And then, still holding onto my phone, I chuck the rest of the baby-bundle over the edge of the stairwell down to the concrete floor behind him.
His face in that moment is a mask of sheer terror. He’s a good copper, but he’s only human. He swivels like a cat trying to get to it. And I don’t wait to see his reaction when he finds out he’s just given himself a heart attack preventing a £45 jacket from Next getting slightly grubby, because I’m already running along the alley back to civilisation.
Out onto the street. Good. The more street, the more people, the better my chance of blending in. The Tube is a couple of hundred metres away. That’s my best option. I can’t stay on foot: I’m willing to bet the copper runs faster than me, once he’s recovered from the baby-shock. The traffic is gridlocked, and I don’t have the swagger to steal a motorbike and race off on it. Also, I can’t ride a motorbike. Tube it is.
Through the crowds, keeping my head forward (looking back will just give him something to lock onto). Oxford Circus is its usual lovely self. There’s a scruffy street preacher explaining through a low-quality tannoy that we’re all saved already – good news, I guess, although I personally would have shaved if I had such glad tidings to impart – and about a thousand shoppers milling around.
Down the first stairs, jump half the second flight, vault the barrier – no time for the Oyster card here, and the staff aren’t legally allowed to chase you any more – and onto the left escalator. I risk a look back. There’s a bit of a kerfuffle at the barrier. Shit. He’s still after me. Where to go? Wherever gets me above ground soonest. No, forget that. Wherever will shake this guy off most effectively. Which train is coming first?
I spent a few miserable evenings hanging around in Oxford Circus for warmth eight years ago, and I know the station quite well. There’s a passage linking the left-hand tunnels – heading to the northbound Victoria and Bakerloo platforms – where you can jerk through to the right-hand ones, heading southbound. But even better, you can run through from left to right, then double back on yourself and head along the narrow pipeline leading to the Central Line. And once you’re down there, you can peg it along the platform and loop back if you need to.
So that’s what I do. Down, dodge right, double back, and through, until the Central Line opens up and,brilliant, I smell the warm sewer breath of an approaching train. I keep going towards the other end of the platform as it comes in, then risk a look.
Unbelievable. He’s about four carriages behind, and he’s got his eyes on me. It’s not crowded enough to lose him. And if he gets on the train, he can make his way through the carriages between this stop and the next one, and by the time we’re at Tottenham Court Road I’ll be his.
The doors open. I dive onto the train, and from a corner bythe doors I can just see him heading up the platform, trying to get as close to me as he can before they close.
Now he’s on, at the other end of the carriage from me, and starting down the first section. Wait for it … wait for it …
The doors start beeping, and I throw myself at them before they close.
He buys it. He dives off the train, just as I grab the rail above me and almost dislocate my shoulder hauling myself backwards. He’s on the platform, skidding towards the wall like a cartoon character. I’m still on. The doors close. And by the time he’s stopped and turned back towards me, the train is moving.
We’re still separated, but he’s running alongside the train, pulling something out. As he gets closer to me, he holds it up; a camera phone. I don’t have time to turn away before he’s got a shot, and then he’s pulling up, because we’re plunging into the tunnel.Great. Now he’s got a decent picture of me.
I slump back against the carriage door, and look around for the first time. I’m getting a lot of weird looks, and someone is wailing. Am I covered in blood or something? Did I hurt myself?
It takes me about thirty seconds to realise my phone is still playing the screaming noise, and switch it off.
I wonder what’s happened to Em.
21
I don’t know much about CCTV, but I expect every station has it. Or every carriage? Either way, I feel distinctly observed. I get off at the next stop, then spend an hour or so walking the quietest streets I can find. I cross a few parks, which are great for shaking cameras, and head into a couple of department stores I know, which will a) sell me clothes to change into, and which b) have more than one exit, also handy. (If your local department store is closing down, fight to keep it open. Think of the fugitives.)
I can’t help noticing I’m running short on cash, though. The wedge I took out a few days ago is crumbling. At least I didn’t pay at the restaurant.
After two and a half hours of walking, I’m back at BalfourVillas. It’s an unhappy Al who trudges through the decaying front garden and up the steps.
Elle answers at my knock, and looks worried sick.
‘Oh, at last. How did it go?’
‘Poorly.’ I walk past her into the hall, and she shuts the door behind me.
‘Wait. Where’s Em?’
I turn. ‘She’s not back yet?’
Elle shakes her head.
You see, this is why you shouldn’t get involved with people. The sheer terror when they don’t show up is more trouble than it’s worth.
We’ve made about twelve cups of tea since I got back, and watched them cool, and then Elle has thrown away the old teas and asked if anyone would like a new one, and Jonny’s forcibly sat her down and gone and made new ones for us all to sit and watch cool. Nobody’s eaten anything.
It’s close to 8 p.m. now. Elle and Jonny had already waited three hours when I got back – initially in the café, then they realised something must have gone awry and came home to Balfour Villas. Elle’s spent the rest of the day obsessively sorting the house out as a displacement activity, and Jonny has been re-categorising and listing every house in Davy’s ledger. The weather has turned grim. I hope Em’s not out in it.
As for me, I’m wondering how we could have been so stupidas just to turn up somewhere again. It worked for days in a row – just turning up at Davy’s office, at Guggy’s boutique, to see Lulu – but our luck was bound to run out eventually.
