The Horse at the Gates (39 page)

It was the rattling of the key in the security gate that woke Bryce.

He opened his eyes, the blistered paintwork on the ceiling above swimming into view. The room was still in shadow, the sky outside the barred windows a deep blue that paled to the east, the sun not yet risen above the surrounding woods. Denied a watch, bedside clock, radio or TV, Bryce had become used to measuring time in other ways. The sun was the simplest method, as it always had been for mankind, its predictable arc across the sky as accurate as a mechanical timepiece once you got used to its pattern. But the earth was now officially locked in a climatic cooling cycle and even Bryce, a prisoner inside this depressing wing, realised that the country was experiencing a particularly wet winter. However, in the absence of the sun there were other ways to mark time. The main gate, for example, the comings and goings, the guardhouse shift changes, the ebb and flow of vans and cars, staff and visitors; those were his timepieces. And, by any measurement, today’s wake-up call was earlier than usual.

He heard nurse Orla’s clunky footsteps along the corridor, then the lights blinked and buzzed into life overhead. Bryce’s heart began to beat loudly in his ears as the nurse swept into the room, thick winter coat wrapped tightly around her ample frame, a red knitted hat pulled down over her ears. She sniffed loudly as she approached Bryce’s bed, wiping her nose with the tissue balled in her hand.

‘Time to get up,’ she announced, the soft Irish tones jarred by her blocked nasal passages. ‘Jesus, it’s cold in here.’

Bryce didn’t move, cocooned like a larva inside his thin duvet. ‘It’s early.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ complained Orla, setting her bag down on the end of the bed and rummaging inside. She produced a blister pack of tablets, fat, dark spheres of God knew what. ‘There’s been an outbreak, MRSA, two patients in the ward below,’ she announced, ‘so all bedding in this wing is being destroyed. I need you up and out of that bed in the next five minutes. Leave the mattress at the gate for Sully to take care of.’

Bryce peered from between the folds of his duvet. ‘Can’t I do it later?’

‘No, you can’t,’ Orla shot back, popping two of the pills into her hand and placing them on Bryce’s nightstand next to the bed. ‘There, those are for you. I don’t want you taking them now, though, not before you’ve moved that bloody mattress. Sure, I’m not getting my hands dirty today. I’ve got a Christmas lunch to go to later.’

‘Christmas?’

‘Winter festival, then,’ Orla corrected herself, a sheepish look on her face. ‘I know some find it offensive, but I can’t get used to calling it that. I was a good Catholic girl once.’

Despite the act, Bryce already knew that the holiday period was just around the corner. Public institutions were prohibited from displaying any specific Christian references to the upcoming festivities, but the guards had strung up a banner of coloured lights in the gatehouse and some of the delivery vans had tinsel wrapped around their wing mirrors or framing the inside of their windscreens. Cairo had been signed in the last week of November and, since then, Bryce had scratched the days away on the wall behind his bedside table, wondering if each notch would signal his last, if Sully would appear in the doorway without his breakfast tray, instead pushing the trolley that would take his body to the mortuary.

‘Where’s Sully?’

‘He’ll be here soon,’ Orla warned, ‘so make sure that mattress is moved and you’ve taken your medication before he turns up. You don’t want to get him mad, not today.’

‘Why? What’s so special about today?’ Bryce searched the woman’s face for a clue, anything.

‘Nothing. Come on, out of bed.’

Bryce threw off the duvet and reached for his dressing gown. On the surface he kept up his sluggish pretence, but inside his stomach bubbled with acid and his nerves jangled. Was this it, the day they were to come for him? Had the call been made, the order given? He stood up, faking a loud yawn and stretching his arms over his head. He stepped into his slippers and slowly began pulling the covers off the mattress, keeping his back to the nurse.

‘Here, let me help,’ she said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

‘I’ve got it,’ Bryce assured her.

‘I told you, I haven’t got all day.’ She elbowed Bryce aside and hurled the rest of the sheets onto the floor. ‘Fold that lot up and leave them by the gate. I’ll take care of the mattress.’

‘I said I’ve got it.’ Bryce gripped the handles on one side of the mattress and tried to stand it up. Orla grabbed it anyway, pulling it off the bed and heaving it upright. Something hit the floor. Bryce froze, the objects caught in his peripheral vision, not one, but two, three, four, rolling across the cracked linoleum. Orla let the mattress fall back onto the bed. She bent down, picking up one of the tablets that had come to a stop between her sturdy shoes. She examined it for a moment then turned on Bryce, her face flushed with anger.

