In the Eye of the Storm

  Realization settled in.

  ‘You… you don’t mean that you are going to go there by yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God!’ I let out a breath of relief. ‘I thought for a moment-’

  ‘I won’t be by myself. You shall accompany me.’

  ‘What?’

  His gaze was a lance of ice, pinning me where I stood. ‘You heard me.’

  ‘But… but… there will be dozens of men there!’

  ‘No. Hundreds. Two hundred and thirty-seven, to be exact, not counting any females and juveniles.’

  ‘So don’t you think any trouble there will be dangerous? Whatever the trouble is, they’ll probably be angry!’ Because you have a talent for making people heat to boiling point.

  ‘I expect so,’ he told me, as cold as a cucumber in a barrel of ice at the North Pole. ‘I am certainly angry. They are lazing about while I pay them to work. And I intend to put a stop to that.’

  ‘But… bloody hell, this will be dangerous!’

  He raised the cudgel in his hand. ‘Did you think I took this for decoration?’ He took a step closer to me, cudgel still raised.

  ‘Well…’ Desperately, I floundered for something to say. On one level, I was excited. On another, I was something I would never admit being, even to myself. It started with a T, and continued with E, R, R, I, F, I, E, and D. ‘Don’t you have anything I could use as a weapon?’

  ‘I have an African hunting bow. But I imagine that’s not what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  He shrugged. But… was that a satisfied glint I saw in his dark eyes? ‘You’ll just have to rely on your fists, if it comes to a fight, Mr Linton. After all, you are as tough as any man, aren’t you?’

  The bloody son of a…!

  I opened my mouth to say something, but he was faster. He had crossed the distance between us with two long strides, and was suddenly towering in front of me, a column of iron encased in black cloth. His dark, sea-coloured eyes held mine captive.

  ‘Did you think working for me would be easy, Mr Linton? Did you think I didn’t mean what I said? This work is not for you! Or did you think being my secretary would mean sitting nice and snug in your warm office all day?’

  I had difficulties holding that powerful, dark gaze of his. Still, the corner of my mouth twitched up in an involuntary smile. ‘My office is freezing cold, Sir. All the rooms in the building are, because you don’t want to pay for gas or firewood.’

  His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. I could feel the tension in the air between us, crackling. ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Be silent!’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘And follow me!’

  ‘As you wish, Sir!’

  Going downstairs on Mr Ambrose’s heels was always a remarkable experience. He was the only man I’d ever met who had mastered the art of striding arrogantly down a staircase. How he managed it without knotting his legs or breaking his neck was beyond me.

  Today, however, I was more than a little distracted from the show by the fact that we were, very possibly, going to have our brains bashed in.

  You’re going to have another adventure! Admit it, you’re excited!

  Well, possibly, part of me was. Still, there was this other part that was the unspeakable T-word to which I would never admit.

  Blast him! Why did he have to do this just to get rid of me?

  But deep down, I knew he would do exactly the same if I weren’t there. He was that kind of man: ruthless, and not afraid to march headlong into danger. Blast him thrice to hell and back!

  Somewhere on the way down, I expected to be joined by others. If not by many people, at least by Mr Ambrose’s personal bloodhound Karim. But no one came. Was Karim still alive at all? I realized I hadn’t seen him since we had separated on Île Marbeau. I really hoped the grumpy bodyguard hadn’t gotten himself shot or drowned or dismembered. I would miss his disapproving glares. They made such a nice change from the disapproving glares I got from Mr Ambrose.

  But Karim was nowhere in sight. Mr Ambrose couldn’t really mean for us to do this all alone, could he?

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  ‘Where’s Karim?’ I burst out. ‘Isn’t he going with us?’

  Is he alive?

  He looked over his shoulder, his cold gaze bored into me. ‘Karim won’t be coming. He is trying to clamp down on that scandal at Speaker’s Corner, before any more rumours get spread all over London.’

  He’s alive! He’s alive! He - wait! What did he say?

