The Horse at the Gates by D C Alden

lead him. He refocused his thoughts as Ella fussed around him, all business.
    ‘Your speech has been uploaded into the teleprompter and these are your notes, just in case.’ She handed over a small white card. ‘The press are waiting and most of the Cabinet are here, too.’
    Bryce raised an eyebrow. ‘And Tariq?’
    ‘Running late,’ Ella informed him. ‘He’s leaving Millbank now.’
    Bryce shook his head. ‘Arrogant bloody fool.’ He began rummaging through the neat stacks of folders and documents piled on his desk. ‘Where the hell did I put that Heathrow dossier?’
    ‘In your safe,’ replied Ella, pointing to the opposite wall.
    ‘So I did. Where’s Davies now?’
    ‘I’ve got him squirreled away downstairs. Sam’s briefing him before the media eat the poor man alive.’
    Bryce nodded and crossed to the wall safe. His private study was situated on the first floor, a reasonably sized room tucked away at the rear of the building, a quiet bolthole where Bryce could escape the unrelenting demands of office. He liked its size and its light, its lack of formality. It was modestly furnished with a mahogany writing desk and a red leather Chesterfield sofa along one book-lined wall. The opposite wall boasted three large French windows that overlooked the rose garden below, a unique selling point for any study in Bryce’s opinion. It was quiet, cosy and, in the depths of winter, a fire smouldered in the grate at Bryce’s feet.
    The slim wall safe was mounted inside the chimney breast, hidden behind a hinged replica of Aivazovsky’s ‘The Ninth Wave’ . Bryce had a fascination for seascapes, stemming from the sailing holidays of his youth and his all too brief flirtation with offshore racing during university. There was never any time for it now and he often missed it. He studied the painting for a moment, the castaways clinging to a broken mast, helpless as the sea threatened to engulf them; today, he thought he understood how those people felt. He punched a code into the safe’s keypad and the thick hatch swung open. Bryce turned around. Rana Hassani’s tiny figure stood in the study doorway.
    ‘The relocation programme is to be suspended?’
    Bryce shot a glance at Ella, who immediately moved to intercept the Deputy Communities Minister. ‘I’m afraid the Prime Minister can’t see you right now, Rana. If you would-’
    ‘Well?’ Hassani demanded, dodging Ella’s outstretched arm.
    Bryce retrieved the dossier and closed the safe door. ‘Where did you hear that?’
    ‘So, the rumours are true,’ she glowered.
    Bryce struggled to keep his own temper in check. ‘Rana, this is neither the time nor the place for this and, besides, you’re overstepping the mark here.’
    Saeed’s diminutive deputy stood her ground. ‘Prime Minister, with respect, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.’
    ‘Really?’ he bristled, waving the dossier in the air. ‘I think when you’ve heard the contents of this report you may reconsider that opinion. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’
    Hassani didn’t move. ‘I’d like two minutes of your time.’ She tilted her veiled head respectfully. ‘Please.’
    Bryce took a deep breath. ‘Fine,’ he relented, ‘two minutes.’
    Behind Hassani, Ella shook her head vigorously. Bryce ignored her as he took up position by the window. The sun had already set, the sky a palette of deepening blues, the few clouds to the west brushed with streaks of pink and red. He looked down, where the evening shadows invaded the garden. The lawn was immaculate, the flower beds still quite colourful despite nature’s autumnal assaults. He looked beyond the perimeter wall and over the black steel spikes towards St. James Park, where stubborn leaves clung to the trees, shivering in the evening breeze. Nearby, scattered groups of tourists gathered in small knots on Horseguards Parade. The historic square once heaved with tour parties, all flocking to London in their millions to visit