The Horse at the Gates (22 page)

‘Look familiar?’ he chuckled.

‘Yeah,’ replied Danny, rubbing his arm self-consciously.

‘Never was one for body art myself. You know tattooists are supposed to report political artwork to the authorities, right?’

Danny looked pained. ‘Yeah, but the bloke was kosher, Ray. Known him for years.’

‘What, like the others on your estate?’ Carver sneered over his shoulder.

Danny didn’t reply. Instead he said: ‘Lovely house.’

‘Car dealerships aren’t the cash cow they used to be,’ said Carver, grabbing a set of keys from a hook behind the front door. ‘Got out at the right time. Sold the lot.’

Danny hobbled painfully behind Carver across the gravel driveway, then followed him up a flight of stairs behind the car port. Carver unlocked the door and led him inside, pushing the sunglasses on top of his head.

‘This is the guest apartment. You’ll be comfortable here.’

Danny looked around the self-contained accommodation, impressed by the modern furniture, the neat kitchen with its full complement of hi-tech appliances, the double bedroom with a view that overlooked the rambling grounds. ‘Are you sure, Ray? I don’t want to cause you any trouble.’

Carver’s cold grey eyes regarded him unblinkingly. ‘Keep it clean, that’s all I ask. Now, there’s a phone in the kitchen with a pre-programmed number for the house. Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency. And for fuck’s sake, don’t call anyone. Understand?’ Danny nodded. ‘There’s some books and magazines on the shelf there and you’ve got the TV. It’s fully cabled up. Don’t browse the net, though, not for anything. Tess’ll bring a bit of shopping over later so you can cook some grub. When it’s dark we’ll go for a walk around the estate, stretch your legs, get a bit of fresh air. Get to know one another.’

Carver picked up the TV remote and switched it on. He handed it to Danny. ‘There you go.’ The TV hummed into life. Long-range images of the southern end of Whitehall filled the large screen, a LIVE caption running in the top right-hand corner. It was an unrecognisable landscape of shattered and blackened buildings shrouded in clouds of dust. In the foreground, covering the grass in Parliament Square, a small village of white tents had been erected. The newsreader filled in the blanks: the temporary structures housed rescue management, a casualty clearing station and a provisional morgue.

Carver shook his head. ‘Every time I see that it makes my heart break.’ The scene on the TV switched suddenly to a press conference, the caption reading: Millbank, London. The camera was fixed on several empty chairs positioned behind a table with the European Union flag draped across it. In the foreground the press corps gathered, heads bobbing at the bottom of the screen. An explosion of camera flashes announced the arrival of Prime Minister Hooper. He took the middle seat as senior European ministers occupied the other chairs.

‘Here we go,’ Carver announced ominously. On the screen an aide scampered forward, activating the microphone on the table in front of Hooper, then retreated out of sight.

‘Thank you all for coming,’
the Prime Minister began.
‘I want to start by offering my condolences to the families of the victims whose bodies were discovered in Whitehall this morning…’

‘Over two hundred now,’ Carver reported. ‘Let’s see how long it takes before they mention you.’

‘…these systematic attacks in an effort to destabilise the country. As a nation, as Europeans, we cannot allow this to happen...’

‘Bollocks,’ Carver growled.

‘...and therefore the regional government of the United Kingdom has taken the decision to join our European partners and ratify the Treaty of Cairo, a historic piece of legislation that will further harmonise our nations and bring peace and economic prosperity to the continent. Anything less will send a signal to our enemies...’

‘Peace in our time, eh?’ scoffed Carver. The broadcast lasted for another few minutes and then the scene changed to a reporter standing in front of the pyramids outside Cairo. Behind him a giant stage was in the final stages of construction. ‘Jesus, look at the size of that,’ Carver exclaimed.

‘...a huge demonstration here in Cairo later today, in response to the attack on the mosque in Luton. The British government, in line with other EU countries, has called for greater understanding between communities across Europe and President Dupont himself has demanded the drafting of new legislation that will protect Europe’s Muslim citizens from…’

‘What a surprise,’ Carver sneered, ‘more bloody laws. Remember the fuss over ID cards? Never, they said. Now you carry one or else. DNA databases, remote hacking, international arrest warrants; people laughed at me years ago when I warned them. Now they’re the norm.’ He snatched the remote from Danny’s hand and turned off the TV. ‘That’s enough of that. Still, you’re off the top slot, which is good.’

Danny stared at his own reflection in the TV screen. Coming here had solved his immediate problem but the truth was he was placing the lives of decent people in serious danger. If he was caught here they’d all go to prison for sure. So what if he’d been a member of the Movement? Did that give him the right to just turn up, impose on these people who clearly felt sorry for him, felt a duty to help, regardless of their own safety? No, it was a stupid idea. Despite the fuss over Cairo there was still a manhunt in progress, a price on his head, a fortune to be made for the right person who knew of his whereabouts. All it took was one phone call and it’d all be over. No, he had to keep moving. Somewhere, deep inside, he still had a little pride left.

‘Listen Ray, thanks for your hospitality, but on second thoughts I should get going, maybe tomorrow, after it gets dark. I don’t want to take the piss, but I’ll need some supplies. You know, food, a bit of money.’

Carver frowned. ‘What?’

‘Just to tide me over until I find somewhere else. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. You could all go away for this.’

Carver took Danny by the arm. ‘Nonsense, son. No-one’s asking you to leave. Besides, you’re safer here than out there.’

‘They know I was in the Movement, Ray. They might come here, question you and Tess.’

