He turned and ran. Down the hill. Not looking back. He didn’t panic. He ran with purpose. He was totally unarmed against this thing. He had to use his environment. There was a crowd flooding into the space ahead—

Dear God, no. It was more of them!

The masks and capes were rushing out of Embankment station and down from the bridge across the river. They weren’t looking at him, but past him, aiming to link up with the ones at Charing Cross. He ran through them, heaving them out of the way, aware they were slowing him down, that light behind him getting brighter, closer.

Quill elbowed his way through the crowd, then, on impulse, turned right and ran at the ticket gates. He vaulted them, making the ticket inspectors yell, and pounded for the escalators. ‘Going underground!’ he yelled into the phone and pocketed it.

He ran down the escalator, pushing his way past people. He was going to take the first train that appeared. It was a Bakerloo line train, going north. There was no light behind him. He slammed his way through people, ran up the platform, and then hopped into a carriage just as the doors were closing.

‘Stand clear of the closing doors,’ said the recorded announcement. There was an endless moment as he waited for the light to shine down the length of the platform. Maybe he just saw the shadows out there start to lengthen. He wondered what he could do, trapped in here. He thought desperately of Sarah and Jessica. He’d left no message for them. He had to get home for them.

The doors slid closed. The train started pulling out. It accelerated. Nothing came for him. The other passengers, locked in around him, tight as sardines in a can, weren’t looking at him, sweating and panting, didn’t care. Normality crashed back into him, sheer relief. He looked to his phone, hoping to tell Sefton what had happened. That he’d given the Ripper the slip. No reception.

The train stopped at Charing Cross. Quill tensed again as a masked figure made its way along the carriage … no, it was just another protestor. He pushed past Quill and got off. Quill let himself start to relax. Where should he get off? Baker Street, call Sefton from the open Metropolitan line platform there, get a taxi either back to the Portakabin, or home…? No, the Portakabin: he was only going to tell Sarah about this when it was ancient history.

Why had he suddenly been targeted? What had changed?

*   *   *

He got out at Baker Street, ran up the stairs to the Metropolitan line platform, found phone reception after a couple of steps and noticed the flashing of a couple of voicemails – that would be Sefton, desperately trying to contact him. Before he could hit them, his phone rang. He answered it.

‘Where are you?’ said a voice on the other end that he didn’t recognize.