32
Kabir looked around and hissed.
‘s**t on a shingle, we’ve been rumbled.’
For the second time that day, I had Bobbies after me. Five of them. They must’ve figured out at last that we’d taken the railwaymen’s jackets and hats. We did the sensible thing. We ran. Down Buckingham Gate and right onto Castle Lane. And there we encountered an anomaly.
Directly ahead was a monument to Shakespeare. Around it, fountains were cascading gallons of water onto a circular area paved with slabs of black marble. We were in Leicester Square. But we shouldn’t have been. Leicester Square was on the other side of Buckingham Palace. What was going on? For a moment I was thrown by what I was seeing, and so was Kabir. Then I reminded myself: however convincing this all is, it isn’t really London. It’s a ver
