Chapter 13: I Woke Up and It was All a Dream

After the explosion, the gunfire started, just the other side of the wall. Immediately, everyone stood between me and the battle sounds, and someone pressed a button on the biggest sofa. It’s seat flipped sideways and up to reveal a chest of futuristic-looking guns, which were quickly and efficiently passed out. ‘Oh God,’ said Sir Trevor McDonald. ‘We’re probably all going to die.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ said David Mitchell the novelist. ‘He’s always really negative.’ To the others he said, ‘They’ll be past the autoguards very soon. Be ready.’ Freddie Flintoff and Davina Mccall took up position at the front. David Mitchell the novelist turned and said, ‘Get her home safely, Sir Conn. We must fight here.’

‘I’m just checking,’ I said. ‘But I’m not immortal, like you are? Is that right? Or am I?’

‘We don’t know,’ said David Mitchell the novelist simply. ‘And we cannot take that risk. Don’t worry about us. This is just a skirmish. They’ll break off when they see you aren’t here. Run.’

Sir Connaught Sampson-Samson, bon viveur and self-proclaimed lion of the law, was not famous for his quick feet, but he fair twinkled through the furniture. The lift plunged us down through Centrepoint, past the secret entrance in the cleaner’s cupboard in the underpass by Tottenham Court Road, and opened into a grubby office. Through the filthy window, I could see that we were off a corridor in Tottenham Court Road station proper, near the Central Line. ‘Oyster card?’ asked Sir Conn. ‘I nodded. ‘Sign in with it here,’ he said, indicating a reader by the office door, ‘since we have circumvented the ordinary entrance.’

‘Who uses this office?’

‘Just us. The sign on the door says Operational Systems. We make sure it’s occupied sometimes, and no one pays it any attention. Chop-chop.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Your house. It’ll be safe for the moment. The Master wants you alive.’

‘Why did you get me out of that fight then?’

‘Stray bullets.’

When we reached West Hampstead, I headed straight over the road to Oddbins. I had some wine at home, but I was pretty sure I’d run out of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food, and I would need some. It had been a long day. I asked Sir Conn if he wanted anything. ‘I’d better pootle off, old thing. There will be some clearing up.’

‘Were you really betrayed?’

He nodded ruefully. ‘Centrepoint’s been our main base since it was built. And now we must find somewhere else. Davina’s going to be livid. She’s just redone the kitchen and emergency sleeping area. Still. We have a back-up HQ prepared. You’ll see it soon, I’m sure.’ As we turned into Dynham Road, I saw the police car. I looked at Sir Conn. ‘You realised they’d be here, surely?’ he said. It was obvious, now I thought of it. Standing next to the car, beautiful in the early evening, was Sergeant Rollo Price.

‘Hello, Ems,’ he said, as if we saw each other every day, and as if nothing had happened. ‘Sir Connaught.’

‘Sergeant Price,’ said Sir Conn. I trust you will be able to look after her?’

‘Probably not as well as you, sir. Very nifty, how you gave us the slip, back at Tottenham Court Road.’

‘I don’t understand, officer?’

‘When you were driving, which you’re not now. Do you remember?’

‘I can’t honestly say that I do. But if you say it happened, then I’m sure it did. I can’t stand around here all day. Until tomorrow, Miss Park.’

‘It was interesting,’ said Rollo, raising his voice slightly, ‘that twenty minutes after you gave us the slip near Centrepoint, there was an explosion in that building, and sounds of gunfire. I’ve been listening to reports on the police radio.’

‘What an exciting life it is in London’s police force,’ said Sir Conn.’ I have always admired you for it, to be sure.’

‘Yes, and forty minutes later, which is probably how long it would take someone to get here from Tottenham Court Road, here you are.’

‘I honestly do not know what you are saying. I look forward to our next encounter.’ And with a tiny incline of his head, more respectful than mocking I thought, my illustrious Head of Chambers spun and was gone.

‘Tell me what’s going on,’ said Rollo. ‘I can help you.’

I wanted to, I really did, but I shook my head and went inside, clutching my Oddbins bag. As I climbed the stairs, I could feel myself starting to tremble. I had go this far on adrenalin, but my reserves were exhausted. I needed a shower, I needed a glass of red wine, and I would put some dressing on a bag of salad leaves before I ate my ice cream, because then I would be having a balanced diet.

In the shower, after being shocked for the manyth time that day by my stupid new short hair, I leant against the wall and washed the day away. David Tennant had killed my husband, who was a demon, and I had sat in a meeting of elves-slash-angels in a secret hideaway in central London, and it was all because, for some reason, I was the Chosen One. I turned up the heat until I was gasping, and forced myself to stand until I could bear it easily. At which point, I realised at last that the only logical explanation for any of this was that I had gone crazy, or that this was still a dream, like that series of Dallas when Bobby Ewing was dead. In fact, by the time I emerged and was drying myself, the logical puzzler at the forefront of my mind was this: IF I had gone crazy, THEN Sir Conn had brought me home and this meant bad things for me jobwise, BUT I probably did remember buying some ice cream, which would be waiting for me in the freezer, which was excellent; IF it was all a dream, THEN so was the ice cream, BUT I’d still be welcome at chambers. It was tricky. My hair was definitely short, for instance, so some of today had happened. There really might be Ben and Jerry’s. Best to check, certainly. I went to the kitchen.

‘Mary Sue Park,’ said a crisp voice, and I yelped with shock. ‘It was Miss Smallbone, who David Tennant said would explain everything. She was sitting at the table, frowning at me. ‘Why did you take so long to get here? Didn’t David tell you not to speak to anyone?’