‘What the hell’s this?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve not been taking your medication? Is that it?’

Before Bryce could answer, Orla shoved him aside and started inspecting the seam of the mattress with a practised eye. She found the tear in a matter of moments and stuffed her hand inside, pulling out dozens more tablets that spilled to the floor. Then she found the hypodermic syringe, a green plastic safety cap shielding its needle.

‘You crafty bastard,’ she breathed, holding the syringe up to the light. She shook it, inspecting the clear liquid inside. ‘Do you realise how much trouble you’re–’

Bryce’s bony fist caught Orla full in the face, sending her staggering backwards. She lost her footing and hit the ground hard, her head cannoning off a thick radiator pipe with an audible crack. Bryce winced. He stumbled after her, but Orla lay still, her legs splayed out before her, arms spread wide, a pool of dark blood already spreading across the floor. Bryce grabbed a sheet and knelt beside her, balling the material up and placing it behind her head. His mind raced, uncertain what to do except stem the flow of blood. Already the warm liquid had reached his knees, staining his pyjamas. Then her eyes suddenly opened, frightened, pleading and accusing all at once. She moaned softly, her bloodless lips mouthing unintelligible words. Bryce swept a few strands of auburn hair away from her face.

‘What shall I do, Orla? Tell me what to do!’

Her lips moved again and he leaned close, straining to hear the words. Her breathing was laboured, short gasps that rattled between her bloodied teeth. Bryce stood up. His first instinct was to get the poor woman some help, but that would surely hasten his own demise. He perched himself on the corner of the bed, his head swimming. Despite his clandestine fitness regime he was woefully out of shape. His legs and arms felt like water and his hands shook badly, but that was nothing compared to the sickness in the pit of his stomach, the mixture of fear and adrenaline that meant he was now fully committed. Do or die, those were his only choices. If Sully walked in now, saw nurse Orla, the blood on his pyjamas, he wouldn’t live to see the day’s end, of that he was certain.

He stood, eyes roaming the floor. The syringe had come to rest against the wall, thankfully still intact, and he slipped it inside the pocket of his dressing gown. He got down on all fours, herding the tablets together with his hands and scooping them into a pillowcase, which he stuffed inside the drawer of his night stand.

Orla moaned again. Bryce tried to ignore her, found her bag on the floor and rummaged inside until he located the blister pack of tablets. He studied the label: Flunitrazepam. Bryce had never heard of it, but whatever it was it was a powerful sedative. Thankfully, Sully and Orla had become complacent during his incarceration, the rudimentary check of his open mouth never discovering the pill wedged up inside the gap between his back teeth, or the torn seam in his mattress where they’d been hidden, hoping somehow he would have the courage and opportunity to make use of them by–

The security gate opened with its familiar metallic screech. Bryce froze, eyes wide, heart pounding, the sound of Sully’s tuneless whistle echoing down the corridor. The gate slammed with a loud rattle, his trainers rasping on the linoleum, getting closer. Bryce scuttled behind the padded door, his heart threatening to burst from his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. He’d only get one shot and it had better be right or Sully would kill him with his bare hands. He lifted the syringe from his pocket and pinched the safety cap with his thumb and forefinger.

It didn’t move.

A flash of white passed the crack in the door, the uniform, Sully’s familiar shape. ‘Orla, I told you to have the mattress ready,’ he complained loudly as he entered the room. ‘Where’s–’

Then he stopped and Bryce flinched as he heard Sully rack his baton out. He gripped the safety cap again, tugging with all his might, his fingers burning with pain. Then it snapped off with an audible click. The door swung open and Sully stood there, half shielded by the thick padding, the baton raised in his right hand.

‘Don’t move!’ he yelled, his eyes noting Bryce’s blood-soaked pyjama legs. Bryce shrunk away, expecting the ugly black baton to come whipping down on his head and body. He crouched in a defensive ball, his hands shielding his face.

‘It was an accident,’ he blurted. ‘I swear to God!’

Sully eyed him for a long moment before lowering the baton, letting it dangle by his leg. Then he took a step back. Bryce was relieved, then unsettled, to see a smile on his dark face, almost a look of amusement. ‘I can’t leave you two alone for a minute, can I?’ Bryce didn’t answer and Sully motioned with the baton. ‘Move. On the bed.’

