Knife Edge

6.28 P.M.

Doyle felt as if his lungs were going to burst.

He was running with his mouth open, sucking in huge breaths which seemed to sear his throat as he gulped them down.

Even Lisa was breathing heavily and he was carrying her.

The child had been light, as he'd expected, but running down Tottenham Court Road and then Charing Cross Road clutching her like some kind of oversized doll was proving too much.

Sweat was coursing down his face and he could feel his T-shirt sticking to his back.

His heart was thumping so hard against his ribs he feared it might bruise.

And for the entire journey he was met with curious glances from those he passed. Some even stopped and looked at him, watching him as he sprinted down the thoroughfare clutching the child.

Some assumed it was his daughter.

One or two entertained darker thoughts.

A middle-aged man leaving Foyles with a bagful of books saw Doyle running with Lisa and wondered whether or not to phone the police.

Was this an abduction?

He watched as the leather-jacketed man ran on through the crowds, his mind turning one way then the other like some kind of revolving door.

When Doyle disappeared into a crowd outside the Marquee, the man walked on but the vision remained in his mind.

The unshaven, long-haired man, his face sheathed in perspiration, bumping uncaringly past pedestrians while he held tightly to the little girl, who looked pale and tired and who clung to the man's shoulders almost reluctantly.

Doyle saw the flashing blue lights as he passed the Marquee.

The ambulance was parked on the corner of Old Compton Street, lights turning silently.

A crowd had gathered, five deep in places, around the emergency vehicle.

Doyle glanced into the road and saw the twisted frame of a racing bike lying against the kerb.

There was some broken glass.

Some blood.

The car which had hit the cyclist was standing immobile a few yards from the junction, the driver leaning against his vehicle, head bowed. The policemen were talking to the man, one offering a comforting hand on the shoulder.

The cyclist was lying still on the road, ambulancemen gathered around him.

Only his legs were visible, the skin having been ripped from his knees and calves. One leg was twisted beneath him and Doyle could see something white protruding from the mass of crimson which covered his shins.

He guessed that the car must have run over the unfortunate cyclist's legs but, right now, all that concerned him was that the road was blocked.

The road was blocked. The pavement was clogged with morbid fuckers trying to get a look at the victim.

Doyle had to get around this diversion.

He hurried across the road, Lisa now gazing across at the crowd, who reminded Doyle of carrion birds, waiting around for anything interesting. Waiting to pick over the road-kill.

Maybe a bomb in amongst those rubber-necking bastards wouldn't be a bad idea.

He tried to suck in more stale air but couldn't. He put Lisa down and stood still for a second, head spinning, hair plastered to the back of his neck. He coughed, hawked and propelled a lump of mucus on to the pavement.

Lisa looked at him as if he'd just breathed fire.

'Come on,' Doyle said breathlessly, grabbing her hand. 'Show me how fast you can run.'

She managed a smile and they set off, her little legs keeping pace with his longer ones.

They were practically at Cambridge Circus. He could see the phone boxes across the road but the traffic coming from their right was swift and heavy.

Doyle stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for a gap in the endless stream of vehicles.

He managed a glance at his watch.

'Come on, for Christ's sake,' he whispered anxiously, the breath catching in his throat.

Time was almost up.

He coughed again.

The lights at the Circus were changing.

Amber.

He picked Lisa up once more.

Red.

Doyle ran across the road with as much speed as he could muster, put Lisa down and headed straight for the phones.

There were three of them.

One was already ringing.

Had it just started?

And ringing.

He reached the first one and picked it up.

Dead line.

The ringing continued.

How many fucking rings is that?

He snatched at the second.

'Doyle,' he gasped into it but then realised that there was only buzzing at the other end.

Then the ringing stopped.

'Oh Christ!' he gasped, slumping against the phone box.

The third phone rang.

Doyle grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

'Neville, listen to me,' he panted.

'Five rings, Doyle,' Neville said. 'I said five.'

'You were early,' Doyle rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'No. You were late. Firework time.'

'No, Neville, you bastard, don't-' Doyle bellowed into the handset.

The line was dead.