by Robert Thier
Another moment of silence.
A long one.
A really, really long one.
Then his weight was suddenly lifted off me, and his arms were gone. I gasped with surprise.
‘You’re right of course,’ I heard his voice from high above. ‘We have to get moving. I must have received a blow on the head when falling to the floor and been temporarily stunned. That is the only explanation for such unforgivable inactivity. Now… let’s see…’
I could feel him climb past me, back into the metal container of the cart, and had to fight hard to suppress a sense of stinging disappointment. But why? Having a man so close had been highly improper, and against my every principal and yet…
And yet, now that he was gone I wished him back. Bloody hell!
‘Mr Linton! Look what I’ve found!’ His shout roused me from my dangerously unfeminist thoughts.
‘I can’t look,’ I pointed out, turning towards where his voice had come from. ‘It’s dark.’
‘Actually, I was aware of that, Mr Linton.’ Suddenly, a light flared up, making me raise my hand instinctively to shield my eyes.
‘How…?’ I demanded, grasping for the edge of the cart for balance. The bright yellow shine forced its way through my fingers and, after the long time spent in utter blackness, almost made me dizzy.
‘There is a wooden case with spare equipment attached to the back of the cart,’ I heard the voice of Mr Ambrose from beyond the golden glow. ‘A safety lamp, knife, flint, food, water - you can say what you like about Lord Dalgliesh…’
‘Really? Well, then I’d like to point out that he is a pretentious, lying, bloodthirsty ball of slime!’
‘That was not meant as a prompt, Mr Linton.’
‘Oh. Sorry, Sir.’
‘As I was saying, say what you like about Lord Dalgliesh, but he does take all possible safety precautions. And this time, they work to our advantage.’
Slowly, I lowered my hands from my eyes and let my eyes get used to the brightness. Slowly, I looked around, and for the first time since starting on this mad, muscle-tearing ride, actually paid attention to my surroundings.
The orange glow of the safety lamp fell on rugged stone walls rushing past at a prodigious speed. They rose up about three meters, forming a vaulted ceiling above our heads. Both in front of and behind us, the tunnel disappeared into seemingly endless darkness, not giving away any of its secrets about where it would lead. For the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care very much, as long as it brought us away from hostile men with guns. What I did care about was the ice-cold wind in my face, making my sweat-drenched clothes feel as if they would freeze any second.
My teeth began to chatter.
All right, maybe I cared a little bit.
‘Come.’ Suddenly, Mr Ambrose was beside me, nodding towards the rear of the cart. ‘Get into the container. It will shield you from the wind.’
He was right. The metal was cold to sit on, but it was a relief to have the biting wind out of my face. And there was an old sack in the metal container. The material was rough, but warm, and we huddled together, pulling it around us.
‘Where do you suppose the tunnel leads?’ I asked, after a while.
‘As I said before, I smelled sea-air from down there. I still catch a whiff of it now and again. Also, the tunnel is going down, and we started at the centre on the island, inside a mountain. This all would support my theory that the tunnel leads to the coast.’
As the last words left his mouth, the scene around us suddenly changed. Where before there had only been the stone walls of the tunnel rushing past, there now gaped a black opening. For just a moment I glimpsed another tunnel, and another set of rails splitting off from the ones we were riding on and heading down the other way. It was gone as quickly as it had come.
I hesitated for a moment.
‘And how do you know that that wasn’t the way which leads to the coast?’ I asked, my voice unusually timid.
‘I don't.’ His voice wasn’t timid at all. It was as cool and composed as a cucumber on ice. ‘But since this car does not have brakes and is going too fast for us to change direction, it is of little consequence. Cheese?’
‘Excuse me, Sir?’
‘I asked you whether you want some cheese.’ He held out a piece of something yellowish towards me. ‘Or bread. There are some emergency rations in the container in which I found the lamp.’
Again, I hesitated. We were supposed to be in a desperate rush to escape our enemies. That hardly seemed the right time to be eating cheese. But then, I had worked harder today than ever before in my life, and a chocolate croissant wasn’t much to go on.
