I Owe You One(70)

“So why haven’t you called him?” I demand, sounding almost aggressive in my worry.

“I tried,” says Seb patiently. “Then I texted him, or so I thought. If I can’t get through to Fred, I have a lot of other willing colleagues and friends I can easily reach, if you could kindly get off the line—”

“Oh,” I say. “Yes. Of course. Sorry.”

But I don’t want to get off the line. I don’t feel happy about this. What if he can’t get through to Fred?

“You should dial 999,” I say.

“The 999 service is overstretched,” says Seb, his voice coming in little fits and jerks. “Don’t you read the papers? It’s for real emergencies. I’m not dying; I’m not having a baby; I’m not stuck up a tree. But I would quite like to get through to my assistant, so I’m going to ring off now. Bye.”

The line goes dead and I stare at my phone, my heart thumping and thoughts jostling in my head.

I mean, it’s his life.

And I’m sure he’s right: He’s got loads of friends who will pop straight round in their car, scoop him up, and take him to hospital. He’ll be on the phone by now. They’ll be getting in their car. It’ll all be fine.

Do not interfere, Fixie. Do not interfere.

I put my phone in my pocket, exhale loudly, walk three steps—then stop dead. My fingers are drumming against each other. Now my feet start pacing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back.

I can’t not do something, I can’t, I can’t.

Hurriedly, I find Google Maps, search the Horizon in Bermondsey—it turns out to be a cinema—and locate the alley Seb must be in. Hook Alley, that has to be it. Then I haul my phone out, dial 999, and wait to be connected. Just the act of dialing reminds me of when Mum collapsed, and I feel fresh shoots of anxiety.

“Hello,” I say, as soon as I hear an operator’s voice. “I need ambulance and police. The address is Hook Alley, Bermondsey. There’s an injured person and he needs help and he was mugged and … please hurry. Please.”

They keep me on the line for what seems like ages, asking me questions I can’t possibly answer. But at last they tell me to please keep this phone with me and that the services have been alerted. I ring off, then frantically flag down a taxi. I can’t risk the tube—no signal—and I need to get to Hook Alley.

As we set off, I call Seb’s number, but it goes straight to busy. What’s he busy doing? Being rescued?

Will he be furious that I called 999?

Well, I don’t care. Let him be furious.

It takes forty-five minutes to reach Bermondsey, and I sit tensely for the whole journey. As I scramble out at Hook Alley, I’m half expecting to see blue lights, but there’s no ambulance in sight. There’s crime tape, though, and a few people loitering about, gawking even despite the cold, plus a couple of police officers guarding the scene. As I try to get near, I feel a horrible dread looming.

“Hi,” I say to the nearest police officer, who seems engrossed in his walkie-talkie. “I made the call; it was me.…” My voice is disintegrating breathlessly, but for once it’s not because of Jake; it’s because of fear. “Is he OK?”

“Excuse me,” says the police officer, not seeming to hear me, and heads off to consult his partner. I’m desperate to clamber under the crime tape, but I’ve seen enough TV shows to know what happens if you do that. The scene gets contaminated and the court throws out the case, and there’s no justice, and grieving families yell at you.

So instead I stand there, almost hyperventilating, needing to know: Where is he? How is he? What happened?

Abruptly, I realize I’ve been muttering aloud, and a nearby man has heard me. He’s a broad gray-haired guy in a massive puffer jacket and seems to be standing there for no other reason except to watch.

“Beat him up, they did,” he says in an accent which reminds me so strongly of Dad, I feel a sudden visceral pang. “He was out like a light. Wheeled him off on a stretcher. I saw it.”

Tears of shock start to my eyes. Out like a light?

“But he was conscious!” I say. “I was talking to him! How could he— What happened?”

The man shrugs. “He had rubbish all over him too. They emptied a bin on him, I guess. They’re animals, they are. If I had my way they’d get what’s coming to ’em. Forget parole, for a start,” he adds, warming to his theme. “None of this nancy-boy treatment. Send ’em all on National Service, that’d sort ’em out—”

“Sorry,” I interrupt desperately. “Sorry. I just really need to know where they’ve taken him. Which hospital. Do you have any idea?”

The man’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t say anything but takes a few paces to the corner and swivels his head meaningfully. I follow him, then turn my own head—and find myself staring at the top of a building. Distinctive metal letters are illuminated against the evening sky and they read: THE NEW LONDON HOSPITAL.

Of course. I’m so stupid.

“Won’t have taken him nowhere else, will they?” says the man. “Emergency’s round the back. Don’t even try to get a cab,” he adds. “The one-way round here’s a shocker. Quicker to walk.”

“Thanks,” I gasp, already hurrying away. “Thanks so much. Thanks.”