Filax, running beside the chariot, stopped but did not growl at them. Instead he wagged his tail. They were the Angels of Mercy from the war memorial next to the small St George’s plinths in the inner courtyard of the cathedral-like Prudential building across the street. They had stopped the chariot in the middle of High Holborn, conveniently almost next to the ruined statue of the Fusilier. The Fusilier had taken wildfire right in his mouth, swallowing a fire-hose of flame that had entered his body and melted it so badly that his top half now flapped down over his back, like a frozen molten wave. It was a horrible reminder to Will of what he might be responsible for. Things happened rather quickly. The Angels were worried that there wasn’t enough time to get the Georges back and deliver the bearskinned soldier to his plinth before midnight. Quad promised he could do it if he and Tragedy ‘travelled light and drove like the clappers’. Jo and Will would wait here until Tragedy returned.
