most of the natural light, the brickwork streaked with rain patches, the thin sliver of sky above grey and forbidding. The room itself was comfortable enough, if a little too warm, with all the trappings a private hospital offered. There was a wall-mounted TV opposite his bed, a sofa and two chairs for visitors, a fridge, and a well-appointed private bathroom near the door to his right. Tasteful artwork adorned the walls, a mixture of Edwardian landscapes and eclectic post-modern pieces, and an abundance of flowers from well-wishers filled vases on every shelf and sideboard. A luxury dressing gown with a royal crest embroidered onto the breast pocket hung from a hook behind the door and Bryce yearned for the strength to stand upright, to wrap the garment around his body and venture outside his heavily-guarded room. If only he had the strength.

He’d lain immobile for over a week, surrounded by IV drips and clear plastic tubes, wired up to meters and monitors that recorded his pressures, beats and temperatures and God knew what else. He had a needle feeding fluids into a fat vein in his left hand, while a crescent of tiny suckers clamped to his chest monitored his heart. A catheter was inserted in his penis (he was glad he’d been unconscious for that one) and a large dressing covered the wound to his thigh. To the left of the bed, an impressive bank of electronic equipment displayed a confusing array of information that Bryce didn’t even pretend to understand. Instead, he was just thankful to be alive.

During his brief periods of consciousness he’d seen the images on TV, the devastation of Downing Street, the horror of Luton. It was worse for them, the worshippers at the mosque. Politicians represented the establishment, a target for all manner of terrorists over the centuries, but to destroy a mosque, a holy place, where men, women and children gathered in the eyes of God – Allah, he corrected himself – was unthinkable. How people could ever contemplate such an act was beyond Bryce’s comprehension.

He’d seen Jacob Hooper on the newscasts, a natural choice for temporary leader given the circumstances, but perhaps a little overbearing. Yet it was Tariq’s presence at Millbank that bothered him. He’d proved himself to be unworthy of high office, was on the brink of backbench obscurity; yet there he was, either at Jacob’s side during the press conferences or making statements in the heavily-guarded Houses of Parliament. Deputy Prime Minister indeed. It was wrong.

Bryce often chastised himself for such unpleasant thoughts when he should be rejoicing that his old comrade had survived. And the new Cabinet, well, there were some good choices and some strange ones. Nearly a quarter of the newly promoted ministers were Muslim MPs, some of them blatantly unqualified for such high office Bryce believed, yet it wasn’t his decision and clearly the continuity of government had to be maintained. Besides, Bryce consoled himself with the fact that the Muslim community would be reassured by such a strong presence in the heart of the administration and he looked forward to meeting them all on his return, if only he could keep his eyes open long enough to ever get out of bed.

The door opened and the orderly Suleyman entered, manoeuvring a trolley beside Bryce’s bed. He had the typical complexion of a Turk: olive skin and black eyes, with a permanent shadow of a beard on his face and neck. He greeted Bryce with a warm smile.

‘Morning, Mr Gabriel,’ he beamed in a cheery London accent. He wore a maroon tunic and black trousers, a goldcoloured plastic name badge pinned above his left breast pocket. Bryce guessed that he took part in some kind of recreational sport, the wide shoulders and muscular arms testament to a regime of intensive physical activity. He really should ask him about it, after all Suleyman seemed to be a permanent fixture in his room these days. Setting the brake on the trolley, the younger man tilted his head to one side and gave a small bow. ‘Breakfast is served.’ He removed the stainless steel plate cover with a flourish, a small ring of steam rolling up towards the ceiling. ‘Porridge, scrambled egg, juice. No hot beverages, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.’

‘Lovely,’ Bryce replied without enthusiasm. The drowsiness and the protective gum guard he wore combined to slur his words. He plucked the guard from his mouth and made a conscious effort to form his speech coherently. ‘Suleyman, someone was in here a minute ago, doctors I think. Who were they?’

The Turk frowned. He glanced around the room, as if the people Bryce referred to could still be present. ‘In here?’

‘Yes, a few moments ago. Perhaps you passed them in the corridor? Or maybe they’re still at the nurses’ station?’

