Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936

An erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he could go from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow." Canon? What canon? ;)

32. Chapter Thrity-two

Chapter Thrity-two: "When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time." ~ Maya Angelou

My nerves are still jangling when I board the tube for the trip back toward Whitechapel. At least the coach isn't so crowded now with warm bodies swarming home; I'm able to find a corner to slump in, and a wall to lean my shoulder against, obsessively replaying that text conversation with Mycroft over and over again in my head.

Mycroft thinks I stole the code book to sell it.

He thinks I'm being "childish" and "foolish" for not meekly bowing my head and giving myself up.

Every time I think about it I get more angry. Where does he get off scolding me like I'm an infant? Does he really think he can manipulate me with his disapproval like that?

Well, I've got an update for you, Mr. Holmes; your approval currently means bugger all to me. I've seen how two-faced you are, and I'm done with believing a single word you say.

The angry imaginary conversations with Mycroft go on and on and on. By the time I finally get to my stop, it's almost dark as well. Trudging up from the tube station, I'm met by a gust of wind and a sluice of icy rain. Great. Perfect. Slogging through the wet back to Barry's place, I really wish I had an umbrella and proper boots, except that it wouldn't be in keeping with my disguise. You don't often see blokes like what I'm trying to impersonate using a brolly; they're too cool. I pull my hoodie around me and try to look too cool to care that I'm getting soaked to the skin.

After what happened with those two punks earlier today, I'm not looking forward to navigating the streets in this neighbourhood again in the dark, but maybe the rain will keep the thugs indoors. I stop in at a tiny, dirty convenience store to pick up some milk for my tea, and then head for that manky alley as briskly and purposefully as I can.

Once more, I manage it without getting accosted or harassed, breathing a sigh of relief once I'm back in Barry's flat and the door secured behind me. The first thing I do is put the kettle on, then strip out of my dripping clothes and spread them out to dry.

I have to admit, despite my mistakes that today was a successful first foray. At least I didn't get caught! Although every time I go out increases the chances that I will. At some point, some camera is going to capture enough of my face at the right angle...

I curl up with a comforting mug of milky tea and a heartfelt sigh. Even though I feel much more together than I did this morning, there's still a constant, low buzz of anxiety as background to every thought; that's probably a good thing, anxiety is adaptive, but I can't keep up living in red-alert mode forever. It's exhausting.

Cradling the warm mug in both hands, I'm suddenly aware of how weary I really am. I want my sister. I want to go see Sara in the worst way: I want to take a hot bath in her tiny bathtub and curl up on her tatty sofa with Pablo purring in my lap and tell her all about everything and have her be properly shocked and impressed and worried for me. I don't want to be doing this alone anymore.

But I can't go to her. In that bloody video, Mycroft alluded to "a family connection" that could be used to control me, and that can only mean Sara. I don't think he will try to use my sister as leverage against me as long as I'm giving over the book willingly –– but involving her at all, in anything, might put her on his "to terminate" list. The best thing I can do for her right now is stay away.

I hope to god that Mycroft has McCutcheon brought in for questioning, not least because that will remove that nasty little bastard as a threat. That still leaves Lena and god knows who else at large –– and I can't forget that Doreshchenko wants that book almost as much as McCutcheon does –– but honestly, I'm more scared of McCutcheon than any of them right now.

Rationally, I should be more scared of Mycroft, but I'm mostly just furious with that arrogant, lying, patronising, manipulative git. I glare over at the painting of the gannet flying underwater, struck once again by its odd, predatory grace even as I feel sorry for the hapless fish. Nasty bird.

Is it reasonable, though, to be so angry at something for merely being what it is? I knew what Mycroft was, right from the start: a power-broker, a predator. He's not evil, but he's not at all nice, either –– even though he can act nice when it suits him.

It just hurts so much that he acted like I mattered when he didn't really mean it! But...there it is again: Isn't it a bit silly to be offended by a chameleon changing its skin? Isn't deception the very essence of what a chameleon is? It's just... I don't want him to be like that. Not to me, anyway.

Now, isn't that interesting? Not to me. I don't have a problem with his amorality, I just want him to be different when it comes to me. I want to be the exception. Hm. So, if I were to be brutally honest, what I'm really upset about is that Mycroft isn't living up to my expectations. Basically, I want him to be a completely different person from who he actually is, and I'm absolutely furious that he's not.

