by Robert Webb
Toby said, ‘My God, cabs really do bring out the cabbie in you, don’t they?’
The second Range Rover was already braking as Kate flew past, still with her middle finger raised. She got a brief sight of Petrov in the back seat, staring at her in astonishment.
‘Fine,’ said Toby. ‘But I’ve got CCTV up and you’ve got another four up ahead.’
‘FOUR?’
‘What the hell have you got in your pocket, Kate?’
‘Never mind that, what the—’
‘Take this left.’
‘That won’t take me towards—’
‘Kate, stop arguing and JUST TAKE THE LEFT!’
‘All right, all right!’
Kate squealed the taxi left so hard it was momentarily on two wheels. Toby was correct – she had time to see what looked like a whole fleet of wretched Range Rovers ahead on the road she’d just exited.
‘The bastards are everywhere!’ she said.
‘I know. Don’t worry. Cavalry’s on its way. Stay on this road.’
Kate was merging onto another dual carriageway and could see her pursuers not far behind. ‘I can’t outrun them, Toby!’
‘You won’t have to for long. Just open up as much space as you can. I’ve been in a car with you – don’t tell me you can’t do it.’
Kate put her foot down and weaved extravagantly between the cars ahead, trying to stay especially alert for bikes and intermittently shouting ‘Sorry!’ to outraged motorists. All her skill was focused in the moment – she disappeared into the task in hand.
‘Did you really like my present?’ Toby said.
Kate briefly mounted a pavement to under-take a Deliveroo scooter. ‘Yeah, can we talk about this later, darling? Kind of busy.’
‘Sure. You’re doing great. Not long now.’
‘Not long till WHAT? I’m going to cause an accident any fucking—’
At that moment, one of the Range Rovers darted out from a junction on her left. She wrenched the cab right to avoid it and took a glancing blow on the left back wheel. Kate shrieked with pain from the impact and the cab’s arse flipped out from under her but she steered into the skid like a rally driver and brought the machine back under control.
‘Fucker just tried to RAM me!’ she yelled. ‘Where’s this cavalry, Toby?!’
‘It’s happening now.’
‘What?’
‘Check your mirror.’
Kate zoomed past a taxi rank of nine or ten black cabs.
And then in her passenger wing mirror: something extraordinary.
Every one of the black cabs squealed out after her. The road had opened up into three lanes and now all three were occupied by black London taxis, separating her from the Range Rovers. Open-mouthed, Kate instinctively moved into the middle lane and allowed cabs to come alongside. She looked left and a young Asian driver gave her a wink and playful salute. She looked right and an older female driver in a tweed cap blew her a kiss. In her rear-view mirror were three cabbies waving at her. She thought of Toby waiting for her.
Friends in front of me, friends behind me, friends to the sides.
Never in her life had she expected to see London’s most out-for-themselves, one-person-band, sole-trading loners acting in harmony for something that was surely nothing to do with them. How she wished her dad could see it. She had to compose herself to speak evenly.
‘Toby, I don’t know how the hell you did that, but it’s beautiful.’
‘I’ll explain later. We’re not out of it yet. We’re seeing Petrov’s guys everywhere – you’ve flushed out a bloody army.’
‘The one I met fought like a child at a brown-belt grading,’ Kate said. ‘I’m no expert, but I don’t think they’re Russian intelligence.’
‘I should hope not. I’d rather not start World War Three just because you were annoyed with Charles.’
‘Oh, screw you, Toby – it’s a bit more important than—’
She heard Toby laugh. ‘I know, I know – I’m just kidding.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re enjoying this.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Well …’
‘But listen – I’m watching them and I think they’ve worked out where you’re heading. We’ll have to switch to plan B.’
‘Okay …?’
‘Aim for the Duke of York’s.’
‘Toby, there are at least twenty pubs called the—’
‘We’re not going for a pint, Kate. The theatre.’
‘The theatre? Kes’s theatre?’
