As she reached the bottom her head cracked savagely against the floor.
She tried to rise, blood streaming from her mouth but, with a despairing groan, she fell on to her back, eyes closed.
Julie dashed into the other bedroom.
'Come on, darling,' she said urgently, gathering up her daughter's dolls, unzipping the case and shoving them in.
'What are you doing, Mum?' Lisa protested.
'We've got to go, quickly. Come on.' There was desperation in Julie's voice now.
'But, Mum-'
Julie yanked the little girl upright, gripping her arm tightly.
'Come on,' she said, barely able to prevent herself shouting.
As she pushed the last of the dolls into the case she noticed that there were specks of blood on the material.
The two of them emerged on to the landing, Julie practically dragging her daughter.
At the bottom of the stairs, WPC Lucy Robertson still lay unconscious, blood running from the wound in her lip. A ribbon of crimson was also flowing from one nostril.
Lisa gaped at the immobile form as they passed, almost tripping over the outstretched legs.
Julie headed through into the kitchen and unlocked the back door.
At the rear of the house there was a small garden, surrounded on three sides by a high wooden fence. Julie headed for the gate at the end.
She tugged at the latch.
It was locked.
'Stay here,' she told Lisa and bolted back inside the house.
There had to be a key somewhere.
She glanced at the figure of the policewoman and then scuttled across to her, sliding her hands into the pockets of Lucy's skirt.
Nothing.
She tried the blouse which was also flecked with blood.
There were two keys inside one of the breast pockets.
Julie took them both and hurried back outside, pushing first one then the other into the lock which secured the gate.
The second turned easily.
She pulled open the gate and peered out.
There was a path leading along the back of the houses. It looked clear.
As she pushed the gate shut behind her, from inside the house Julie heard the phone ringing.
'Come on, darling,' she said, looking down at Lisa.
'Where are we going, Mum?'
'Away. Just away.'
They began walking.
Waterloo was only a couple of streets away.
Inside the house the phone continued to ring.
2.34 P.M.
Doyle glanced around the room and guessed that there were fifty or more journalists inside.
Four rows of plastic seats had been hastily arranged before a long table, itself raised on a small plinth. There were notepads on the table, pens, glasses and a jug of water.
He counted three camera crews, their powerful lights trained on the raised table.
Microphones had been propped up close to the desk, a maze of cables running from them.
Every now and then a flash would burst into life, adding even more light to the room. Photographers checked their cameras, reporters scribbled on pads.
Others stood around talking loudly, many checking their watches.
Doyle did the same.
Three minutes past the deadline.
It looked as if Neville had kept his word and not detonated the next bomb.
Not yet anyway.
Units of armed police had been despatched to Hyde Park and its surrounding areas, all with orders not to shoot even if Neville put in an appearance.
If they killed him, no one would be able to find the other bombs.
'The big one goes up at eight.'
Doyle could still hear Neville's words ringing in his ears.
How big?
And where?
Doyle looked anxiously at his watch, his eyes scanning the assembled throng of media.
Like flies round shit.
They smelled blood on this one. And if Neville kept up the way he'd been going, they'd do more than fucking smell it.
A door to the left of the room opened and Doyle watched as Calloway and Mason strode inside in the wake of a powerfully built man with hands like ham hocks.
Commissioner Frank O'Connor sat down and poured himself a glass of water.
'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he began, his voice heavily tinged with a Scots accent. 'I would ask you to be brief with your questions after I've read our official statement. Time is the most important factor in this case.' He gestured towards his two subordinates. 'Detective Inspector Calloway and Detective Sergeant Mason are heading the investigation, you may wish to address some points to them when they're ready. As I said, the most important thing about this press conference is that it is kept brief.'
The room was filled with blinding light as a dozen camera flashes lit up.
'Two bombs have exploded in the centre of London today,' O'Connor began. 'One at 12.31 p.m. in Piccadilly and a second at 1.31 p.m. in Golden Square. Casualties so far are twenty-one dead and forty-seven injured.'
'What about the explosion in London Road this morning?' a voice from the back asked.
O'Connor looked up irritably.
'There were no casualties caused by that blast,' he snapped. 'Returning to the statement.' He scratched his chin with his finger. 'An investigation is in progress.' The big Scot put down the statement and sipped from his glass.
A cacophony of shouts filled the room.
More camera flashes.
Doyle saw a television cameraman move closer to the table behind which the three policemen sat.
'Is it terrorists?' someone shouted
'No,' O'Connor said flatly.
'How can you be sure? What if it's the IRA?' another voice echoed.
'We have evidence to suggest that it is definitely not a terrorist group,' the Commissioner said.
'Who is responsible? Do you have a suspect?' a voice close to Doyle called.
'Yes, we do. As far as we know one man is responsible for these bombings.'
'What's his name?' someone else called.
'I'm not prepared to release that information yet,' O'Connor announced.
