Oh, good. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘But we should be quick anyway, just in case I am mistaken.’
Not so good.
Mr Ambrose nodded to Karim. ‘You know what to do once we’re there?’
The mountainous Mohammedan nodded, patting the bag slung over his shoulder. Not for the first time, I wondered what was inside.
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Adequate.’ Mr Ambrose raised his watch again. ‘Brace yourselves. It will begin in ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… now!’
Nothing happened.
With an angry snap, Mr Ambrose shut his watch.
‘They’re late,’ he complained. ‘You can’t rely on anybody to be punctual anym-’
Suddenly, there was an almighty clash from the other side of the building. Screams pierced the night over the city. For a moment, I thought that some sort of street brawl had broken out.
Bloody hell! Has he hired people to attack Lord Dalgliesh’s guards? They’ll all be shot down!
But then the clash came again, and it didn’t sound like swords or guns - rather, like a cymbal.
An orchestra attack?
‘What the bloody hell…’ I started to whisper, but was cut off by more screaming. It didn’t exactly sound painful. If I had to choose an adjective, I would have said 'enthusiastic'. But that couldn’t be, could it?
Curiously, I peered around the cart. Coloured lights were visible around the corner of a house. It sounded like people were approaching. But… the sound of the footsteps wasn’t right. It didn’t sound like normal traffic, or even soldiers marching - more like people at a ball, dancing to a rhythm. But who would be crazy enough to stage a ball on a street in the middle of Chinatown, in front of a house with professional gunmen on the roof?
Who do you think?
The sound came nearer - and then, without warning, the head of a giant, red-golden beast appeared in the street. It was at least two yards high, with thick spikes on its forehead and snout. A livid red tongue protruded from its horrifying maul that could surely swallow a girl whole, and as it reared up into the air, a roar and renewed clashing cut through the dark night again.
The monsters eyes fixed directly on me.
I opened my mouth to scream - and a hand clamped down on my lips. ‘I said,’ I heard a very cool, controlled voice at my ear, ‘brace yourselves. That means no horrified screaming.’
‘Bmm! Hmpff!’
My attempts to warn him of the approach of the giant monster went unheard. He pressed down harder.
‘Look,’ he told me. ‘Look closely.’
No! I don’t want to look! I can’t even stand to look at that grey beast of a horse you own, and this - this is a thousand times worse! Run! Run for your life, you granite-headed idiot!
What apocalyptical demon had he set loose in the streets of London, while the unsuspecting public slept in their beds, and the police were nowhere to be seen?
‘Look, Mr Linton. That is an order.’
Unwillingly, I moved my eyes to rest on the red-and-golden monster. For a moment, I just stared in fear as the wild eyes moved from left to right and the head jerked in wild contortions. Then…
Then I saw the pair of legs protruding from the lower part of the head.
Dear, merciful God! Has the monster already devoured somebody?
But no. Those legs weren’t sticking out of the beast’s mouth. They were just protruding from the bottom of the head, as if a man were standing inside it, holding it up. For the first time, I noticed that the face of the beast was hard and immovable as wood, and that its tongue did not move, and neither did its jaws. I saw the glint of paint on its features, and it dawned on me that I might have slightly overreacted.
My body relaxed.
Mr Ambrose’s arms, still around me, did not.
And, for the second time in half an hour, I realized that I could feel his fingers on my lips, and his stone-hard, sinuous body pressed against my back. Suddenly, the fake monster was only a dim memory. Suddenly, I was wondering whether he remembered the last time, too, and what it felt like to him. My derrière was pressed very tightly against him, soft flesh against hard muscle. More soft flesh than was probably advisable. I found myself wishing that I had tied my corset a bit more tightly in that area.
Don’t be ridiculous, I chided myself. Why should you care what Mr Ambrose thinks about how you feel, or that he probably thinks your bottom is too fat?
Not that it was, mind you. A little on the generous side, maybe, but not fat. No, definitely not.
Mr Ambrose cut short my posterior musings by releasing me and stepping back.
‘Be quiet, Mr Linton,’ he warned me, his voice as cool as ever. No. He definitely hadn’t been thinking of anything… down there.