The Last Queen of England by Steve Robinson

glad about that, it made him feel all the more uneasy.
    They quickly arrived at another intersection, this time with Charles II Street where Waterloo Place met the bottom of Regent Street.   Tayte didn’t have a clue where Jean was leading him but he figured she knew London better than he ever would.   Further into Regent Street it began to get busier.   He saw faces around him at last: people with no idea what had just happened.
    “Did you hear that?” he heard someone say.
    “Was that a bomb?” someone else said.
    The pavement began to get busy, forcing their pace to an uncomfortable crawl.   Then Jean came to a sudden stop.   Someone bumped into her but she was so tense she barely moved.   She was looking through all the people to the other side of the road.
    “What is it?” Tayte said.   I think we lost him but we need to keep moving.”
    Jean slowly shook her head, her stare unwavering.   “He’s there.”
    “Where?”
    “He’s looking right at me.   He must have been running with us on the other side of the road.”
    Tayte felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.   He crouched and followed her gaze but he couldn’t make out who she was looking at.   There were too many people.
    “Right there,” Jean insisted.   “Dark hair, grey suit.   No mask.   He’s looking away now.”
    Tayte counted no less than four grey-suited men.   They all had dark hair.   In the distance he heard the wail of sirens growing louder by the second.   He turned back to Jean.   “Are you sure?”
    “Shit!” Jean said.   “He’s crossing over.”
    She grabbed Tayte’s arm and before he could look back to see for himself they were moving again, maintaining a determined march as Jean guided them closer to the string of shop facades on their left, putting a wall of people between them and their pursuer.
    “Where are we headed?” Tayte asked.
    “Piccadilly Circus.   It’s after the next crossroads.”
    Tayte had been to the Criterion Theatre before and he remembered a little about Piccadilly Circus.   He tried to make out the Eros statue, where people always seemed to congregate like pigeons.   There were plenty of roads leading off that busy junction.   Maybe they could lose him there.
    “There’s an Underground entrance,” Jean said, contradicting Tayte’s thoughts as they arrived at Jermyn Street and crossed with the crowd that had become an unwitting human shield around them.
    “The subway?” Tayte said.   He didn’t want to share such a confined space with a killer who had made it very clear that he wanted them dead.   “Are you serious?   What if he makes it too?”
    “Trust me,” Jean said, and when they arrived at the steps that led down to the station they took them two at a time.
    Tayte didn’t have a ticket.   That fact was foremost in his mind by the time they reached the last step because he knew he didn’t have time to stop and buy one.   The turnstiles were busy - three or four people at each.   Jean headed straight for the luggage gate and they ducked beneath it, still running, heading for the escalators and the sign for the Bakerloo line.
    “Hey!” someone shouted.
    Jean flashed her Oyster card.   “Sorry,” she called.   “We’re in a hurry.”
    They reached the escalator and Jean looked back as they began to descend.
    “He’s coming through,” she said.   “I’m sure he’s seen us.”
    “He’s using a ticket?” Tayte said.   He was incredulous.   He imagined such a man would have leapt the barriers and come right at them, gun blazing.
    “He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself,” Jean said.   “Come on.”
    She started down the left side of the escalator, which was clear of people not already walking or running down themselves.   It was a long escalator and Tayte knew the gunman had to be right behind them, closing on them for all he knew.   He wanted to look back but it took all his concentration not to trip over the steps as