The Horse at the Gates (45 page)

A few moments later, Danny slid onto the end of the bench, digging his hands deep into his pockets. He watched the slow-moving river, glancing at the old man who turned to him briefly then looked away. Then the bovine chewing suddenly ceased. From the corner of his eye Danny saw disbelief, then recognition, slowly register across his father’s craggy face. The old man turned to Danny again, his hands trembling, the colour draining from his cheeks.

‘Son?’ he whispered.

‘It’s me, pops,’ murmured Danny, his lips barely moving. ‘You alright?’

The old man’s eyes searched his son’s face. ‘Bearing up. You look different.’

‘That’s the idea,’ he replied, scratching his thick beard. He glanced over his shoulder. The footballers were gone, the pitch suddenly deserted. ‘I can’t stay long, dad.’

The old man’s lower lip started to tremble. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he warned, his voice shaking.

Danny frowned. ‘You’ve seen the news, yeah? Heard what they’re saying about me?’

‘I saw your letter, son. I know you’re innocent.’

Across the river a police car wailed along Chelsea Embankment until the siren faded into the distance. ‘That’s why I’ve come back, dad, to say goodbye. I’ve got to get out of here, leave the country. I’m heading abroad, Corsica maybe, Greek Islands. Somewhere quiet where I can–’

The words caught in his throat as the uniforms emerged from beneath the surrounding trees in an extended line, moving swiftly towards them, weapons raised. He turned at the sound of roaring engines as several unmarked vehicles carved across the open spaces, tyres spinning rooster tails of mud and grass. In that moment, Danny knew the hunt was finally over. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for the pistol, just in case a stray bullet found his dad.

‘They’ve been waiting for weeks,’ the old man confessed in a quivering voice. ‘They said you’d come, sooner or later. I prayed you wouldn’t.’

Danny sighed as he laid a hand on his father’s knee and patted it gently. ‘That’s alright, pops. It’s not your fault.’

The cars slewed to a halt around him as the uniforms drew closer, faces hidden behind black ski masks, a dozen red dots swarming across his torso like angry fireflies. He stood up slowly, his hands held wide, palms open. For a moment he forgot the pain in his shoulder.

‘Never got anything right, did I? Never been any good.’ Fear gripped him then, fear of what was to come. Whatever happened, it was going to end badly. ‘I’m sorry, dad. Sorry for everything.’

Beside him, the old man smothered a sob with a bony hand. With the other, he reached out and grasped Danny’s with a strength that belied his advancing years.

‘We interrupt this programme to bring you some breaking news…’

Bryce’s hand froze on the tap, the empty kettle held rigidly beneath the running faucet. His eyes flicked to the radio on the kitchen counter.

‘At least three US soldiers have been killed in overnight clashes with Mexican security forces in El Paso, Texas, in an escalation of the recent violence that has seen hundreds killed along the volatile southern US border region. In Washington, President Vargas has condemned the violence, blaming senior Republicans and rightwing elements in the US military for stoking tensions, and has vowed to crack down on Tea Party Revolutionaries…’

Bryce finally exhaled as his pulse rate began to settle. Still no word on his escape. Although he dreaded the sound of his name being broadcast across the airwaves, the distinct lack of news regarding his violent flight from Alton Grange possessed its own unnerving quality.

He nestled the kettle into its receptacle and snapped the switch on, staring out of the kitchen window as the water began to hiss noisily. It wasn’t much of a view. Across the narrow lane was a high stone wall crowned with a mature wisteria, its heavy foliage glistening with silvery beads of rainwater. Beyond the wall was a wood, a dense mixture of oak and beech, if Bryce wasn’t mistaken. He leaned over the sink and craned his neck. The sky was a dull canvas of grey tones, traversed by darker clouds that drifted above the swaying treetops beyond the wall. A miserable day for sure, but a world away from his recent accommodations.

The cottage was the last of four, nestled at the end of a pea shingle lane close to the village boundary of Netley. Mac had brought him here five nights ago, under cover of darkness, the car left by the kerb out on the main road. They’d headed up the lane, keeping to the shadows of the high wall, their footsteps sounding to Bryce like a Household Division on the march, the crunch of shingle underfoot shattering the still night air. He’d watched the cottages carefully, yet nothing had stirred, no sudden glare of a porch light, no subtle twitch of a bedroom curtain. The cottages were unoccupied, Mac had whispered, sensing Bryce’s unease. Holiday lets, full in the summer, empty for the most part during the winter. The last one belonged to Mac’s company, private accommodation for visiting boat owners and out of town clients. As Mac unlocked the front door Bryce kept to the shadows, his eyes watching the end of the lane, his ears alert for the noises of men. But the night remained still.

The lights were kept off until every curtain and blind in the cottage had been pulled or lowered, Mac finally snapping on the hall lamp and dimming it to its lowest setting. Even by its pale luminance, Bryce could see that the interior was simple yet tastefully furnished; polished floorboards underfoot, cream-coloured sofas in the adjacent sitting room, gleaming units and granite worktops in the kitchen. There was a new smell to the place, tinged with a salty mustiness that Bryce found faintly comforting. Anything was better than the antiseptic stench of Alton Grange, a smell that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Mac had given him a whispered tour of the cottage, pointing out the facilities and settling him into the larger of the two bedrooms. After some brief instructions he was gone, and Bryce was left alone. Despite the long-forgotten comforts of a king-sized bed and a fresh duvet, sleep evaded him that first night, his eyes snapping open with every creak of timber, every call of a night bird from the shadowy woods across the lane. Sometime after midnight he’d heard a car pass by along the main road, tyres hissing on the wet tarmac, and he imagined a violent turn of the wheel, the roar of engines in the lane outside, the crash of the door, the thump of heavy feet on the narrow staircase as they came for him. He’d found a small portable radio in a bedside drawer and lay with it under the quilt like a furtive child, listening to the BBC updates, expecting news of his escape to be broadcast across the airwaves, but hearing nothing. He retuned to a Hampshire station where old ballads jostled for airtime alongside local news and shipping forecasts, the soothing tones finally lulling Bryce into a fitful sleep. Gradually, the tension that gripped him eased and, as each night passed, he’d slept a little better, managing almost six hours the previous evening. Physically he was recovering, but mentally it was a different story. Despite fleeing the morbid confines of the psychiatric unit, the reality was he remained a prisoner, trapped within another set of walls. And they were closing in.