That's a stupid waste of time and energy, staying angry at someone for being just exactly what they are. Anger can be useful if it's channelled to create change... but even if Mycroft could or would change––and that's a very big if–– I doubt very much that I would be the agent of it. Being angry at him is pointless; it's probably just me trying to hold onto being attached to him, even in a negative way. I need to let go.

Well, easier said than done. I tip back the rest of my tea before it gets too cold, and go to bed. I need to get as much sleep as I can to be ready for tomorrow.

Unfortunately, red-alert mode is not exactly conducive to a good night's sleep. I toss and turn, thinking and fretting, and wake up far too early, although I feel a lot better after a hot shower and a warmed-up tin of beans. Still no plan as such, except to contact Mycroft again today and try to get something arranged about getting that bloody book back to him. I'm desperately impatient to get it over with!

I get ready to go out again as quickly as I can, feeling a weird sense of unreality when I look at myself in the mirror as I'm getting dressed; who the hell am I now, anyway? I don't know an Angelica with short hair who dresses like a bloke.

Except, I suppose I do now. I carefully arrange my shock of orange hair to hang properly over my eyes, and then bandage my breasts tightly, as a final touch hunting up a safety pin to keep my rolled-sock "package" from shifting around in my knickers again. That was bloody embarrassing yesterday, I need to do better.

It's still pretty early in the morning when I hit the pavements, and the rain has settled into a fine, constant drizzle. I flip up my hood and finger the buttons on the phone in my pocket; I'm impatient to text Mycroft and get on with it, but I don't dare just yet, not so close to my bolt-hole.

Wanting to keep it mixed up, this time I hop buses going to the west end; somewhere around Wembley I reckon I've gone far enough away from Whitechapel to be safe. I'm also totally sick and tired of sitting on the bloody bus.

It's still wet and grey, so I grab a little table and a cheap cup of coffee in a shabby cafe instead of finding a park bench like I normally would. As I'm settling in, I realise that I am not anywhere near as overwrought as I was yesterday about contacting Mycroft; I feel a hard, keen edge of determination to protect myself, and a whole lot of distrust, but I'm not quaking with suppressed fury any more. That's quite an improvement.

I turn on my phone, settling my fingers over the buttons and thinking about what to text; as usual, I'm not terribly brilliant:

Hey

What else to add? He'll know from the number that it's me. I send it and wait, sipping my hot, watery coffee and watching the other patrons. It's a Thursday morning, and most of the people taking breakfast here seem to be either students or on the dole. I fit right in, and nobody really gives me a second look. It's not exactly quiet, but the buzz of conversation and kitchen-noise doesn't matter for texting. I drum my fingers on the table, wishing I could have a smoke in here. Bloody do-gooder laws.

I'm almost ready to go out into the wet to be able to light up a cig when my mobile gives a weak jiggle and starts making an odd sound; apparently like Mycroft is ringing me instead of texting. Well, forget that. I hit the 'ignore' button and wait. Eventually, I get a text:

Angel. Answer your phone. I need to speak with you immediately. MH

I bet you do, Mycroft, I think as I tap: We can talk like this for now

This is unsatisfactory. MH

I know

And I don't give a shit, mate. There's an extended pause, long enough that it makes me a little nervous. How long would it take to trace my signal and triangulate my position? Everything I've read indicates that it takes many minutes of tower connection for a reliable fix to be established, and even then it's only a general positioning. I fervently hope my sources are right.

Finally he replies: I have been in communication with McCutcheon. Despite your actions, I am prepared to be quite lenient if you will come in and surrender yourself and the book. Partial amnesty is not out of the question. MH

What the fuck? My new-found calm goes out the window: Bugger ur amnesty! Mccutcheon was going to frame me for the break in and take the book whether or not i cooperated so i took it to keep it away from him. I kept it safe when ur own people couldnt and IM GOING TO GIVE IT BACK i didnt do anything wrong or at least i did it for the right reasons. Doesnt that count?

It takes for-bloody-ever to tap out that text on my wretched little phone, even longer because I'm so upset. I'd assumed that Mycroft would use some kind of drug or something to make sure that McCutcheon told him the truth, but maybe not. Maybe they just had a cozy little chat over tea and scones.