‘Some bread, please, Sir.’
‘Here.’
He handed me a neatly cut-off piece, and took another for himself. We sat in the semi-darkness and ate in silence. The bread was dark and coarse, but I didn’t really mind. It was hearty and gave me new energy.
Only after a while did I notice that Mr Ambrose was watching me. In the shadowy half-light, the planes of his perfect, stony face stood out more sharply than ever. The look in his dark eyes as he watched me nibbling on a piece of cheese made my skin tingle.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘What is what, Mr Linton?’
‘Why are you looking at me like that? And don’t you dare deny it, because you are looking at me, and not like you normally look at me.’
‘Indeed?’ He cocked his head. ‘How do I normally look at you?’
‘Like you want to strangle me and ship my body to Antarctica. And don’t try to distract me! I want to know why you were staring at me!’
Silence.
‘Why were you staring at me? Please, Sir?’
‘Well…’ His cool voice was hesitant, his eyes calculating. ‘You don't seem to mind the bread much. Most ladie- most people like you would have turned their nose up at brown bread.’
My lips twitched. ‘Most ladies? Was that what you were going to say?’
Silence.
I shrugged. ‘Most ladies would have turned up their nose at being shot at, too.’
‘I imagine so, Mr Linton.’
Was the scant light playing tricks on me? Yes, that had to be it! How else could it be that I thought one corner of Mr Ambrose’s mouth turned up into a quarter-smile, for just a second?
‘I’m used to tough food, Sir. I live with my uncle, and the only thing he ever puts on the table are potatoes, bread and cheese.’
‘Sounds like a sensible man, your uncle.’
‘He’s one of the greatest misers in the world. You’d like him.’
Again I saw that trick of the light, that play of the safety lamp’s illumination on Mr Ambrose’s face that made it almost seem as if he were smiling. Quickly, I looked away.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘this is not at all how I imagined a mine cart chase.’
‘How did you imagine it, Mr Linton?’
‘I don't know. More exciting. Less… cheesy.’ Ponderously, I took another bite. The cheese really tasted quite good, once you got used to it. Those French really had a culinary talent.
‘Well, I think I can promise you some excitement soon enough,’ Mr Ambrose told me, drily. ‘Once we reach the end of the tunnel, we have to manage to get on a ship before they catch up with us. If we don't get to one in time…’
His voice trailed off. But I didn’t need him to finish the sentence. I knew.
We lapsed into silence for a while. I was busy with eating, and Mr Ambrose, who only took an occasional bite now and then, seemed to be very busy staring at the tunnel floor, as if the stone whizzing by told a fascinating story.
‘I was right,’ he said, suddenly. ‘This tunnel leads to the sea. We are not that far away from the exit anymore.’
Startled, I looked up.
‘How do you know?’
‘Do you see this? And this?’ He pointed at the floor, and I barely managed to catch a blurry glimpse of a small stone before we rushed p
ast.
‘What about it? Looked just like a pebble to me.’
The cool look he gave me made me shut my mouth.
‘This “pebble” was quartzite - not the same type of stone as the mountain around us. Such pebbles are only found on beaches. They must have been accidentally carried up by soldiers who passed this way from further down, because up at the mountain there was not a single quartzite anywhere in sight.’
He sounded as if he had spent his life burrowing through all kinds of different rock and knew all of them by name. I wanted to open my mouth to argue, but then I remembered the ease with which he had pushed the mining cart, his familiarity with the functioning of a draisine, and I shut my mouth again. Somehow, I was suddenly certain he knew what he was talking about. If you looked at his chiselled granite face, you simply had to believe that he knew all there was to know about stone.
‘But will we get to the exit fast enough?’ I asked. ‘Before Dalgliesh’s men catch up with us?’
‘As I said, Mr Linton, we have a good head start.’
‘But don't you think they’ll catch up with us quickly once they’ve pushed their cart to the top and roll downhill, after us?’ I asked. ‘After all, they’re three, and we’re only two. Their added weight should make them move a lot faster.’
