Page 44 of Going Solo

“You think this is a time for jokes, babes?”

“It’s always a time for jokes.”

“Oh sure, when the garbage lorry hit your bike, were you laughing then?”

He stared at me, blinking.

“Steady on, Ricky Gervais.”

“Sorry, babes. I’m a bit stressed, to be fair.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “No, Tobias, I didn’t laugh when the bin lorry shattered my spine. But thatwasthe day I learned the value of laughter in shitty situations.”

“Sorry, I don’t feel like laughing right now. I’m going to have to run the gauntlet with half of Britain’s gutter press. They’ll have mopeds, you know. Even if we get into a cab, they’ll only follow us to Miss Timmy’s and camp out there. There’s literally no escape.”

“There literally is.”

“There isn’t.”

“Take the fire exit. It opens right out onto Charing Cross Road. You’ll be on the far side of the building, and you can disappear into the crowd and weave your way up to Old Compton Street. Easy.”

“What if they have someone posted on the back door?”

“They’re not the Tactical Response Group, Tobes. Besides, you can’t even tell it’s a door to our building. You can barely tell it’s a door. It’s mostly a shelter for rough sleepers and a pitch for that terrible busker who only plays one song.”

He had a point. “What about you? No man left behind and all that.”

“I’ll only slow you down,” he said. “In the sense that you’ll have to carry me down the stairs. And it’s all uphill to Soho. And I don’t fancy it. No, you go out the back and I’ll go out the front and distract them.”

“With what, babes? A puppet show?”

“I’ll tell them you’ll be down in ten minutes and you’ll make a short statement. By the time they’ve worked out it’s a ruse, you’ll already be tucked up in Miss Timmy’s, sticking a fork into a fat slice of Occasion Cake.”

It was so cunning it might work. Nick ordered himself an accessible taxi. We waited until his phone pinged to say his driver was two minutes away; then he got back into the lift to face the media scrum, and I made my way down the fire stairs. As I circled down the floors, I wondered how the hell Nick would get out of the building in the event of a fire. He’d probably insist on a fireman’s lift from Denzil. He’d have to fight me for it.

When I reached the fire escape door, my heart was thumping like it was attending an underground rave. I rested one hand on the door, putting my ear against it, as if I might be able to hear a photographer lurking on the other side. A deep breath to summon my courage, and I pressed the escape bar.

Pandemonium!

The fire alarm screeched through the building, into Leicester Square and beyond. I dashed out in the street in a panic and slammed into the back of a busker, sending him flying forwards into the road.

“Shit! Sorry, mate!”

“Dude!” he said.

I didn’t even look at the guy. I was too busy scanning the street for photographers and reporters. The coast was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. The press would have known what was up immediately. They’d have taken one look at Nick’s face when the alarm went off and hightailed it around the back of the building.

“You could have killed me,” the busker said, holding his guitar protectively. “That’s a busy road.”

“I’m sorry! I have to go.”

I made to run, but he grabbed my sleeve. It was so sudden and unexpected, it swung me around, making me lose my feet. My head whacked into the bins, and I landed awkwardly on the ground. Pain shot through my knee. My palms were grazed and already starting to sting. I was losing precious seconds.

“I could have been hit by a red bus, mate.”

I rocked back, holding my knee, finding something soft to lean against—a rough sleeper’s stashed sleeping bag. I looked up at the busker and apologised again. I peered around the bins and up the street.

“Shit.”

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