The orderly shook his closely-cropped head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s only me and nurse Orla on duty today.’

‘What about the policeman outside? He must have seen them.’

Suleyman shrugged and cocked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s no one out there. Shift change, I think.’

Bryce tutted. ‘Well, someone was here. Maybe they were consultants.’

‘Probably,’ the orderly agreed, pumping up the pillows behind Bryce’s shoulders. He positioned a tray across Bryce’s lap and served up the food, placing a plastic spoon in his hand. ‘Come on, eat up,’ he smiled.

Bryce toyed with the food, forcing himself to swallow several mouthfuls. It was a struggle. Although the eggs were delicious and the orange juice freshly squeezed, Bryce didn’t feel very hungry. It was as if he’d just come out of a coma, his head still thick with sleep, his stomach not quite ready to begin digesting food. What he wouldn’t give for a strong pot of tea or coffee, anything to blast away the fog of fatigue that smothered his brain. Caffeine aside, what he wanted was a chance to wake up, get a little fresh air before breakfast perhaps, maybe some exercise. Any exercise, in fact.

He pushed the eggs away as Suleyman fussed around the room, emptying the wastepaper basket and tidying the magazines on the coffee table. Fatigue notwithstanding, Bryce certainly felt better. The pain that had wracked his body had been reduced to a few minor aches, the excruciating sensitivity of his missing teeth soothed by the remedial dental repairs. His ribs no longer hurt, the broken nose would soon be reconstructed, and he could move his leg a little more every day. The cuts and lacerations across his body had all been cleaned and dressed many times. He was healing nicely, he’d been told. Before too long he’d be back in charge, sitting behind his new desk on the twenty-sixth floor of the Euro Tower on Millbank. He was looking forward to his first day, although things were never going to be the same.

There’d been so much death. Friends, colleagues, Downing Street staff. Many of the Muslim victims had already been buried and he’d briefly caught Rana Hassani’s funeral on the news, the streets of Slough swamped, the noisy outpouring of grief, the anger of the young that had resulted in the firebombing of two pubs near the town centre. There’d be more funerals to come, a public service to commemorate the deceased, a day of national mourning, proposals for the bomb site. So much to do, so much to take care of. Bryce wanted to be a part of it and yet his enforced banishment to a heavily-guarded private hospital ward was somehow comforting, cocooned as he was from the chaos of the world outside.

He thought of Ella, lying in her own personal Hell. She’d been found in a bathroom, buried under a mountain of rubble. When Bryce had gone upstairs to retrieve the Heathrow dossier, she must have used the opportunity to answer a call of nature, an action that had saved her life. She was one of only a few survivors from Downing Street and yet she had failed to regain consciousness. The last he’d heard she was still in a deep coma in the intensive care unit at St. Thomas’. Her injuries were extensive, the news bulletin had reported, not least those to her spine. Tears of frustration had stained Bryce’s cheeks. Why did he have to hear everything from the news? Where was Hooper? Why wasn’t he being briefed during his periods of lucidity?

He was about to ask Suleyman to turn on the TV when the door opened and nurse Orla entered the room. She wore a uniform of light blue, a crisp double-buttoned tunic and trousers that strained against her heavy frame, her hair knotted in a tight auburn bun at the nape of her neck. Bryce didn’t care for her too much. He thought her attitude was a little stern, almost indifferent. As if to reinforce that view, nurse Orla didn’t utter a single word as she marched around his bed to inspect the monitors. Her practised fingers danced across the displays, and she made the
‘mmm’
sound several times. Bryce noticed all medical professionals seemed to make that noncommittal, faintly annoying sound. Perhaps it was taught to them in medical school, the students spending whole lessons on how to make patients feel ill at ease.

‘Well, nurse Orla, what’s the prognosis?’ Bryce began, hoping to stir up a little banter. She didn’t answer. Bryce glanced at Suleyman, who ignored them both, concentrating intently on arranging the flowers in their vases. ‘Nurse,’ Bryce repeated, injecting a little authority into his voice.

