“Stupid foreigners!” a Cockney voice intoned, drawing nods of silent agreement from the waiting zombies. A uniformed transport cop made a beeline for them and Rohan galvanised himself, tugging Emma towards another platform, a short walk away. He limped, the pace not ideal for a prosthetic leg, no matter how wonderfully engineered.
Emma felt her resolve sapping, desperate for the sedate pace of Market Harborough against the faceless cruelty of the metropolis. “I don’t wanna be here,” she grumbled as Rohan pulled her inside the doors of another tube train. She tensed her body in case he chose to jump trains again but he crushed her face into his chest and kissed the top of her head. “We’re good, now,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ll get out and find our taxi at the next stop.” He pulled out