  ‘Excuse me?’ I pictured the huge bodyguard, nearly seven feet tall even without his towering turban, a mountain of muscle and armed with a sabre that could easily sever limbs. ‘You employ Karim as your public relations man?’

  ‘No. I employ him as the man who scares people into keeping their mouths shut.’ And with that, he strode across the hall and out onto the street.

  Outside, I stopped to wait for a carriage. Mr Ambrose, however, strode off down the street. After a moment, I hurried after him.

  ‘Wait! Where’s the cab?’

  ‘Do you honestly think I would waste money on that?’

  ‘What? You mean we’ll have to walk all the way?’

  Without turning back to me, he waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s not far. And with the streets as crowded as they are we’ll be faster on foot in any case.’

  After about twenty minutes of brisk, silent marching, it had started to sink in that Rikkard Ambrose and I had very different ideas of the meaning of the words ‘not far’. My feet hurt worse than after hours of dancing, but I trudged on without complaint.

  You probably should be grateful he didn’t make you walk back all the way from Dover!

  Well, maybe so. But at the moment, gratitude was at the bottom of my things-to-feel list.

  Around us, the city slowly changed. Men’s and women’s clothes grew shabbier. Fancy carriages were replaced by carts and wagons full of goods. Then, the goods became fewer and fewer, and after another few minutes there weren’t even empty carts anymore. The smoke in the air grew thicker, and so did the crowds of people. Finally, we stepped into a street that was lined on both sides with large, flat buildings, their chimneys spewing clouds of black into the air. The high walls around them, some with iron spikes on top, didn’t exactly make our surroundings any more inviting.

  ‘Number twelve…’ Mr Ambrose murmured, his eyes raking searchingly over the façades. The numbers were hardly legible from here. ‘Which is number twelve…?’

  ‘How about that one?’ I panted, pointing to one of the walls, with the large red letters ‘Freedom for Workers!’ and ‘To Hell with the Rich!’ scrawled on the side.

  ‘A reasonable supposition, Mr Linton. Let’s go.’

  The door in the wall of that factory wasn’t closed like the others. As we approached, I could see it stood slightly ajar. Not just that, I could hear the murmur of voices inside. Voices - not the rattle of machines, even though it was the middle of a workday. My heart beat faster. Was this it? What was going on in there?

  Mr Ambrose seemed to feel none of my hesitation. He marched towards the gates with iron determination. He was just six steps away from the entrance when something whizzed through the air above him and knocked his top hat clean off his head.

  Mr Ambrose didn’t yelp, or curse, or jump. Instead, he froze and slowly turned up his face. I followed suit.

  On top of the factory wall - it was one of those without iron spikes on top - sat a small boy in grubby clothes and with a grubby face. He was grinning from ear to ear, and weighing a second stone in his hand. Immediately, my hands went up to clutch my hat.

  Mr Ambrose sent the boy a look that by all rights should have frozen him solid and knocked him off the wall. The little twerp must have been a tough nut, though, because all the look did was make him lower the stone a little bit. Without taking
his eyes off the boy, Mr Ambrose bent to pick up his hat. Carefully, he dusted it off and placed it on his head. Then, he focused his full intention on the miscreant again.

  ‘You!’

  Ignoring him, the little boy tossed his stone into the air and caught it.

  ‘You, up there on the wall! I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Get stuffed, you skanky tosser[8],’ the youth replied merrily.

  ‘I shall most certainly remain unstuffed,’ Mr Ambrose returned coolly. ‘Taxidermists[9] charge insufferable fees, nowadays. Now, tell me what is going on in there, in that factory!’

  The little boy beamed. Apparently, Mr Ambrose had hit upon his favourite subject.

  ‘We’re striking,’ he proudly proclaimed.

  ‘Striking?’ Mr Ambrose’s left little flinger twitched. His voice was as low and controlled as before, but that didn’t fool me. ‘Are you, now?’

  ‘Yes, guv! We’re fighting O-presh-ion and Ecs-ploi-tay-shion.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is! We’re fighting for our rights, you know, and for the first time really standing up to the bastard who owns this dump! Some rich bugger named Ambrose! ’e’s been making us slave for ’im for years for a pittance, and in all that time ’e never once dared to show his ugly mug ’ere!’

