‘So, Agatha, what brings you to St Mary’s in the middle of the night?’
I wrestle with my thoughts, trying not to give away my suspicions.
‘I need to talk to you. Your card says you’re a professor in hydrology?’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Not an ordinary schoolgirl, are we, Agatha?’
‘I should hope not,’ I say with some impatience.
She chuckles. She really is difficult to read.
‘Ah, a bit of fire in the belly, I like that.’ She studies me some more. ‘Well, thank you, Agatha – you did me a good turn. Not all thirteen-year-olds would have stopped to help an old lady.’
‘How do you know my age?’
She shrugs. ‘A lucky guess.’
I let it pass. ‘I was wondering – do you have any idea why someone would want to do that to you? Knock you over?’
I watch her face carefully as I say this, but her expression doesn’t change.
‘Oh –’ she waves her hand airily – ‘I’m sure it would be the same if some other little old lady had been standing in my place. Just a hooligan.’
Her tone is convincing, but I don’t believe for one moment that she thinks of herself as a ‘little old lady’.
‘Well, did you see anything that might identify them?’
‘No. And right now, I’m scarcely angrier with them than I am with you.’
I stare at her. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve had a nasty shock and I need to sleep, girl – not to be scared out of my wits by some picklock sneaking into my room in the dead of night. Now, please get out and leave me alone.’
She climbs into bed and puts her head on the pillow. Clearly, she feels the interview is over. I persevere –
‘No close-up details of the bike perhaps, or what the rider was wearing? It went too quickly for me to get a good look.’ This isn’t entirely true – I could pick that bike out of a line-up – but I need to get her to open up.
She groans. ‘I don’t remember a thing. And if I did, I would be telling it to the police, not a schoolgirl.’ She reaches up to the panel behind the bed, full of dials and buttons. ‘And if you don’t leave now, I’ll press the emergency call button, and you can explain to the night guard why you’re creeping around the hospital in the dark, scaring old ladies.’
‘But—’
I don’t finish: she presses the emergency call button, and a red light starts to flash over the door. Outside, I can hear an alarm ringing at the nurses’ station.
Wasting no time, I make for the door. But, as I do, something catches my attention – a pair of shoes – Professor D’Oliveira’s shoes – left next to the door. On the side of one of the shoes … is that a trace of red? I have no more time to think about it – I have to keep moving, out of the room.
‘Hey, stop! Who are you? You’re not allowed in there!’ a nurse calls to my fast-retreating back. I ignore her and run out of the ward, back into the maze of corridors. I sprint down two flights of stairs and into another hospital block, retracing my path from earlier. When I’m sure nobody is trying to chase me, I slow down. I listen round every corner in case someone is there. The more I listen, the more I feel like I’m being watched. The dark corridors echo, and every so often I can hear linoleum squeaking with footsteps.
Finally, I come back to the corridor where I stashed my things. I put my coat on quickly and keep walking. I’d left the wig behind, so my disguise is a bit lacking now. I walk out into another bay at the back of the hospital, where surgical supplies are being unloaded.
‘Hey, kid! You’re not meant to be back here.’
‘I’m leaving, aren’t I?’
I walk out on to South Wharf Road. A girl is standing on the other side of the street, just quietly watching me. My heart thumps in shock. Forcing myself to react, I realise my only option is to turn back into the bay. But then the girl crosses the road towards me, and I see it’s Brianna Pike, from school. I’m so relieved to see a familiar face that I almost throw my arms round her. Then I remember that she is one of the CCs, practically Sarah Rathbone’s henchwoman. Brianna is tall and slim, like her compatriots, but more athletic – muscular.
She doesn’t greet me, but asks ‘How is she?’ in a low voice.
‘Who?’ I don’t think I’ve ever been asked a question by Brianna before. She’s usually giving orders.
‘The old lady.’
‘You mean Professor D’Oliveira?’
‘Is that her name?’
I sigh. ‘How do you know about her? Brianna, what are you doing here?’
‘I just … I heard about the old lady getting knocked down.’
I frown at her. ‘How did you hear?’ She’s not acting like herself. If anything, it seems like someone else is standing in front of me, in a very convincing Brianna disguise.
‘Oh … I read about it in the paper. I knew your dad worked at the park, so …’ She tails off.
None of it adds up. I’m sure there was no report in the paper, and why would Brianna care anyway? All that interests her are designer outfits.
There’s a long silence.
‘Look,’ I say at last, ‘I really need to get home …’
She jolts, as though she’d forgotten where she is – or who I am. ‘Sure, sure. I’ll see you at school … My brother’s got the car round the corner. Do you want a lift?’
I’m tempted by the thought of not having to walk back home in the dark, but I’m not ready to get in a car with one of the CCs. I shake my head.
‘No, it’s OK, thanks – it’s not far. See you then, Brianna.’ I walk away, mulling over the weird conversation.
London is still too quiet. Even at night, the city usually has a low hum, like a machine on standby.
I turn a corner and keep walking. There’s the roar of a motorbike behind me on the otherwise empty road. My skin prickles. Keeping my head down I slow my pace, as though I’m just out for a stroll, enjoying the night air. The bike comes nearer. It’s the same bike from earlier in the park – the one whose rider Dad argued with; the one that knocked down the professor. I’m sure of it.
Riding the bike is a man dressed all in black. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pass. He seems to slow down, then turns his head and looks right at me as he passes. I see myself, reflected in the mirrored visor. Then, with a grunt from the engine that makes my stomach twist, the bike speeds off.
‘Oh, no.’ I say, ‘No, no, no …’
I start to run. Did they recognise me? Has the professor called someone? Is she in cahoots with the man on the bike? I have no idea, but I need to get home to Dad before the man on the bike beats me to it. My feet pound the pavement, past Paddington Station, through Sussex Gardens, across Bayswater Road, until the familiar park surrounds me – the park that now seems like a trap. I run, even though my legs are burning and I feel sick and heavy-headed.
Finally, I’m home – the back garden and the tree. I climb without care, branches scraping my arms and face, in through the skylight. Quickly, making no noise, I go down the attic stairs to Dad’s bedroom. Tiptoeing over, I open the door and hear his familiar, gentle snores.
All