McCutcheon's account differs from yours. Considerably. MH

HE IS LYING!

Under the circumstances, I am afraid that is impossible. MH

He is CIA he could be fooling you. I have a horrid thought. Did he tell u about the videos he showed me of u?

No. MH

That slimy son of a bitch McCutcheon! He probably concocted a story that I was working with him voluntarily, that he and I were in it together. Bloody hell. I didn't think he'd pass up a chance to rub salt in Mycroft's wounds, but I guess I was wrong.

That proves hes lying! He showed me things to try and scare me into working for him

Is this why you refuse to come in? MH

Yes

That is utterly foolish. No harm will come to you. MH

No harm unless termination proves necessary isnt that right?

When I send that message, I stab the green button so hard my fingertip hurts: Take that, you bastard! As an afterthought, I follow with another text: Disposable people like me have to be careful

There's a long pause, and I get myself another bad coffee just to have something to do.

Finally, he texts me back: Clearly I need to speak further with Agent McCutcheon. MH

What a grand idea. Wish i had thought of that

He ignores the sarcasm. There remains the issue of the book. It must be returned immediately, this is of vital importance. I will arrange a rendezvous for this afternoon, please stand by for instructions. MH

No I send immediately. Fuck that, I'm not walking into a trap. No rendezvous i just want to leave it someplace and text u the location

Very inadvisable. I can only clear your name if the book is recovered in a manner that proves you returned it yourself, voluntarily. MH

Truth, or another manipulation? It actually makes sense, that there would have to be proof that I handed it over willingly. But, will he actually clear my name, or just dispose of me as a potential threat anyway? I decide that the prospect of not living the rest of my life as a fugitive is worth taking a calculated risk.

Okay but i will text u tomorrow with time and place i choose for rendezvous

I send that, then immediately send Later and turn off the phone without waiting for an answer. Damn it! Damn it all to hell. Now Mycroft is totally convinced that I'm a traitorous bitch, all because of fucking McCutcheon and his lies. I'd throw the bloody mobile across the room, but I can't afford to replace it.

Furiously biting at a jagged thumbnail, I pull my damp hood up over my head to try and shut out the noisy buzz of the little cafe. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I can't let Mycroft choose the rendezvous point, it's bloody certain to be a trap. I need a plan, I need someplace where I can be in control of the situation. The opposite of a trap, something that would allow me to go in and escape...

An idea blossoms in my head, although I'm none too keen on it. I swore I'd never go back there, and I'm not even sure of what I'll find if I do –– but it's not like I have a whole lot of other options. It's worth a punt to go and have a look, I guess. Bracing myself against the cold summer drizzle, I go out to wait for yet another bus to take me on yet another long ride, this time to the northern outskirts of the city.

I haven't been back to this district since...since I don't know when. Yes, well, I actually do know when; since Daddy died. Since Sara and I cleared out the sad little terraced house on the sad little suburban street and went our separate ways for a time. There hadn't been any reason to go back since: The area around Edgware isn't exactly a happening place, it's just a smug little suburb with country clubs and golf courses and fields all around. The whole borough of Barnet is at the line where the city starts to shade into countryside, and there's often more grass than pavement.

It makes for nice scenery; I gaze out at the swaths of green as the bus rumbles along. I remember how much of a fuss Auntie made over Daddy moving up here when he was reassigned from Croyden after his injury; she was giddy about how much better it would be for us. She seemed convinced that moving to the north side meant better schools, better neighbours, a better life –– so she could hand Sara and me back over to him without feeling guilty. We didn't know how ill she was at the time. She wasn't the type to talk about it.

I get off at the stop near our old neighbourhood in Colindale, but I don't see any point in going around to look at the house; if you've seen one tedious block of bog-standard brick row housing, you've seen them all. Even when I lived there I couldn't always tell which was ours. Anyway, it doesn't really matter; where I want to go is a fast ten-minute walk away, toward a busy junction on the A5.

I kick through the streets quickly, head tucked down against the constant spit of rain and feeling an odd anticipation, like I'm hurrying to meet an old friend I haven't seen in a while.

