‘I thought I told you to stay out of sight, Mr Linton.’
I cupped one hand behind an ear in a mock gesture. ‘Excuse me? The wind is so loud I hardly understand what you are saying. You want me to stay by your side?’
‘Out of sight, Mr Linton. Out - of - sight!’
‘By your side it is, then, Sir.’
Another shot whistled over our heads. Mr Ambrose didn’t move an inch. Only the barrel of his gun made a minuscule movement, going half an inch upwards. He didn’t look at me.
‘You, Mr Linton, are the most irritating personage I have ever encountered in my life. If you must risk getting shot, do it quietly. I am trying to concentrate.’
‘What are you doing, Sir?’
‘I mentioned quietude just now.’
‘I’ll be quiet if you tell me what you are doing.’
‘I am trying to shoot those inconsiderate gentlemen behind us.’
‘But I thought you said they were too far away to be hit with a revolver.’
Suddenly, an ear-splitting explosion jarred my skull. It threw me backwards so hard I smashed painfully into the wood of the draisine’s floor. If the other gunshots had been loud, this was beyond loud - because it came from right beside me. A flash of light flared up at the mouth of Mr Ambrose’s revolver, and from somewhere up the tunnel I heard a roar, mingled with curses.
Mr Ambrose turned to me, his sea-coloured eyes glinting in the gloom.
‘They were before,’ he said. ‘No longer. They’re catching up. Stay down!’
For once, I could find no words to reply. I didn’t know much about shooting, but I knew enough to guess that this had been one hell of a shot. A much better one than any city financier should be capable of. But then, I had already known that Mr Ambrose was more than that. Much more.
Two gunshots answered him out of the darkness. They slammed into the tunnel wall not far above our heads, and at the same moment, I saw grim satisfaction flashing in Mr Ambrose’s eyes.
‘Why do you look so content?’ I groaned. ‘They nearly hit us!’
‘Yes.’ With a soft click, he rotated the cylinder of his revolver. The next bullet was in place. ‘But only twice. The third man wasn’t shooting.’
The meaning of his words came to me in a rush - the man had to be gravely wounded - or dead. For a long moment, I wondered if that should bother me. It probably should. I knew that Ella would be weeping or screaming in terror in my place. But all I felt was… excitement.
‘Can you teach me to shoot like that?’
Mr Ambrose’s hand, resting on the wall of the metal container again, jerked, and his next shot flew wide of the mark.
‘What?’ he hissed.
‘Can you teach me to shoot? I’d like to learn.’
A shot hit the metal wall of the draisine, which reverberated like a church bell. Mr Ambrose ducked, as a second shot raced over his head.
‘You cannot be serious!’ he hissed.
‘Of course I am, Sir. Wouldn’t it be useful to have some more firepower right now?’
‘But you… you are a…’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing, Mr Linton.’
My eyes sparked.
‘You were about to admit that I am female!’
‘Nothing of the kind, Mr Linton.’
‘Stop with the Mister already! I am a girl! And girls could use guns just as well as men, if somebody took the trouble to teach them.’
Another shot hit the draisine. And another.
‘This is hardly the right time to discuss gender politics, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose glared at me with a cold intensity that would have sent a pack of lions running for the hills. I didn’t back down an inch.
‘Indeed? And why not, Sir?’
‘Because,’ he said in a deliberate voice, ‘we are about to reach the end of the tunnel. And when we do, we need to run.’
My head whirled around - and light stung my eyes.
He was right! I had been so focused on him and the men who were after us that I hadn’t noticed how the tunnel around us had become steadily brighter and brighter. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they had, I could make out a patch of bright blue. Sky? No, it glittered. The sea! The Mediterranean. Dear God, the tunnel didn’t open onto the sea, did it? I had a brief flash of Mr Ambrose and me plunging three hundred feet to our deaths, to provide a meal for the lobsters of the island, eager to take revenge on humans for the massacre the cooks of France had committed among their people. Not a jolly thought. Especially since I hadn’t eaten a single lobster in my life.
Suddenly, though, there was brown and green mixed in with the blue. I caught the blurred forms of bushes and grass. Grass didn’t grow on the Mediterranean. Huzzah!