Finally she turned towards him. Her narrow, freckled face seemed locked in a permanent frown and she looked a little irritated at the interruption. ‘Yes, Sir?’ Her accent was Irish, not the harsh vowel sounds of the province, but the gentle cadence of the far south. Before Bryce could speak, she tutted loudly and picked up his temporary dental work sitting on the sideboard, inspecting them closely. ‘They’ve done a grand job with those teeth.’

‘Nurse.’

‘What is it?’

‘I had a couple of visitors a few minutes ago. Who were they?’

‘Visitors?’ she echoed. She seemed as puzzled as Suleyman at the suggestion. ‘You’ve had no visitors since the day before yesterday. Prime Minister Hooper and Minister Saeed stopped by. Quite a day that was, I can tell you.’

‘Doctors, then. Consultants. They were looking at my chart.’

Orla straightened up, hands on her wide hips. ‘No, you’ve made a mistake. Access to this room is strictly controlled. Sure, I’d know if anyone had been in here.’

‘I saw them,’ Bryce insisted. ‘They left when I woke up.’

She glanced at the fob watch dangling from her tunic. ‘You were asleep?’

‘I’m always bloody asleep!’ he snapped. Orla stared at him like an aggrieved school mistress and Suleyman’s duster froze on the window sill. Bryce took a deep breath and kept his voice calm. ‘I’m sorry about that. A little frustration, that’s all. I feel so doped up I can barely stay awake.’

‘It’s called the healing process,’ Orla reminded him, patting his arm as if he were a child. She turned her attention back to the monitors as Suleyman sprayed window cleaner on the glass in short puffs of mist. Bryce spoke to her ample backside.

‘I realise that, it’s just that I’m feeling a lot better and I need to keep my brain active if nothing else. You say Ministers Hooper and Saeed were here?’

‘Yes. And the photographer.’

Bryce jerked upright. Orange juice slopped across the tray. ‘A photographer? Please tell me they didn’t take any pictures.’

Orla shrugged her shoulders. ‘Of course she did. It was all official and above board. The Prime Minister said the country had a right to–’

‘I’m the Prime Minister, for God’s sake!’

‘Well, in any case, they wanted to send a message to the terrorists, that they’d failed.’ She removed the tray from his lap and placed it back on the trolley. ‘Although they didn’t print the most flattering picture of you, I must say. You looked quite ill.’

Bryce fumed, balling the sheets up in his fists. How dare they publish pictures of him without permission! What the bloody hell was Jacob playing at? ‘Why don’t I have a phone in here? Bring me a phone, would you? I need to make a call.’

Orla shook her head. ‘I don’t have that authority Sir.’

‘Well find me someone who has!’ Bryce yelled.

‘Try not to get yourself excited,’ warned Orla. Before Bryce could answer, she spun on her heel and headed towards the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said over her shoulder.

Bryce’s head swam, the world before his eyes momentarily shifting on its axis. He clamped them shut until the giddiness faded. His heart thumped in his chest and his pulse quickened, banishing the fatigue. It felt good. Beside the bed, the monitors flashed and beeped their disapproval. Suleyman diplomatically ignored the outburst, using a long feather duster to clean the TV on the wall.

‘Turn that on, would you Suleyman?’ The Turk wiped a finger across the touch screen, coaxing the unit into life. ‘Were you here when this photographer was taking pictures?’

‘No, no,’ Suleyman insisted, shaking his head as he flipped through the mini-screens on the menu. He saw a news icon and stabbed it, the image filling the TV. ‘I was downstairs with the other staff. There were lots of very important people here, lots of police too. All the streets were blocked off outside.’

Bryce waved a hand for silence as the picture on the TV changed to a reporter standing outside the Houses of Parliament, a large umbrella held aloft as rain and sleet lanced across Parliament Square. Big Ben loomed above him and the famous building behind was ringed with huge slabs of concrete and razor wire. Armed police stood guard behind the barricades, black uniforms glistening in the rain.

‘...in parliament behind me, where the Egyptian delegation is meeting behind closed doors with government officials to finalise details of the energy bill, expected to come into force if, as expected, Prime Minister Hooper endorses the Treaty of Cairo. Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Saeed said earlier today that he was hopeful Britain would soon announce its intention, particularly in light of the recent attempts by neo-Nazis to...’