When I get to the junction, though, I'm taken aback at how much the area has changed; there's a huge Asda supermarket on one corner now, and several other new buildings as well. I start to get nervous; I hadn't counted on time marching on. Maybe this wasn't worth a punt after all.

But to my relief, there it is, still derelict behind the tall fence and rusting padlocked gate and weathered "Danger! No Admittance!" signs all around: My teenage refuge.

Peering though the jungle of shrubs that have grown against the fencing, I can see that the abandoned factory hasn't yet collapsed in ruins, a good sign. Very little has changed. Well, the shrubs are larger by a few years, and the concrete facing on the one side of the building looks like it's spalled into the rubble, leaving the brick underneath exposed. And the tarmac of the car park is much more buckled and broken by the irresistible push of tree roots and time.

I never knew what sort of manufacturing went on in this place; I never could figure it out. I even looked it up once on the old council maps; the clearest of them labelled this as only "(indecipherable-squiggly-mark) Works." It had been one of several factories on this site serviced by a central steam generating plant. The only things remaining of the works are this derelict factory, and, fifty feet away, what looks like a big heap of brick rubble with a crumbled chimney jutting from it. All the other factories and warehouses were knocked down decades ago, replaced by the rows and rows of ticky-tacky semi-detached houses surrounding this little island of industrial blight.

Whatever it was that this particular works produced, it had been cause for the owners to be paranoid about security; the windows on all floors are heavily barred, rusted iron solidly caging every one of them. All the heavy doors into the place are locked and bolted as well: The old building hulks like a sullen fortress amidst the weeds and rubble

I go round from the main gate toward the back of the works, where a dense copse of trees leans against the fence and rambles down to the lane below. I push through the heavy growth, feeling a tingle of anticipation when I find my secret door still there; it took the better part of a Sunday afternoon to roughly hacksaw an opening in that fence, and I had done it such that, unless you knew what you were looking for, you could look right at it and not really see. The thick, jaggedly-cut wires scrape rust against my jeans as I slip through, springing back into place after I pass.

When I first discovered this place and got through the fence, I had tried and tried to get into the factory itself without success. Even though there were plenty of windows, they were all covered by the heavy iron grillwork, impregnable –– but there is always a chink to be found in every armour, a weakness in any defence, no matter how insignificant. That factory was locked up like a virgin in a chastity belt when they closed it down, but there was one little thing that they forgot.

I scramble up the brick rubble just inside the fence, over it to the side where three walls and a partial roof are all that remain of a second building. As an idle, angry young stranger in a strange land, I had spent hours poking around here, eventually realising that this huge heap of rubble was, in fact, the remains of the steam generating plant. One wall had fully collapsed, but the rest of it was still of a piece, crammed with rusting and incomprehensible bits of machinery and tanks and pipes. The fact that exploring it was obviously somewhat dangerous had only made it more intriguing!

I hadn't been expecting to find the tunnels, but when you think about it, it makes sense. The steam had to be carried all over the entire complex, and steam pipes had to have constant maintenance; back in the 1930's when this was built, the usual method was to dig rough man-size tunnels to run the pipes through. Three of the four tunnels end in cave-ins now, as those went to buildings now long-demolished, but the fourth runs the full fifty feet over to the locked-up factory. My factory.

The tunnel is still as creepy and pitch-black as I remember, with dark ooze rolling down the crumbling brick walls and the floor, splashing dank mud on my trainers. I crouch slightly to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling and fiercely wish for a proper torch like I used to always have with me. All I have in my rucksack at the moment is my cigarette lighter, but the tiny flame is better than nothing.

The door at the other end of the tunnel is an ordinary, narrow interior door, like you would find on a broom cupboard. There's no lock, and it creaks open easily at my touch.

I'm in the small basement now, moving forward carefully in the tiny bubble of light around my lighter. The metal parts of it are almost burning my thumb, and I know I'm wasting butane, so I don't waste time; I hurry up the gritty stairs that lead to the main floor of the factory, stepping through the heavy fire-doors into sudden, glaring daylight.

The main floor is a wide-open space lit by the glow of sunlight filtering through tall, barred windows. All the machinery was taken out when they moth-balled the place, leaving only mysterious anchorings and broken control boxes dangling. Two narrow stairs lead to the second floor gallery, lined with observation windows and several offices.