  Covering my mouth with my hands, I sent a prayer to heaven for the little boy who had just damned himself to a fate worse than death. Mr Ambrose cocked his head, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘So you don’t know what this Ambrose looks like, I assume?’

  The little boy made a dismissive gesture. ‘Ah, those rich buggers in their fancy clothes look all the same!’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Aye. I’m supposed to keep watch out ’ere, you know, for when he arrives in his fancy carriage and drags his fat paunch inside.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose little finger twitched again, and his eyes narrowed another micrometre. ‘Well, why don’t you keep on watching for Mr Ambrose’s fancy coach? I’m sure he’ll be along any minute to drag his fat paunch inside, as you so eloquently put it. Mr Linton and I will just go into the factory for a minute. We have a small matter to discuss with your fellow strikers.’

  Without waiting for an answer, Mr Ambrose shoved the gate wide open and strode inside. I, bloody fool that I was, hurried after him.

  Come on! Admit it! This will be fun!

  Yes, if we didn’t get torn to pieces…

  The voices from inside the factory were louder now. They weren’t murmurs, they were shouts and bellows and yells! Metal crashed against metal, and glass broke. Not far away, another boy darted over the courtyard. Raising a stone in his hand, he hurled it through one of the factory’s upstairs windows. It shattered, and there was a roar of approval.

  Mr Ambrose didn’t slow his stride. He didn’t even hesitate.

  I swallowed. ‘Um… Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Don’t you think it might be wiser not to go in there?’

  ‘No, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He halted, then. He didn’t turn around, but simply said: ‘You can leave at any time, Mr Linton.’

  My temper shot upwards. Against it, my good sense had no chance whatsoever! ‘Not on your sweet life! And not on mine, either!’

  ‘I see. Then let’s stop wasting time.’

  We had nearly reached the door of the factory by then. It was a rough thing, two raw and splintery slices of wood forming the wings of the gate under a brick arch. There was no telling what colour the wood or bricks had been originally, so blackened and stained were they by soot. On the steps leading up to the door, there was a smear of some dark red liquid. So, all in all, it looked extremely cheery. There was probably a party with tea and cake waiting on the other side.

  ‘Death to the capitalists!’ came a shout from inside, seconded by a roar of approval.

  Mr Ambrose nodded, thoughtfully gazing into the gloom beyond the entrance. ‘That would be me, I presume.’ And with that, he stepped into the factory.

  Bloody stone-faced son of a bachelor! Does he think nothing can harm him? Is his brain made out of stone, too?

  For a moment, I hesitated - then I hurried after him. Huzzah! Apparently, both our brains were made of stone. How wonderful!

  Only a Factory Girl

  Inside the factory, it was as dark as in a coalminer’s unwashed pants, and it smelled nearly as bad. The thick mix of smoke, sweat and unidentifiable filth in the air made me cough and cover my mouth and nose with my arm. Mr Ambrose seemed to suffer no such problems. He strode directly towards the large crowd of factory workers - men, women and children - gathered at one end of the hall.

  No, not a crowd - a mob. They had all the paraphernalia essential to the modern, self-respecting mob: torches, axes, protest signs heavy enough to bash people on the head with and, most of all, bloodlust in their eyes.

  ‘…ain’t gonna suffer under the yoke of oppression any longer!’ one of the men who had climbed onto one of the machines was yelling. People all around him were nodding and cheering him on. ‘The pittance that bugger Ambrose pays us ain’t worth pissing for, let alone working!’

  I winced.

  The crowd cheered.

  Mr Ambrose stared up at the man. Very intently. Very coldly.

  ‘We’ll have our due at last!’

  More cheers.

  Another wince.

  More staring. Very, very cold staring. I wondered how the man was still able to move his arms. Hadn’t they frozen yet?

  ‘When that tosser Ambrose shows his bloody face here, I ain’t gonna be afraid of him! I’ll step up to him, and tell him to go bugger himself! Aye, I will!’

