texted me Help.”
“I texted you?” He curses. “I’m so sorry. I meant to text my assistant, Fred. Must have pressed the wrong number. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“Of course not,” I say, my brow creasing. “Of course you haven’t.” But I feel a bit perplexed. Why would he text his assistant Help? “Are you sure you’re OK?” I add impulsively.
“I’ve…I’ve been better,” says Seb after a pause, and now he sounds breathless. “Been attacked, actually. My fault for cutting behind the Horizon. It’s always been a dodgy alley.”
“Attacked?” I nearly drop my phone in horror. “Are you— What happened?”
“It’s really nothing,” he says at once. “Some guys decided they wanted my wallet, that’s all. Only I seem to have done in my ankle, and I can’t move and I’m a bit out of the way here. Thankfully they were too repelled by my ancient phone to take that.”
He’s lying in an alley and he’s been mugged and he’s making jokes about his phone. I half want to smile and half want to yell, “Take this seriously!”
“Have you dialed 999?” I ask. “What have you done?”
“Dialed 999?” Seb sounds horrified at the idea. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I just need to get to a hospital. Fred will come and pick me up; he lives in Southwark. It’s two minutes from Bermondsey. That’s where I am,” he adds as an afterthought.
“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 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.