There's very little in the way of pigeon droppings in here, unlike some urban relics that become positively carpeted in the stuff; I think that the barred windows have prevented most of the glass getting broken, and the bigger birds have no easy access, although a few tiny sparrows flutter from one perch to another across the rust-streaked ceiling supports.

I can't resist taking some time for just wandering around, and remembering: Here in this upstairs office by the window, I read Neruda for the first time in translation, and decided I simply had to learn to read Spanish; here's where I stayed the weekend when I decided I should run away, except that Daddy didn't notice I was gone. Mouldering over there is the cot mattress I dragged up those narrow stairs, thinking that I might lose my virginity to my crush Danny up here –– but I chickened out. Not on seducing Danny –– I did that in the back of his cousin's van –– but on bringing him here. I could never bring myself to tell anyone else about this place, my sanctuary. Not even Sara knew about it.

Well, maybe it's time for lots of things that I never would have considered doing before.

Sighing, I run my fingers through my thick fringe, combing out cobwebs and dust. I hate the thought of bringing people here, but there's no place I'll have better advantage; this was my home turf once upon a time –– this, and the surrounding district. The footpaths and bike trails, the games fields and the golf courses... I roamed at will here for all my years of secondary school.

My plan seems a good one, like it could work. I walk it once, run it a few times, envisioning where I would be, where Mycroft and/or his people would probably be... It could work. It will have to work. I'll make it work.

I raise the little field glasses up to my eyes again, and twirl the focus wheel. They aren't the best, but they serve the purpose; birder Barry likely took his good ones with him on holiday, and I should just be grateful that these were left behind for me to find.

My target fuzzes out, then jumps back into sharp view again. I risk moving a little so I can draw up my knees under my elbows and steady the glasses. At this magnification, every little movement jumps you all over the place, so I have to patiently reduce to wide-angle, then use the zoom to get the detail once more.

Maybe too much detail; Mycroft looks like hell, he really does. The magnification is so close that I can even see the self-pattern weave on his red tie, and the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't looked that pale and haggard in a long time.

I actually feel a little sorry for him looking so poorly, then roll my eyes at myself with a snort of disgust. If Mycroft is back to being a nervous wreck, that's just deserts. Besides, I probably look as bad myself. I have to shift around a little to keep him in sight as he walks over to the black car that just arrived and leans in to speak to the driver.

I really can't believe I'm doing this, stalking him again. Well, it's not exactly stalking; I'm monitoring, to see if he is going to come to the drop-off point himself, or if he's sending in someone else. I reckon he is going to stay in the background and wait, which means I'll likely be dealing with either Anthea or Davies. The windows of both black cars are tinted, so I can't tell who or how many are in either one.

Then Mycroft gestures, and they all get out of both vehicles. Bloody hell, he's got a whole posse here! Anthea gets out from behind the wheel of the car that Mycroft came in, and Brown and three blokes I don't know get out of the other. Four of them, and I bet they're all armed. My mouth goes dry. I'm tempted to take a swig from the water bottle in my rucksack, but I know it won't help; it's fear, not thirst, that I'm feeling. I hope to god that my plan works, because I'm tits-up if it doesn't.

Mycroft is pointing around with his umbrella –– and I can see through the field glasses how tightly he's gripping it, he's very tense –– the others are nodding –– then they all get back into their respective vehicles, and the one with Brown and the other blokes drives slowly closer over the overgrown and broken tarmac, stopping in front of the main entrance below me; actually, directly below, so they are out of my line of sight now. The car with Mycroft and Anthea stays put at far end of the car park, by the rusted gates.

I count four car doors opening and closing down below, and then a fifth; that had to be the boot, and that means somebody got out kit of some kind. A sniper rifle? Or something. I have to assume the worst, and I'm afraid to hope for the best.

I glance down at the cheap digital watch on my wrist; 4:46 it says, and I hope that's accurate. Fourteen minutes. I tuck the field glasses into the rucksack at my side and pull out the safety helmet, fiddling with the straps and buckles again, trying to get a better fit. I finally give up and shove it back in my pack, hugging my knees to my chest.

