Run there as fast as you can, tell them a chap's having a heart attack outside the tobacconist on Denmark Street and that Dr. 'Yeah, I do-and there's a clinic, up by Soho Square.' 'The traffic's blue bloody murder on Charing Cross Road, do you happen to know Frith Street?' 'It'll never arrive in time,' says Hopkins. The man's eyes widen fresh pain scrunches them up. Sir? I believe you're having a heart attack.' 'Chest, is it?' Hopkins removes a glove and presses his hand against a vein in the man's neck. The man grimaces, gasps, and manages to nod, once. He loosens the collapsed man's tie and peers into his eyes. 'What seems to be the problem?' The new arrival is Dean's age, has short hair and a sensible duffel coat. 'Mate, I think yer need an ambulance, so-' get yer help.' He looks around, but people rush by with collars up, caps down, and eyes averted. Spit dribbles from the man's twisted mouth. 'All right mate, sit down on the step here. 'HELP, please, I'm-' A red-faced man grabs Dean's collar and grunts, 'I'm-' He doubles over in agony. Past Alf Cummings Music Management, where Alf Cummings put his podgy hand on Dean's inner thigh and murmured, 'We both know what I can do for you, you beautiful bastard the question is, What will you do for me?,' and past Fungus Hut Studios, where Dean was due to record a demo with Battleship Potemkin before the band booted him out. Lynch told Dean all his songs were shit, except the few that were drivel. Ray's bank order only arrived yesterday, and the queue to cash it just now took forty minutes, so he pushes on, past Lynch & Lupton's Music Publishers, where Mr. Dean's cutting it fine this week, even by his standards. Nevitt is waiting in her parlor like a giant spider. Dean wishes he could join Rick for a cuppa, a smoke, and a chat about session work, but Friday morning is rent-paying morning, and Mrs.

He recognizes Rick 'One Take' Wakeman in the window of the Gioconda café across the street. He checks that his bankbook with its precious cargo of ten five-pound notes is safe in his coat pocket. His wrists and hands are working, at least. Dean gets to his feet, gingerly, ignoring the throbs of pain, praying that nothing's broken. A bewhiskered stockbroker type in a bowler hat smirks at the long-haired lout's misfortune and is gone. He's in the air long enough to see the gutter and sky swap places and to think, This'll bloody hurt, before the pavement slams his ribs, kneecap, and ankle. Dean hurries past the phoenix theatre, dodges a blind man in dark glasses, steps onto Charing Cross Road to overtake a slow-moving woman and pram, leaps a grimy puddle, and swerves into Denmark Street where he skids on a sheet of black ice.

Utopia mitchell