‘The same. We have a small facility there. You’ll be safe until we get to you.’
She belatedly processed what she had just heard. ‘Sorry, are you telling me you’ve got a safe room inside the Duke of York’s?’
‘Well, it’s always good to have options, d’you not think? Kes was good enough to let us make a few modifications to a dressing room the actors were always complaining about and never got used.’
‘Oh, so you can tell Kes you’re spy but—’
‘Get over it.’
‘Ooh, “get over it” he says. Is that an order? Am I your spy bitch now?’
‘Kate, please. You’re still in considerable trouble.’
Kate had to admit that, despite the danger she was causing to innocent bystanders, it was perfectly possible she was having the time of her life. Her reaction disgusted her. ‘Toby, I’m afraid I hurt someone quite badly.’
‘I forgive you.’
‘No, not you. Although … Anyway, there’s a man on the ground in Lillie Yard, near BelTech, and—’
‘Oh, the guy near the skip. He’s on his way to the Royal Brompton. He’s going to be fine.’
‘Oh … that’s good.’
‘But sadly the driver whose cab you stole had a cardiac arrest and died.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Joke.’
‘TOBY!’
‘Sorry.’
‘TOBY!’
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s not funny. My dad died of a heart attack, you prick!’
‘I’m really sorry, Kate. High spirits. I’ve had a tumbler of whisky. Sorry. The cabbie’s completely fine. He’s in a police station on King’s Road doing a lot of shouting. Take the right in four hundred yards.’
‘No. I’m going through the park.’
‘Don’t go through the park. They’re waiting for you to go through the park.’
‘Toby, if I take the A4 I’ll be heading for Hyde Park Corner, which is the second-busiest roundabout in town after Trafalg—’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘It WON’T be fine. We’ll come to a complete stop and thirty beefcake Russians will drag me from this taxi and—’
‘I won’t allow that.’
‘Okay, that sounds very chivalrous, but—’
‘I won’t allow that.’
Kate paused. It was a fine line between trusting your instincts and being a stubborn bastard in the face of new information. And an equally fine line between feminist principles and refusing to take orders from a man, even if the man happened to be one of the most capable people you’d ever met. She looked to her right and was unsurprised to see that the woman in the tweed cap had moved ahead to give her space for a right turn.
Fuck it. Yesterday she was practically dead anyway. Everything from now on was gravy.
She took the turn. ‘I do hope you know what the hell you’re doing, dear Toby.’
‘I do.’
Kate was alarmed to see that none of the cabs had followed her. They had all carried on up the road or splintered off. The Range Rovers had taken advantage of the gap and were now closing on her at a menacing pace.
That’s curtains, then.
She heard Toby say, ‘Kate, you’ve gone quiet. Are you okay?’
She didn’t respond.
‘Kate, in case you’re wondering, the cabs have gone ahead to smooth the way. And there are others waiting at the roundabout.’
Th
is aroused a tiny spark of curiosity, but Kate was sinking back into the 10,000-day kitchen. She said in a monotone, ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter who you’ve got at the roundabout.’
‘Kate, I’m sorry you’re sounding a bit glum. But … You’ve slowed down there. You need to speed up.’
‘I’m a cab driver’s daughter. You can’t “smooth the way” around Hyde Park Corner.’
‘You’re not going around it. You’re going through it.’
The spark reignited. This time she let it burn for a moment. ‘You what?’
‘You’re going through it. Over it.’
The famous, and famously busy, traffic island was just in view. Wellington Arch, Apsley House, Derwent Wood’s naked bronze The Boy David.
Nice arse. Like Luke’s. Wonder about Toby’s. Probably terrific. This is not relevant. Don’t be so trivial. Work to do. Bet it’s gorgeous, though. Oh, come on! You’re not Carrie Bradshaw, you’re Boudicca. But didn’t Boudicca get horny? Of course she did. You can be Carrie AND Boudicca! AND Buffy AND Barbara Castle AND Mary Shelley AND Valentina Tereshkova AND She-Ra AND Professor Beard AND Frida Kahlo and all the other brilliant fuckers and all of the more normal fuckers too. You’re Kate Marsden. You’ve got this.