When I left here yesterday, the first thing I did was go across the street to the busy Asda car park, locate the bicycle parking rack, and find a good vantage point to sit and watch it without being seen. It was lunchtime, and my stomach rumbled a few times with hunger; I told it to be quiet and wait for the tinned spaghetti back at Barry's, lighting a cigarette to give myself something to do. I was glad that the drizzle had stopped, although the sun peeping out meant it was going to get hot and humid soon. I resisted the urge to squirm and fuss with the damned bandage squashing my breasts; blokes don't fuss with their clothes like that.

Fortunately, it didn't take all that long to get the opportunity I was waiting for: A bloke rode up on a sturdy mountain bike, tore off his helmet, slung it on the handlebars and rushed into the store, too hungry and too hurried to be bothered with locking up his bicycle.

The doors had barely closed behind him before I pounced, jamming the helmet onto my head and taking off as fast as my legs would pedal. I didn't feel any jubilation at my clean getaway, just grim determination. Sorry, mate, I need it far worse than you do. I'll try to get it back to you in one piece, but no guarantees.

I got off the main road as soon as I could and rode a long loop back around to my factory, checking out the condition and extent of the new bike paths and getting used to my borrowed ride. Everything seemed to be in working order, although the bike was far from new, and actually quite shabby; probably why the bloke hadn't bothered to lock it. I experimented with some off-road moves, and plotted my main escape route, along with several alternatives. I just hoped like hell that Mycroft wouldn't bring in a helicopter.

I hid the bike in the thick vegetation just inside my opening in the fence, well-camouflaged by leafy branches, then caught the tube back into the city, stopping at a street market to buy a cheap watch, a flimsy torch with batteries, and some more so-cheap-they-can't-be-legal cigarettes with my rapidly-dwindling cash.

After another night of restless sleep and a few hours of gathering some supplies from Barry's flat, I came back here to finish my preparations. I knew I would have a long wait, so I brought provisions of water and some tinned beans and my e-reader, settling myself in to stay as calm as possible until it was time to text Mycroft.

I didn't want to give him very long to respond, just barely enough time to scramble a team to get over here. It was hard to wait, though, and I smoked far too many cigarettes and checked my watch far too often all afternoon. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer; I pulled out and turned on my mobile, even though it was a bit early.

Hey are you ready to come and get it?

It was a few minutes before he answered me, and I'm pretty sure the delay was not accidental; they probably started a search for my phone's IMEI the second the text was received.

Where are you? MH

Edgware road in colindale. Abandoned factory opposite the big asda. Ill be waiting inside the southwest window by the front entry at 5pm sharp I texted, reckoning that rush hour traffic might make things easier for a bicycle, harder for cars. I need all the advantage I can get.

Angel, this is unnecessary. McCutcheon has confessed everything. You are in no danger from me. MH

I was still staring at the words and considering my reply when he sent another text: You are in no danger from me but you are still in danger. Let me help you. MH

I pressed my mouth into thin line as I replied: 5pm sharp, southwest window. Dont try to come in or ill burn the book

When his next message arrived, all I could do was blink at it.

Please. Let me help you. MH

And suddenly I was remembering standing in the cold rain outside of the Knightsbridge flat, when I realised that he's not the sort of man to ever say, Please, don't go.

People like Mycroft Holmes don't change, not that much. More smoke and mirrors, more chameleon tricks. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice...

5pm sharp, I sent. Laters.

I turned off the phone quickly, not wanting to read any more lies.

That was a little more than an hour ago. I raise the little field glasses up again, but there's nothing to see. Mycroft and Anthea have gotten back into the car, and there's no sign of Brown or the other suits.

I reach into my pocket and trace my thumb over the smooth leather of the little book in my pocket, then slip my rucksack over my shoulders. I'm as ready as I'll ever be; it's time to get downstairs.

My footsteps make a soft echo on the bare, gritty concrete as I cross the open main floor, and a sudden flutter overhead startles the shit out of me; it's just a little bird, a sparrow or something, that had been hanging out on one of the rusty metal trusses overhead. I pause for a moment behind a pillar decorated with an enormous yellow triangle that proclaims "Danger! Men working!" Peering around it, I suss out the main doors and front entry to the factory. No sound, no movement, nothing that I can tell. I have already smashed out the lower panes of the window to the left of the door this earlier; my plan is to pass the book out through the metal grillwork whilst I remain safe inside my fortress.