‘Yes, they are three, and we are only two, that is true,’ agreed Mr Ambrose. ‘But still, the difference in weight might not be as great as you might ima-’
He eyed me, and then suddenly lapsed into silence. A very lengthy silence, and, for him, a very healthy one. Had he continued his sentence, I would not have been responsible for my actions. I gave him my most fiery glare.
‘There will be a difference in weight,’ I huffed, and pushed him away, sliding out from under the sack. ‘A very great difference in weight. Just you wait and see, they will catch up with us fast!’
*~*~**~*~*
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.
I glared morosely at the tunnel walls, doing my best to avoid looking at him.
‘Do you hear anything?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘I could have sworn I heard voices behind us!’
‘I didn’t hear anything, Mr Linton.’
Silence.
‘They should have caught up with us long ago. How long has it been since we left them behind?’
‘Exactly twenty-five minutes and thirty-seven seconds, Mr Linton.’
‘It can’t be that long already!’
‘But it is, Mr Linton.’
Silence. Calm silence from him, grumpy silence from me.
Suddenly, my ears pricked up.
‘Do you hear that?’ I demanded.
‘Mr Linton, I told you, they are not-’
‘Not from behind! From there!’ Anxiously, I clambered to my feet and pointed into the darkness ahead of us - only that it was not complete darkness anymore. There was a tiny point of light moving towards us, getting bigger as it approached. But not white light. Not the light of day.
Suddenly, Mr Ambrose appeared beside me. His eyes were as dark as the bottom of the ocean, his mouth pressed into a grim line. Well, it was always pressed into a grim line, but now it was a very, very grim line.
‘What do you think it could be?’ I asked.
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I suddenly heard the noise I had been both dreading and hoping for: the faint squeak of a mine cart’s wheels! But it wasn’t coming from behind. It was approaching from ahead of us, from where the light was.
‘Prepare yourself,’ Mr Ambrose commanded, reaching into his jacket and drawing out something hard and shiny. I only caught a glimpse of the metal barrel of a gun before it disappeared again, hidden behind his left hand, where it was easily accessible. ‘We will have company, soon.’
Shots in the Dark
‘You have a firearm?’ I demanded, my breath catching. He regarded me with supreme disdain. ‘Sir,’ I hurriedly tagged on.
‘Of course I have a firearm, Mr Linton. Do you think I would go into a situation such as this without being prepared?’
‘But why didn’t you use it on the soldiers before?’
‘Because they had long-range weapons and could have shot me long before I could have returned the favour. You don't bring a rifle on an infiltration. It is cumbersome and slow to load. This,’ he patted the weapon hidden behind his hand, ‘is a Colt Paterson improved model prototype with loading lever, 36 calibre. If our friend there,’ he nodded towards the approaching light, ‘gets close enough, he will be swiftly and terminally perforated.’
‘Meaning, Sir?’
‘Meaning that I will put a hole in his head, Mr Linton.’
I threw a worried glance at the walls of the tunnel, which were still rushing past in a blur, then directed my gaze at the light that was approaching alarmingly fast.
‘I hope we survive long enough to have to worry about fighting him. If we keep going at this pace, we'll probably die when we ram into him. We’re moving too fast and, as you said, this thing has got no brakes.’
‘I doubt it’ll come to a collision. Look.’ And he raised the safety lamp high over his head, pointing to something beside the cart I hadn’t seen before: a set of tracks, running parallel to our own.
‘Why have two sets of rails in a mine?’ The confusion in my voice was evident.
‘One for sending up the salt, one for sending down empty carts again. It makes sense.’
‘Well… I suppose you’re right. And you think he’s on the other set of tracks?’
‘Yes. But…’
‘But what, Sir?’
‘But be ready to jump, just in case I’m wrong.’
How very comforting.
