“I can talk to her,” I volunteer. “If that’s easier?”

“No, I’ll do it,” says Hannah, as I knew she would, because she’s like me—she does things for herself.

“Come here.” I pull her in for a hug. “I want you to relax. Both you and Tim. And you will.”

“What about you?” asks Hannah as we eventually draw apart. “I haven’t even asked about—”

“Oh, you know,” I cut her off hurriedly. “Nothing to see. All over.”

It’s nearly two weeks since that mortifying night at 6 Folds Place. I haven’t seen Jake or Leila since the morning after and I certainly haven’t heard anything from Ryan.

“Well, you know what I think,” says Hannah. And I nod because I do, and we’ve said it all, both of us.

—

I know Tim’s on his way home from work and I suspect Hannah wants to have a long talk with him, so I don’t stay for supper, even though she offers. As I step outside her front door, the air is so freezing, I gasp. It’s the coldest October on record and they’re talking about snow.

Greg loves it. He kept going outside today to survey the gray sky knowingly and using the word Snowpocalypse. I had to turn down suggestions from him that Farrs should stock balaclavas, sleds, and urine bottles (urine bottles?) from some activewear catalog that he adores.

“People are going to need this stuff,” he said about twenty times. “You wait.”

The more he pestered me, the firmer my resolve became: I am never, ever stocking a urine bottle. I don’t care if it is the Snowpocalypse. I don’t care if they were used on a genuine polar expedition, I don’t want to know.

(I must admit, I did wonder: What about girls? And I would have asked Greg, except he would have given me some frank and terrible answer which would have lodged in my brain forever.)

I walk briskly through the streets of Hammersmith and I’m nearing the tube station when I get an incoming call from Drew. I haven’t heard from him for a while.

“Drew!” I exclaim. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, thanks,” he says, sounding preoccupied. “Is Nicole with you, by any chance?”

“No,” I say in surprise.

“It’s just that I keep trying her phone, but she’s not picking up.”

“Oh,” I say warily. “Well, maybe her phone’s broken or something.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe.” Drew exhales and there’s a short silence. Quite an expensive silence, I can’t help thinking, what with him being in Abu Dhabi.

“Drew,” I venture, “is everything OK?”

“Well, not really,” says Drew heavily. “Here’s the thing. Nicole keeps saying she’ll come out and visit me here in Abu Dhabi. She promises she’ll get a flight. But then she doesn’t. Has she mentioned it to you at all?”

“No,” I admit. “But then, we don’t talk that much.”

“I know she’s really busy, being the face of Farrs and doing her yoga and all that,” he says. “And I respect that, Fixie, I do. I’m proud of her. But when I first came out here, we planned that she’d come over soon for a visit. Well, that was months ago!”

“Maybe she’s making plans I don’t know about,” I say evasively.

“Fair enough.” He sighs. “Well, sorry to bother you.”

He rings off and I walk for a while, my brow crinkled. Nicole’s never even mentioned going to Abu Dhabi. Which is pretty weird, now I think about it. Why wouldn’t she go and visit her own husband who she misses so much?

I’m just reminding myself that other people’s relationships are a mystery and there’s no point speculating about them, when my phone bleeps with a text. I look down, expecting it to be Hannah or maybe Drew again—but it’s from him. Seb. And it’s just one word:

Help.

Help?

I stare at it, disconcerted, then ring his number. It rings and rings and I’m expecting it to go to voicemail, but then suddenly his voice is in my ear.

“Oh, hello,” he says, sounding taken aback and kind of strained. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. D’you mind— I’m slightly in the middle of something—”

“Are you OK?” I say, a bit bewildered. “You 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 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—”