My watch says 4:58. Showtime, Angelica! I pull Barry's huge striped bobble hat out of my pocket to jam over my head, hiding all of my hair; the less they know about my current appearance, the better. As I approach the broken-out window, I can hear the low murmur of men's voices, and when I step up to it, I can look down and see Brown and another suit standing just below. That is SO not good; where are the other two?

I turn my head, straining to hear footsteps, but there's nothing, nothing at all. Paranoia is a healthy response in a situation like this, but they are probably just covering the other exits, or maybe covering their compatriots in the event of an ambush. They have as little reason to trust me as I do them.

I stand close to but not right against the window, and call out, "Hey! Brown!"

Both men look up warily, tense. I hold up my hands where they can see them, showing that I'm unarmed, then reach into my pocket and pull out the code-book, holding it up so they can see it.

Brown reaches out his hand, palm up, and I drop it down to him. He leafs through the little notebook, then he and the other suit exchange a glance. Brown pockets the notebook carefully inside his jacket, looking up at me.

"You know you're being stupid, Talbot," he remarks. "You should come out."

I shrug, and turn away. There's no point in carrying on a conversation with Mycroft's lackey. Brown calls out something more in a louder voice, I assume to try and engage me in conversation. Bugger that, I need to get out of here, now. I lope across the open floor, making a beeline for the exit that will take me down to the basement, when I hear a noise from the upper level observation deck, and see a quick movement.

Somebody is up there! Shitshitshit, I have to get out of here, I have to get out now! Helter-skelter I bolt for the basement door, just I reach it my ears are ripped by an echoing bang. That was a gunshot! Those fuckers are shooting at me!

There is a second bang as I tear through the heavy door and jam it with the makeshift barricade I prepared this morning. I don't know if I'm hit, I can't feel anything except utter terror right now, and there's no time to stop and look for bullets or blood. I run! I don't even reach into the rucksack on my back for the torch in there, I blindly run in the darkness, sensing where the narrow door is and pelting through it, down the black tunnel toward escape.

I pause, panting, before emerging from the brick rubble of the steam plant, both to let my eyes acclimate to the bright sunshine, and to sense for signs of ambush. I stretch my hearing around me, straining to tell if I'm alone over on this side of the enclosure or not.

There...seems to be no-one. I slowly ease myself out of the rubble, keeping the piles of brick between me and the factory as I slip toward the fence.

I'm almost to the opening when I hear a shout, and I know I've been spotted. In terror of more bullets whizzing toward me, I dive heedlessly through the jagged cut in the fence, blundering through it in a mad panic and lurching over to the bicycle hidden close by, snatching it up to jam my toes into the clips and pedal like a demon.

A mad downhill slide, followed by a short tear through a suburban street, and then I'm on the bike path through the nearby playing fields, zooming as fast as I can –– but so many people are out walking or biking! I hadn't counted on it being crowded.

I have to slow down to avoid collisions. Maybe I should leave the bike paths altogether sooner than I planned –– but perhaps it's actually an advantage to have all these warm bodies milling about. I slow my pace even more and focus on blending in rather than escaping. Why am I still getting a lot of disapproving looks even though I've slowed down? What's wrong? I reflexively reach up to touch my hair, and realise that I'm still wearing that silly bobble hat instead of a proper helmet.

I make a quick stop to reach back and pull the helmet from my rucksack. Standing there astride the bike, it hits me that my left thigh hurts like hell, and I look down to see a stain of deep red splotched on my jeans around a jagged tear; I've been shot! Oh, god, I've been shot! What am I going to do?

However, as I gingerly poke around through my torn jeans at the bloody patch, I realise that it can't possibly be a bullet wound. For one thing, there isn't enough blood, and even though it hurts, I think a bullet would do more damage than that...although there is a puncture wound, purpling around a trickle of blood... The fence wires. I got stabbed by one of the fence wires as I blundered through. No time to assess the damage; I thrust my toes in the clips again and pedal on.

Keeping to the bike paths for a while, I eventually break out and go randomly cross-country, over golf courses and through leafy nature preserves; getting nicked for trespassing or riding a bike off established trails is the least of my concerns at the moment.