Kate’s arse-inspired pep-talk allowed a trickle of hope back into her imagination but this became an overwhelming flood when she saw what was happening up ahead. There were black cabs parked neatly in the road on either side of her junction with the roundabout. They had created … well …
‘You’ve made me an aisle,’ she said with the beginnings of a grin.
‘Well, I wouldn’t quite put it like that, but …’
‘You’re walking me down the aisle again!’
‘Erm. I honestly hadn’t thought of it like that, but obviously that’s very cool of me. Main thing is to step on it. Need a bit of distance.’
Kate started to accelerate but then hesitated. ‘Toby, there’s a barrier.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘No, seriously, there’s a barrier round the monument.’
‘Yup. Drive straight for it.’
‘I’ll get pulverised.’
‘No, you won’t.’
She was three hundred yards from the roundabout. Beyond the cab-parted sea of traffic was the deserted island of Wellington Arch. But protecting its edge was a security barrier of uncompromising steel.
‘They don’t make these things out of bamboo, Toby!’
‘Kate, you’ve got to trust me. You’ve got to speed up.’
‘TOBEEEEE!!!’
‘Best foot forward, Katie.’
She floored the accelerator. ‘You appalling SHIIIIIIIIIITTTT!!!’
She raced at the barrier. She checked the speedometer and clocked 62 mph. This was going to hurt. She gripped the steering wheel with all her strength but refused to close her eyes. She’d done enough sleeping.
At the last moment –
OH, YOU ARE KIDDING ME.
– a central section of the steel barrier casually tipped ninety degrees backwards and disappeared to become perfectly flush with the asphalt. She thought of the way the Tracy palm trees flopped back to allow the launch of Thunderbird 2.
Kate screamed like a pirate queen as she powered through the aisle of cabs and sailed over Hyde Park Corner. She’d never seen it from here – it felt like a playground with grown-ups on all sides. The sun was so bright today. She looked up through the glass roof of the TX and the sky was a cornflower blue. In her mirror, the barrier flipped back up again and she saw one – no! three – Range Rovers come to a skidding, chaotic halt. Ahead of her, another taxi-parted sea beckoned her north towards Soho and the theatre rendezvous.
She was elated but a thought bothered her. Her first words to Toby as she made her way towards the West End were: ‘Who elected you?’
Toby replied over the phone speaker, ‘You see, most people would just say thanks.’
‘No one should have this much power.’
‘We serve the elected government.’
‘What if the elected government are a bunch of arseholes?’
‘It’s not unknown. We serve them with a certain discretion.’
‘Your idea of discretion would be someone else’s idea of water cannons and arresting George Monbiot.’
‘Oh God, I love George! We would never do that to George. Unless he really crossed the line.’
‘What line?’
‘The law.’
‘Toby! You know perfectly well that between us, we’ve broken about twelve laws in the last hour alone.’
‘Yeah. Like I say: discretion.’
‘We’re going to have a fucking big row about this.’
‘Oh good! I’ll look forward to that. I’ll see you at the theatre. You’re going to get there before us. Main entrance, turn right. Door marked “Private”. Keypad locked – 1072.’
Kate registered the number. ‘Luke’s birthday?’
‘Aye.’
Kate shook her head. ‘You’re such a softie. He’s fine, you know.’
‘What?’
‘I mean, obviously he’s dead. But he’s also going to be fine.’
‘Um, right. Anyway. I’m in a car now, but if we can track you it’s quite possible Petrov’s guys can too. The taxi squad will get you to St Martin’s Lane but I can’t ask them to do much more.’
Kate snapped out of the enjoyable chat and understood the new risk. ‘You’re saying … I’m going to be there, the shitheads are going to be there, you’re not going to be there, and the magic cavalry are going to turn back into pumpkins?’