He did as he was told, giving Sully a wide berth and shuffling across the room. He acted as he always did around his keepers, lifeless eyes and listless limbs, but his heart hammered like a pneumatic drill inside his chest. By some miracle, Sully had failed to spot the syringe cupped in the palm of his hand, the needle poking between his fingers.

‘Good boy. Sit.’

Bryce plopped himself on the mattress. Sully tucked the baton under his arm and gave Orla the once over, careful to avoid the large pool of blood spreading across the floor. He bent over her and cocked his head, listening for the sound of her breath, feeling her neck for a pulse. Finally, he pulled off her hat and inspected the wound at the back of her skull. Even Sully winced.

‘Not good. Not good at all.’ He straightened up. ‘What happened?’

‘I just wanted some fresh air,’ Bryce explained, his head held low, eyes on his slippers. He heard the squeak of Sully’s shoes, the toes of his trainers nosing into view. ‘We argued, she tried to hit me. She slipped, banged her head.’

‘Bullshit,’ Sully shot back. ‘That’s not her style.’

Bryce saw the hands move, the baton retracted and slipped into its holster on Sully’s belt. ‘It’s the truth,’ he said quietly, acting like an admonished schoolboy.

‘Sure it is,’ Sully laughed. He took a deep breath and folded his arms. ‘Well, it seems we have ourselves a bit of a predicament.’

Bryce looked up, wearing what he hoped was a truly pathetic countenance. Sully was lost in thought, his hand stroking the dark stubble of his chin, his thick eyebrows knotted together. He stood that way for several moments. Then he said, ‘Stay there. Don’t move.’

He picked up a pillow case and quickly tore it into strips as he approached Orla’s still form, then knelt down beside her. His hands were doing something around her face, his shoulders hunched with effort. Bryce couldn’t quite see what was happening, so he stood up and took a few steps towards them. He froze, horror numbing his mind – Sully was stuffing the torn material into nurse Orla’s open mouth. The words were out before he could stop them.

‘Jesus Christ, Sully, stop that!’

‘Back on the bed!’ Sully roared. He forced more ripped sheeting into Orla’s mouth, packing it in tightly. Bryce watched Orla’s fingers twitch violently. He held his face in his hands, not wanting to look but unable to stop himself.

‘For God’s sake, you’re killing her!’

Sully leaned over the nurse, grunting with the effort of suffocation, then finally sat back on his haunches and inspected his handiwork. ‘That should do it.’

Bryce turned away, sickened, his hands groping for the bed, his legs like water. ‘Why? Why did you do that?’ he whispered.

Sully climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees. ‘Why prolong the inevitable?’ he answered. ‘Besides, I just finished what you started.’

Orla’s fingers had stopped twitching. ‘I wasn’t trying to kill her, you bloody animal!’

Sully sprang to his feet and marched towards the bed. He grabbed Bryce by the face, squeezing his cheeks together, his nose an inch from Bryce’s. Between the fingers of his other hand he pinched one of Bryce’s tablets. ‘Not taking your meds, eh Gabe? Is that what you argued about?’ Sully’s voice was laden with menace. He stared into Bryce’s eyes, searching them, then pushed him back onto the mattress. Sully smirked. ‘Yeah, you’d better be scared.’ He cocked his head towards Orla’s corpse. ‘This is messy, Gabe. I don’t like mess.’

‘It was an accident,’ Bryce repeated.

‘The thing is, she was being retired after this anyway. A fatal car crash maybe, a slip in front of a train, a brutal mugging gone wrong – the details hadn’t been worked out. I can tell you one thing though, it wasn’t supposed to be here, like this.’ Sully glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Bryce and smiled. ‘Attacked by a deranged inmate. Yeah, that would work.’

Bryce shook his head. ‘I didn’t kill her. You did.’

‘Whatever,’ Sully shrugged. ‘Calls will have to be made. The Prime Minister told.’

‘Yes, do that,’ urged Bryce. ‘Jacob should know what’s going on here.’

‘Hooper?’ Amusement played behind Sully’s eyes.

‘You’ve not heard? Jacob Hooper is dead.’

Bryce felt the wind punched from his lungs. ‘Dead?’ he repeated after a moment. ‘How?’

‘Took a swan dive out of his office window at Millbank. Things weren’t going well for him, pressures of the job, troubles at home. I heard they were scraping him off the walls for days. A real tub of guts.’