After almost an hour of steady, hard travel, I have to stop to take a break, choosing a thickly-wooded slope. I have a fair idea where I am; just above one of the reservoirs, I think, not too far from St. Albans. Struggling awkwardly off the bike, I let it drop, plopping myself down on the moist ground beside, catching my breath and taking a better look at the wound on my leg.

I gingerly poke at it, lifting the torn fabric and peering inside; it's definitely a puncture from the fence wire. I can't tell exactly how deep, but judging from how much it bloody hurts, it's pretty deep. I'm grateful that my vaccinations are current, including tetanus, but infection is a distinct possibility. Tending to it will have to wait until I get back to Whitechapel, but I should at least put a wrapping around it now.

I know I have a bandana somewhere in my rucksack, so I slip the straps off my shoulders and set it in my lap to have a look. I'm so glad I don't have a bullet wound –– I still can't believe those bastards were shooting at me –– they were fucking trying to murder me, on Mycroft's orders! My fingers shake with reactive anger and fear as I fumble to undo the clasp on my pack.

Then I notice that something is stuck in the pack's thick cloth, near the bottom. I pull it out, turning it over in my fingers carefully; it's a small, sharp plastic syringe, with a bright red tuft on the end. I've never seen one up close before, but I've watched enough telly to know a tranquilizer dart when I see one.

They weren't shooting bullets, they were shooting to tranq me, like I was a bloody rhino or something! I stare at the dart, not certain whether I feel relieved or incensed. Maybe both.

Okay, so they weren't trying to kill me. They were just trying to... bag me. I don't even...I don't know what to think. I rummage around in my rucksack until I find the bandana and tie it snugly around my thigh, fanning out the folds to cover the blood stains as well; best to avoid awkward questions.

I pull out my water bottle to swallow a few mouthfuls, and suddenly a wild grin spreads across my face. I'm not out of the woods yet, but I got away. I won this round. I might lose the next, but this time I won. That's the best feeling in the world.

I mount up and push onward. Originally, I planned to ride in a random directions until I was well away from Edgware, then ditch the bike and catch the nearest tube or bus back to Whitechapel.

However, I am getting quite attached to cycling as a way to get around. I'm fit enough to do it easily, and I've heard it's just as fast as taking the bus, and faster than a car in the city traffic. The only reason I never did before is that, honestly, you can't go cycling in cute dresses and high heels. But that really doesn't matter right now, does it?

In the end, I decide to go to St. Albans rail station and text Mycroft from there, hopefully leading him to think that I'm fleeing to the north country where I used to live, and then ride the bike all the way back to Whitechapel. I can't be more than two hours out; I have least that much daylight left, and fine weather as well. My leg hurts, but it doesn't feel at all weak.

Only a little more pedalling, and shortly I'm sitting on bench near the St. Albans station with my phone and a smoke, cautiously texting Mycroft. As before, it takes a few minutes before he answers my Hey.

I don't suppose you are going to tell me where you are. MH

No

I'm getting tired of repeating myself. You are in grave danger. MH

Thanks for the warning

Warnings are pointless unless heeded, Angel. You need protection. MH

They have to find me first. There's lots of room up north

There are a surprising variety of people looking for you. Someone is bound to find you eventually. MH

You haven't

I'm with the government. That isn't necessarily an advantage. MH

I have to smile at that. Before I can frame an answer, he texts me again: This entire situation is my fault. I would like to remedy it, but I need your cooperation. MH

Cooperation requires trust

I look forward to discussing that with you in person, very soon. And, do be careful navigating the A5 tonight on your bicycle. The road works at Kilburn could prove hazardous in the dark. Later. MH

Damn him! He just... Damn him to hell! He just snatched control of the situation back from me again. How did he know that I'm keeping the bike, and riding back into the city? The A5 is even the route I was planning to take –– although I suppose that's no stretch of imagination, as it's the most obvious and efficient way for a cyclist to get from northwest to central London.

Still, damn him! I sit and fume for several minutes. There's no point in texting a reply; he probably turned off his phone after he texted "Later" just like I have been. "In person, very soon" my arse! Arrogant git.

I toss away my cigarette butt and throw a leg over my stolen bicycle. It's a long ride back to the city, but at least it's nearly all downhill.