“I don’tknow.”
“Can you call her and findout?”
Dylan offered the man the phone and, for a split second, thought he’d take it, but then something changed in the man?—something snapped?—and the phone was kicked out of Dylan’shands.
It sailed sideways and hit the wall, fracturing into three pieces. The man bellowed like an angry bull, then set about destroying the room while Dylan cowered in the corner. A chair flew past his head, scraping his knuckles, and the desk splintered as the man kicked and stamped at anything that crossed his path. The machete zipped through the air, slashing at the noticeboards, and Dylan covered his head with arms, waiting for the blade to bite into hisflesh.
“I’m done with this,” the man shouted. “Someone’s gottapay.”
Chapter Fifteen
Police cars zoomedpast Angelo one after another?—three, four, five, six. And then vans too, three of them. He sat up on the bench he’d crashed on when he’d got Dylan’s message, unease prickling his sensitive skin. Police activity wasn’t unusual in the city, but as a string of ambulances followed the police vehicles, something?—everything?—feltoff.
He stood, adrenaline fizzing in his veins, and tracked the vehicles as they disappeared into the distance. Stratford wasn’t as familiar to him as Romford, but the blue lights were heading in the same direction as Angelo had been when Dylan’s text had stopped him in his tracks, and as far as Angelo knew, there was nothing at the end of that road but a kebab shop and a disusedpub.
His phone buzzed.Dylan. He ripped the phone out of his pocket, but the message was from Harry, confirming an appointment for the following week. Angelo swiped it away and opened WhatsApp, clicking on the ever-growing chat thread between him and Dylan. The reply he’d sent to Dylan’s last message remained unread, and Dylan hadn’t been online since he’d told Angelo he’d been delayed. The rational part of Angelo’s brain told him that Dylan was simply with a client, but a monster of panic dug in the other part, seizing control of Angelo’s imagination. He’d only ever seen that many police cars before when the Tube had been bombed a decade ago, but the world had changed since then. Bad shit happened all the time, especially in London.Whatif?—
No. Angelo shook his head to clear it, almost laughing at himself, though the knot in his chest made that impossible. Since when had he been a fucking drama queen? Why would he bother when life kicked him in the tits regardless?Dylan’s fine. But even as he thought it, the nerve-jumping anxiety having a party in his gut rebelled.He needsme.
The realisation hit Angelo like a truck and made no more sense than the cold sweat beading on his tingling skin, but his soul knew it wastrue.
Running hurt Angelo’s knees, his hips, and his back, but he barely felt the pain as he tore down the street, chasing the sirens still wailing in the distance. He dodged commuters heading for home and early evening drinkers already stumbling outside the bars. Ahead, flickering bursts of blue light lit up the evening sky, and Angelo’s heart dropped as the police cordon came into view. A wall of emergency vehicles was blocking the road that Dylan’s office was on?—nothing and no one was getting through. And no one wanted to, if the crowds of people running away from the area were anything to goby.
Angelo crashed into a woman as a million catastrophic scenarios flashed through his panicked brain. He grabbed her arms, and somehow they both stayed upright. “What’s going on? Why have they closed theroad?”
“Terrorists,” the woman hissed. “Probably those dirty Muslimsagain.”
Angelo didn’t have time to challenge the blatant racism. He let the woman go and tore past her, elbowing his way upstream until a policeman caught his arms and lifted him clean off the ground, propelling him five paces back before he set himdown.
“Can’t go down there, mate,” the policeman said. “Road’sclosed.”
“Why?” Angelo forced himself not to fight the policeman’s hold. “What’shappened?”
“An incident. We need to clear the area, so go back to the train station and goaround.”
“I can’t go around. My friend’s inthere.”
“Inwhere?”
“The Citizens Adviceoffice.”
Something flickered in the policeman’s eyes and chilled Angelo to the bone. “What’s your friend’sname?”
“Dylan.”
“Dylanwhat?”
Angelo’s mind went blank. He’d seen Dylan’s surname on the neat stack of post he kept in his kitchen by the kettle, heard it when he’d met his father, but as hard as he tried, couldn’t recall it. He shook his head. “I can’tremember.”
“Can’t be that good a friend then,” the policeman snapped. “Head back to the station and goaround.”
“No?—you don’t understand. I can’t remember because there’s something wrong with me, not because I don’t knowit.”
The policeman hauled Angelo to one side, impatient scepticism deepening his frown. “Look, mate, there’s some serious shit going on here. I ain’t got time for anynonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. I?—?” Angelo’s words stuck in his throat. Brain fog short-circuited his ability to string a sentence together and he fumbled desperately for his wallet. The shiny plastic card the ME nurse at the clinic had given him that morning was at the front. He pried it out and passed it to the policeman. “I can’t get my shit together to explain myself, but I’m not wasting your time. My friend Dylan works in the Citizens Advice Bureau?—he’s a debt advisor there?—and I need to know if he’sokay.”
The policeman took the card and studied it, his expression as impassive as his impatience would allow. “How well do you know yourfriend?”