  Oh dear…

  There were more cheers from the crowd.

  And then, someone cleared his throat. Technically, it shouldn’t even have been possible to hear it. The cheers were as thunderous as a hurricane. But this was a very special cough. Not the kind of cough you make when you have phlegm in your throat, oh no. It was a cough as cold as a knife blade, and cut through the cheers with ease. Slowly, they subsided, and everyone began to turn towards the cough’s originator.

  Mr Ambrose met their gazes steadily. Somehow, he managed to twirl his exotic, demon-faced club as if it were nothing but a simple walking stick. Somehow, he managed to make that effortless twirl seem like the most dangerous movement anyone had ever seen. Not even blinking once, he bent his head a fraction of an inch.

  ‘If I might introduce myself - Rikkard Ambrose, not at your service. You were waiting for me?’ His eyes focused on the man up on the machine, whose mouth was hanging open. ‘I believe you had something to say to me.’

  The man’s open mouth moved - but no sound came out. Mr Ambrose started forward, ignoring the mob. It parted for him, lowering torches and axes, some people trying to hide signs behind their backs. Mr Ambrose only stopped when he was standing directly in front of the man on the machine. Somehow, even though on his impromptu pedestal the worker stood far above his employer, it was Mr Ambrose who seemed taller.

  ‘Tell me what you have to say to me. I’m most interested to hear it.’

  Giving a little squeak, the man turned, jumped off the machine and vanished into the maze of mechanics behind him. I could hear the patter of his feet receding into the distance.

  Nodding to himself, Mr Ambrose turned to the rest of the crowd.

  ‘Now - does anybody else have something to say? What is the matter here?’

  Some shouts rose again, particularly from the back of the crowd, out of sight of Mr Ambrose.

  ‘Oppression! Against oppression!’

  ‘Down with the capitalists!’

  ‘Justice for-’

  Mr Ambrose let the flood build and wash over him. Then, when it had reached its highest point, he stepped forward and plucked a man out of the crowd, hauling him to the front, where everyone could see him.

  ‘Silence!’

  It wasn’t a roar,
not even a shout, but Mr Ambrose’s command had immediate effect. The crowd fell into silence, all staring at their employer and the man he had singled out at his victim. The man himself seemed to wish for the ability to crawl out of his own skin.

  ‘You. Tell me what seems to be the trouble. Slowly and clearly.’

  The man straightened. He didn’t want to be out here, but now that he was, it was clear he meant to die bravely in the face of the capitalist enemy.

  ‘We want more money!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir,’ he added as an afterthought. His demand was supported by shouts of ‘Yay!’ and ‘Hear, hear!’.

  Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘If you want more money, why are you standing around idly? You should be working! You’ll have to work at least two hours longer than usual to get more money out of me, and if you laze about now, you’ll have to do overtime until one in the morning.’

  The workers threw each other uncertain glances. Finally, the man facing Mr Ambrose gathered his courage. ‘Err… No, Mr Ambrose, Sir. You don’t understand. We want more money without doing overtime.’

  Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Do I understand you correctly? You want more money without working for it?’

  Colour was beginning to rise to the man’s cheeks. More people were beginning to lower their signs and hide them away. One man even tried to hide a burning torch behind his back, but stopped with a yelp when his trousers began to smoke.

  ‘Um… Aye, Sir.’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, man, this is a factory, not a charity. In a factory, you work to earn money. That’s what a factory is for.’

  ‘I know, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose clapped his hands. ‘Well, then that problem is solved. Back to work, everyone!’

  Again, the workers threw each other uncertain glances. Several of them actually turned and started back towards the machines. The voice of the man opposite Mr Ambrose halted them.

  ‘Stop, everyone! Stop, you bloody buggers! You’re not supposed to be working!’

  ‘Yes, they are, actually,’ Mr Ambrose contradicted him coolly.

  ‘No, they aren’t!’ The poor man sounded almost desperate now. ‘This is a strike! A strike for our rights, people, and you’re just going to let him talk you out of it?’