In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)

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…