As we raced closer, I could see that indeed he was not on another set of tracks. But there was no need for me to jump, either. Long before we reached the other mining cart, the tracks flattened out. We began to slow down, rolling along the track at a leisurely pace. Now we could see that the other mining cart hadn’t, in fact, been moving towards us - it had only seemed that way because we had been catching up so fast. It was, in fact, moving in the same direction as we, only at a considerably slower pace. A single, rather fat man, whose red uniform and bushy white beard made him look distinctly harmless, was gripping the handle of the draisine. As we came nearer, he raised his hand.
Mr Ambrose raised a hand, too - the one with his gun in it.
I noticed just in time to grab it and push it down again.
‘No!’ I hissed.
He gave me a don’t-interrupt-my-important-business look, which I completely ignored. I clung to his arm tenaciously. ‘Why not, Mr Linton?’
‘Because he hasn't got a gun in his hand, Sir!’
‘He might be going for one, Mr Linton.’
‘Then wait until he does, Sir. You can’t shoot an unarmed man!’
‘That, Mr Linton, is usually the wiser and more effective policy.’
‘Ahoy there,’ the man called, waving genially in our direction. ‘Caught up to me and my little ship on wheels, have you? Well, I ain’t the fastest, I got to admit that.’
‘See? He didn’t want to shoot! He just wanted to wave at us.’
‘For now, Mr Linton.’
Suddenly, the old soldier let go of the end of the see-saw with which he had been pushing along his cart and jumped off.
‘I’m going to take a little rest and have my supper,’ he announced, appearing perfectly content to let the draisine stand where it was. ‘Want to join me?’
I looked at Mr Ambrose.
‘Don’t even think about saying yes, Mr Linton,’ he hissed. ‘We’re being chased by a whole army of soldiers! We don't have time for supper!’
‘I wasn’t going to say yes, Sir,’ I snapped back, miffed. ‘I was going to ask how we'll get past him without arousing suspicion! He’s blocking the way!’
‘I had noticed as much, Mr Linton. Do you still object to my shooting him?’
‘Yes!’
M
r Ambrose gnashed his teeth in silence, and didn’t answer. It was obvious that of all the dangers that we could encounter on our wild chase for survival, he hadn’t factored in a jolly old fellow asking us to stop for supper. Well, neither had I, to be perfectly honest. You just didn’t reckon with those kinds of things when you were hunted by a horde of evil villains. Everybody was supposed to be chasing after you in a panic, not cheerfully unpacking sausages and a bottle of ale.
The white-bearded fellow pulled out a second bottle from the sack slung over his back and held it out to us. We were only a few yards away from him now, and our draisine slowly came to a halt.
‘Want to try it? It’s a damn fine brew, if I do say so myself. The name’s Ben, by the way.’
‘No!’ Mr Ambrose bit out, jumping off the draisine and striding towards the old man.
‘I assure you, it is. My mother picked it out. Father was never the creative one, so she picked all our names. Ben for me, and Tom and Elsie for my-’
‘I meant,’ Mr Ambrose said, enunciating each arctic syllable, ‘no thank you, I do not wish to partake of your alcoholic drink. And neither does my friend. Will you be so kind as to move your mine cart out of the way, so we can continue? We have schedule to keep.’
‘Oh, today’s youth!’ Old Ben sighed and took a large swig of ale. ‘Always in a hurry, always in a hurry. You got to take a breath, youngsters, and learn how to relax. All this panicking will kill you before you get old, you know.’
‘Actually,’ I said, throwing an anxious glance over my shoulder, ‘we’re trying to avoid getting killed before we’re old.’
Old Ben didn’t seem to hear that. He was busy carving up a sausage, holding one slice out to Mr Ambrose, who looked down at it as if it were a rotten rat’s carcass.
‘I really must insist, Sir, that you-’ he began.
‘There they are!’
The shout cut him off abruptly and made us all look back up the hill, from where we had come. There was a yelp from old Ben, who had probably cut his finger instead of the sausage. But I didn’t pay attention, nor did Mr Ambrose. We only had eyes for the draisine with all three soldiers on board, racing downhill at a dangerous tempo.
Dangerous for them, and for us.
