‘So, what will happen, Sir?’
‘Either the crate is opened by a single soldier, or unarmed worker - in which case, we will overpower him and try to make our escape; or it is opened in the presence of Lord Dalgliesh - in which case, we die.’
‘Oh.’
‘Bravely, of course.’
‘Certainly, Sir.’
‘At least I will. You, of course, have my permission to die cowardly, Mr Linton.’ The unspoken words ‘You are a girl, after all,’ hung in the air. Suddenly, I didn’t feel as much like kissing him as I had a moment ago. Withdrawing my arms from around him, I crossed them in front of my chest, shoving him away. My elbow might have grazed his cheek in the process, purely accidentally.
‘No, thank you!’ I growled. ‘I’ll go for the brave option, if you don't mind, Sir.’
His words echoed in my head: in which case, we die… in which case, we die…
A shiver ran down my spine, half born of fear, half of… wanting?
Not wanting to die, of course. No. I was shivering because I wanted something else entirely - or rather, someone.
If I was going to die anyway, what was the sense in resisting? The silence expanded around the two of us, and in the stillness and the dark I felt him more strongly than ever before. If we were going to die, what was the sense in my keeping my self-esteem? My dignity? Dignity was no good to a corpse. But to spend the last few hours of my life in the arms of another human being, warm and comforting…
Except that he isn’t warm. He’s cold as ice. He feels nothing for you. And you should not feel anything for him. You can’t!
Suddenly, it came. The first wave was almost imperceptible, a gentle swell that hardly moved us, cushioned as we were by the wood wool. But then came another, and another. The rocking intensified. My breath hitched, as I could feel his body press into mine, and draw back. Press down, draw back. Press down, draw back.
‘W-what is that?’ I asked, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.
‘The sea,’ he said, cool and resigned. ‘We have left the Thames and are now out in the Channel.’
Blast it!
I never liked that darned piece of sea! Why couldn’t England be part of the Continent, like every other decent European country? It was simply not fair, the tortures that were inflicted on poor people trying to cross the Channel stacked on top of each other in a small wooden crate!
The motion of the waves grew ever stronger, pressing me against Mr Ambrose with a devilish, regular rhythm. Blood thrummed in my ears, and my breathing became laboured.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Y-yes, Sir?’
‘Are you sure you do not suffer from fever? Your skin is getting hot again.’
‘N-no, Sir. I’m perfectly fine.’
Desperately, I grasped around for something to talk about, something to distract me, so I would not succumb. But there was nothing. Nothing I wanted to say, or do, or know…
Wait a moment. That wasn’t strictly true. There was something I wanted to know. Something I wanted to know badly enough to even drive thoughts of Mr Ambrose from my mind for a few precious moments.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ My voice was unsteady.
He turned his head towards me without bothering to lift it from my chest. I could fell his chin press into my soft flesh.
‘Yes, Mr Linton?’
I could feel the breath of his words on my face, smell his scent of rough soap and too much money. What had I been about to ask again? And was it really that important…? I could just surrender and…
No!
‘I just wondered, Sir… the centre of the world. What is it? I mean, if we are going to die in any event, you can tell me, right?’
Silence. Silence and darkness. The only other sensation was the feeling of his closeness: omnipresent, omnipotent, omniinconvenient.
Damn him! Why wouldn’t he tell me, even now? What could be so important that he wouldn’t divulge it even at the brink of my, and his own, destruction?
‘Tell me!’
Nothing but silence. I could feel myself yielding, feel my arms snaking around him again, my lips moving closer to his. What did it matter if I betrayed my principles? What would it matter if he pushed me back, laughed at me, mocked me? At least I would get to taste his lips again. Nobody would ever know.
Wrong. You would know. You would regret.
Still, my lips moved ever closer to their destination. I could feel his breath on my tongue now, so close was I.
‘Tell me!’ I whispered, in a last, desperate attempt to distract myself, though at this point I wasn’t sure that even the long-sought mystery of the centre of the world would hold me back. ‘Please. Don’t people who are condemned to death usually get a last wish before they die? Well, I have one.
Kiss me.
No!
‘Tell me. Please. Tell me what the file I’m going to die for is about.’
A shudder went through his still form.
‘You want to know what the file contains?’ Some part of me marvelled how he managed to keep his voice calm and controlled, even at such a moment as this. ‘You want to know what the centre of the world is, Mr Linton? Fine! I’ll tell you…’
Lessons in Power
‘The centre of the world is a canal. A canal in Africa.’
It took a few moments for his words to register. Had he really… had he really just said that? That couldn’t have been the truth! He had to have told me a joke just now, right?
Stupid question. This was Mr Ambrose.
He had been serious. Absolutely serious.
My hands flew up to grasp his collar, and not with the intention of kissing him. I started to shake him like a rattle.
‘What? A canal? I have been risking my life for a bloody irrigation ditch?’
His hands shot up to grasp mine, and ripped them off his collar. There was the sound of tearing cloth.
‘That uniform cost one pound and ten shillings, Mr Linton! And the tailcoat underneath was almost new!’
‘It was ten years old, you blasted miser! Ten years old is not almost new!’
I tried to kick out at him, but he captured my well-aimed knee between his legs. Next I tried to butt heads, but he ducked to the side.
‘That is a matter of opinion, Mr Linton. I shall deduct the cost for repairing the collar from your wages.’
‘You’re never going to pay me any wages, you son of a bachelor, because we'll never get out of this alive! And for what? A bleeding, stinking irrigation ditch!’