‘Um, yup. We won’t be far behind. Just get into the safe room.’
‘What if something goes wrong?’
‘Well … you might have to improvise.’
‘Oh great! Tell me one thing – are any of them carrying guns?’
‘No. No. Absolutely … very unlikely. STEP ON IT, LEO! WHAT IS THIS THING, A FUCKING TRACTOR?! No, definitely not, according to the analysts. Erm.’
‘Toby …’
‘Petrov himself is a known killer. Probably best avoid him.’
‘Toby!’
‘Listen, Kate. You’ve got everything you need. You always did.’
Kate took some heart from that. It gave her the courage to say something honest. ‘Toby, I’m scared. Don’t take too long.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Chapter 23
Kate jammed the taxi diagonally into a small gap across the street from the Duke of York’s. She jumped out and was greeted by a huge picture of Kes over the main entrance. He had cast himself as Prospero in some kind of glitzy bums-on-seats production of The Tempest called Tempest! He looked like Gandalf after a satisfying Christmas.
Kate glanced at the board of performance times and saw that he was cramming in an outrageous three shows today. She shook her head as she realised Kes and his unfortunate, slave-driven company would just be nearing the end of the morning matinée. She was suddenly alerted by a cacophony of beeping and yelling from the south end of St Martin’s Lane. Three Range Rovers were causing a commotion.
Arrogant bastards are actually driving the wrong way up a one-way street. I really am starting to hate these guys.
Heavies were already getting out of the cars and looking straight at her. She ran across the road and into the theatre.
For a second she was disarmed by the cosy normality of a West End foyer: the gold leaf wallpaper and tattered red velvet everywhere, the warm enveloping mood of dusty civilisation with the promise of chocolate raisins and overpriced ice-cream. Surely the men pursuing her couldn’t get in? Surely guys like them would burst into flames if they tried to enter a place like this? But maybe, Kate thought, maybe she was being a cultural snob. Maybe some of those men grew up loving Chekhov and under different circumstances Kate could form a book group with them where they all took it in turns to read out the funny bits from Dostoyevsky. Well – maybe.
She strode tow
ards the door to her right, marked ‘Private’.
At the last moment her way was blocked by a heavy woman in her late twenties with a severe ponytail and an usher’s waistcoat. ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ she said in a deafening sing-song as if to an elderly relative, ‘but you can’t go in there. It’s private.’
Kate read the name badge and spoke quickly. ‘Hi, Tassy. I’m a friend of Keven Lloyd’s and he said it was okay.’
Tassy maintained her front-of-house smile and volume. ‘With the greatest respect, madam, I find that hard to believe.’
‘What?’
‘I know Keven extremely well and, as head usher, I would have been informed if he’d pre-sanctioned a member of the public to just wander around backstage during a performance.’
Kate shot a glance at the main door. ‘I haven’t got time for this.’ She tried to dodge round Tassy’s impressive frame but the younger woman placed a large hand on one of Kate’s breasts and shoved her away.
‘Ow!’
‘I have to warn you, madam, that I’m trained in the martial arts.’
‘So am I! You can’t just poke a customer in the boob like that!’
‘As far as I can see, madam, you’re not a customer. Unless you’d like to show me your ticket.’
Confounded, Kate checked behind her again. The leading Russian was at the window and heading for the entrance. She was out of time.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Exasperated that today of all days she had run into the most psychotically jobsworth usher on the London theatre scene, she turned and bounded across the foyer towards the stairs to the dress circle.
‘Madam!’ Tassy barked.
On instinct, Kate grabbed a show programme from a concession stand. Halfway up the red-carpeted stairs she realised that the heavies were going to demand to know from Tassy which way she had gone. And if Tassy continued with what was apparently her trademark attitude, she was going to get hurt. Kate turned and ducked down to see three of them advance into the foyer. She produced the envelope from her back pocket and waved it in front of her. ‘Oi, dickheads! Looking for this?’