After five days the media were still silent about his escape, yet Bryce had no doubt the dogs had been let loose, even now desperately seeking his trail. Senior security personnel, as well as carefully selected Commissioners and Chief Constables, would’ve all been quietly briefed, the available intelligence painting a very different picture of Gabriel Bryce.

As he stared out of the window at the falling rain, his mind pondered the exercise, the cover story that was no doubt already in play. The Downing Street bomb had left the Prime Minister mentally scarred, that was the seed already planted in the public consciousness. His mind had been tortured by the horrors of his experience, the security scare at the hospital tipping a dangerously fragile man over the edge. Further intense therapy had failed, as had the cocktail of barbiturates and painkillers that poor Gabriel had become overly dependent on. The former Prime Minister was now a shell of the man he’d once been and, to protect his reputation and remaining dignity, he’d been quietly transferred to Alton Grange, where posttraumatic stress specialists could take better care of him. But something had gone terribly wrong. Gabriel Bryce had somehow snapped, brutally killing a nurse and an orderly before escaping the prison. He’d fooled them all, the doctors and the nurses, and now he was on the loose, coherent yet criminally unhinged. He wasn’t to be approached or spoken to and, should members of the public discover his identity, they should be firmly reminded of the need for discretion. The police should be called, the patient returned to another institution, one with higher walls and more guards. A place where Gabriel Bryce would never leave, never see the light of day again.

Or something like that. Whatever story had been cooked up, it would be convincing enough to fool everyone. So he had to remain hidden, behind locked doors and curtained windows.

Unless...

He heard the crunch of footsteps in the lane outside and saw Mac trudging towards the cottage. The rain had turned to a fine sleet and the ex-marine was bent against the weather, hood masking his face, the two bulging carrier bags dangling from his hands brushing damp patches on the legs of his jeans. Bryce unlocked the door and scurried back inside the kitchen. Mac stamped his feet on the mat in the hallway before appearing in the doorway.

‘Temperature’s dropped out there. That sleet could thicken up.’

‘Nasty stuff,’ Bryce agreed, stirring the freshly made pot of coffee.

Mac lifted the carrier bags onto the counter and swept the hood from his head. He began unpacking the groceries: shrink-wrapped chicken, tins of soup, earthy potatoes, fresh carrots and courgettes. It was wonderful to be eating nourishing food again and Bryce felt his health had improved markedly since he’d arrived at the cottage. Mac produced a dark bottle from one of the bags.

‘Got you some Merlot, Prime – sorry, Gabe.’

Bryce smiled. ‘Don’t worry Mac, you’ll get used to it.’

The former marine handed over the wine. ‘It’s a decent one, I’m told. Afraid I’m no expert.’

Bryce took the proffered alcohol and inspected the label. ‘Jesus, I haven’t had a drink in months. Chilean too, good choice. Who knows, I may finally feel civilised again.’ The smile faded as he slid the bottle carefully into the rack on the counter. ‘Did you see anything out there? Any police activity? Check points?’

Mac shook his head, wrestling the coat from his shoulders. ‘Nothing.’

‘Really?’ Bryce fretted, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

Mac poured himself a coffee and joined him, sliding into a chair opposite. ‘Quiet as a grave.’ He brought the mug to his lips, blew gently, and took a sip of coffee. ‘So, Gabe. I think it’s time you told me what all this is about.’

Bryce dropped his eyes, inspecting the steaming contents of his own mug. Mac had been decent enough not to press him since that night in Four Marks. He’d seen the shock on the younger man’s face, when the door had opened and the interior light illuminated Bryce’s gaunt features, but the questions had only been about his wellbeing and comfort, nothing else. In fact, it was Bryce who’d asked the questions, about the aftermath of the bomb, whether Mac had made an official statement (he hadn’t, thank God; after a brief check-up by the paramedics he’d quietly slipped away, an unsung hero), or if he’d been questioned about the book he’d sent to the hospital. Again, Mac had replied in the negative and, as far as they’d both been able to establish, Gabriel Bryce couldn’t be linked in any way to the man sat in front of him. He owed him something, that was only right, but just how much of the truth could Bryce afford to reveal?

‘I understand your frustration,’ Bryce began, ‘however it’s complicated. It may be better if I don’t say anything.’

Mac shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough. I’m guessing your being here is enough to get me hung anyway. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

Bryce stared at the former marine for several moments. Despite the casual tone, the dark eyes remained suspicious, the stubbled chin lifted a little too challengingly. Mac wasn’t going to be fobbed off easily, that was obvious, and he was struggling to disguise his growing impatience. After almost a week holed up in the man’s cottage without a single word of explanation, Bryce didn’t blame him. But this was different. He had to tread carefully.