The Horse at the Gates (26 page)

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.’

‘It’s important he’s taken care of. I have a duty of care to–’

‘That’s enough. We’ll discuss this later.’

‘What about the other staff?’ Orla this time.

The sound of a throat being cleared. ‘As far as they’re concerned you’re an assessment team from London. Nobody will pay any attention to you in this place, believe me. Now, I’ll give you the full tour tomorrow, but in the meantime I’ll show you to your accommodations.’

‘That’ll be grand, Mr Parry,’ Orla chirped.

‘No names.’ Sully again, annoyed.

He saw their shadows move past him and the light was snapped off, plunging the room into darkness. Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside and he heard Orla laugh, the sound brittle, eerie in the dark. Several minutes passed before Bryce realised he’d been abandoned. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he could make out a paler square of ceiling, a reflection of light coming from a window somewhere, interspersed with black strips. Bars. A barred window. His mind reeled, confusion and fear tumbling together like clothes in a washing machine. Not a hospital then, but a prison. Or a mixture of the two. What could–

He felt his eyes widen, his throat constricting as fear flooded his consciousness. A psychiatric facility. The double gates, the barred windows, the smells, all pointed to the same terrifying conclusion. How was that possible? A mistake had been made, a horrifying mix-up that–

No. Impossible. Sully wouldn’t allow such a screw-up. And this new conspirator, Parry, had been expectant, complicit. Then the thought struck him: he’d been kidnapped. Sully and Orla, others most certainly, had planned the fire, snatched him from the hospital, then drugged him, hiding him in this awful place. Fear stalked him, lurking in the shadows, threatening to engulf him. He closed his eyes, shutting out the nightmare.

Somewhere, a distant scream ripped through the silence.

Danny swung the axe high over his head then brought it down sharply, splitting the thick log into two neat halves. He picked them up and tossed them into the back of the Nissan pickup parked in the trees behind him, deciding he had enough to stock the woodpile for another week. He swung the axe again, burying the blade into the ancient tree stump, then slapped the dirt from his hands. He walked around to the back of the vehicle, making sure the tailgate was firmly secured, then climbed inside the cab. He sat there for a moment as a chill wind gusted through the woods, scattering noisy waves of dead leaves before it. Overhead, skeletal treetops creaked and swayed, the blue sky above paling before the approaching rain front.

The sweat on his body began to cool and he pulled a green fleece over his t-shirt to combat the sudden chill, careful not to catch the hairs of his beard in the zipper. He scratched his face and neck, still unused to the sensation of a full beard. Ray seemed pleased with its progress though, the dark hair just about thick enough to partially cover the tattoo on his neck, helping to – what was the word Ray used? – oh yeah,
cultivate
a new image, one that would enable him to return to society, apparently. But not yet. The closest Danny had come to the outside world since he’d been here was the odd walk around the village late at night. He was grateful for the opportunity, for the change of scenery, but the beard was part of the deal. The walkie-talkie on the seat beside him crackled into life.

‘Come in, Lima One.’

His call sign. That was Ray, always super-careful. He scooped up the radio. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Finish what you’re doing and come on up to the house. Quick as you can.’

‘Sure. Just packing up now.’

He slipped out of the pickup and retrieved the axe, grunting with effort as he worked the blade from the stump. He was about to throw it in the back when a movement caught his eye. About fifty yards away, where the woods bordered the meadow, Joe trudged towards the house, a brace of dead rabbits strung from a pole carried across his shoulder, a rifle held loosely in his other hand. Nelson bounded ahead of him, a flash of brown and black fur darting through the trees. Danny froze, studying Joe as he skirted the edge of the woods. He didn’t like the bloke, not at all, a miserable bastard, always mooching around the estate with a gun in his hand or acting as a bodyguard to Tess and Ray when either of them went out. A weirdo, for sure.