Carver shrugged his large shoulders. ‘So what? The Movement was disbanded a long time ago and I swore an oath in front of my barrister and a county court judge, disassociating myself from the organisation and all and any of its members. You must remember that, Danny. It was all over the news.’

Danny stared at his damp, stockinged feet. ‘I remember.’

‘You think I was a traitor too, right son?’

Danny shook his head. ‘I didn’t know what to think, Ray. I was gutted, I remember that much. I’d not long joined, see.’

‘It was the right move,’ Carver explained. ‘The authorities were clamping down on nationalist groups anyway, so it was only a matter of time. I pre-empted their bullshit, resigned my chairmanship, took a legal position. I protected myself, Danny, sang from their poisonous multicultural hymn sheet. I even made a donation to the Pakistan Relief Fund, signed the pledge alongside that Muslim MP down in Watford. D’you know how much that hurt? No, they won’t come here.’ Carver laid a meaty paw on Danny’s thin shoulder, his eyes like steel pebbles, his large frame blocking out the light from the window. ‘And even if they did, they’d never find you.’

Danny wilted under the stare, the weight of Ray’s arm. He felt suddenly frightened. ‘They won’t?’

‘Positive,’ Carver said. Then he smiled, and Danny was relieved to see those impossibly white teeth again. Carver waved his arm around the room. ‘I’ve still got friends out there, Danny. Sympathisers, ex-Movement people, people in authority. I’d be warned if the law started sniffing around.’

Danny took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. ‘That makes me feel better, Ray. As long as you’re sure.’

‘Course I am. All we do now is keep our heads down and wait. We watch and listen, see which way the wind blows. Cairo’s bumped you off the radar, which means big changes are coming.’

‘What sort of changes?’

‘Let’s just see what happens, son.’

They heard footsteps outside and the door to the apartment swung open. Tess breezed into the room, a stack of neatly-pressed laundry tucked beneath her numerous chins. ‘Ah, here you both are. Danny, these are for you, some of Joe’s clothes.’ She loaded the pile into Danny’s waiting arms. They smelt of lavender and soap. ‘There’s a plastic bag under the sink in the kitchen. Bag up all your old stuff and leave it outside the door. That’ll go on the bonfire.’

Carver nodded. ‘Grab a shower, get some rest, son. Tess’ll bring some food over in a bit.’

Danny nodded his thanks. Tess left the room and Carver followed her. As he neared the door, Danny said: ‘Are you really retired, Ray? Is the Movement really dead?’

Carver stared at him for a moment then shook his head. ‘Never has been.’ He tapped his chest with a finger. ‘You can’t turn off what’s in your heart, right?’

Danny nodded. ‘Where will all this end?’

‘It won’t end, not as long as there are people like you and me, Danny. You’ve managed to slip one of the biggest man hunts this country has ever seen, covered your tracks in London, made it all the way up here without drawing attention to yourself. You’re smart, a quick thinker. In fact, when I look at you I see a bit of myself there.’ He slipped the sunglasses back over his eyes and pointed towards the window. ‘One thing you can be sure of, whatever happens out there, people like me and you, we’ll go down fighting. You’re a bloody hero, son. Now, get yourself some rest. You’ve earned it.’

Exhausted, Danny peeled off his socks and slumped onto the sofa. He’d been called a lot of things in his life, but never a hero. As Carver’s footsteps clumped down the stairs outside Danny stretched along the deep cushions, the beginnings of a smile creasing his face.

A pale sliver of sky to the east offered the first promise of daybreak when the alarm warbled on the bedside table. Saeed slapped it off and yawned, stretching his long limbs and kicking the duvet off. In the bathroom he washed himself from head to toe then dressed, slipping a fresh white gown over his head. He crossed the bedroom carpet in bare feet and opened the curtains. The gentle valley sloped away to the south, cloaked in mist and bracketed by dark woods, the sky above paling before the rise of the sun. Somewhere a bird called, heralding the dawn. It was time.

He knelt down on the prayer mat and closed his eyes, clearing his mind of all distractions. He breathed deeply, preparing himself for
Salat
, the first of his five daily prayers. His lips began to utter the quiet litany, his forehead brushing the mat as his mind, body and soul united in worship. He felt it then, as he did every day, the connection to his fellow Brothers, knowing that across the country they, too, were performing their own rituals, welcoming the new day. Only today that feeling was stronger, considerably so. For Saeed, this new dawn promised so much more.

Mentally and spiritually prepared, he dressed casually in a black sweater and green corduroy trousers and made his way downstairs to breakfast. Saeed rubbed his hands briskly as he entered; the dining room was empty and felt as cold as a tomb, lit from above by a large chandelier that washed the dark panelled walls in its harsh light. A white-jacketed steward suddenly appeared behind Saeed, like a Victorian parlour trick, and took his order of toast and fruit juice. Saeed watched him disappear behind a well-disguised panelled door as he sat down at the long breakfast table. Thankfully he ate alone, the daily papers spread across the white table cloth before him. He allowed himself a satisfied smile as the preparations for Cairo dominated the front pages, a compliant media taking up the Treaty torch with impressive gusto. Saeed made a mental note to thank the media barons personally.

He took coffee in the library next door, where a log fire roared invitingly in the grate. He sat in a wing-backed chair by the window, watching the sun rise above the woods, the mist rolling back before its watery rays. A dog barked, the sound muffled through the thick glass, and a black shape darted from behind the walled garden, streaking out into the field beyond. A bird rose from the grass in its path, cawing in annoyance as the Labrador raced after it, leaping into the air all too late. Another movement caught Saeed’s eye and Hooper’s rotund shape appeared from behind the wall, following the animal into the field. Saeed finished his coffee and went to fetch his coat.