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The voices from inside the factory were louder now. They weren’t murmurs, they were shouts and bellows and yells! Metal crashed against metal, and glass broke. Not far away, another boy darted over the courtyard. Raising a stone in his hand, he hurled it through one of the factory’s upstairs windows. It shattered, and there was a roar of approval.
Mr Ambrose didn’t slow his stride. He didn’t even hesitate.
I swallowed. ‘Um… Sir?’
‘Yes, Mr Linton?’
‘Don’t you think it might be wiser not to go in there?’
‘No, Mr Linton.’
‘Oh.’
He halted, then. He didn’t turn around, but simply said: ‘You can leave at any time, Mr Linton.’
My temper shot upwards. Against it, my good sense had no chance whatsoever! ‘Not on your sweet life! And not on mine, either!’
‘I see. Then let’s stop wasting time.’
We had nearly reached the door of the factory by then. It was a rough thing, two raw and splintery slices of wood forming the wings of the gate under a brick arch. There was no telling what colour the wood or bricks had been originally, so blackened and stained were they by soot. On the steps leading up to the door, there was a smear of some dark red liquid. So, all in all, it looked extremely cheery. There was probably a party with tea and cake waiting on the other side.
‘Death to the capitalists!’ came a shout from inside, seconded by a roar of approval.
Mr Ambrose nodded, thoughtfully gazing into the gloom beyond the entrance. ‘That would be me, I presume.’ And with that, he stepped into the factory.
Bloody stone-faced son of a bachelor! Does he think nothing can harm him? Is his brain made out of stone, too?
For a moment, I hesitated - then I hurried after him. Huzzah! Apparently, both our brains were made of stone. How wonderful!
Only a Factory Girl
Inside the factory, it was as dark as in a coalminer’s unwashed pants, and it smelled nearly as bad. The thick mix of smoke, sweat and unidentifiable filth in the air made me cough and cover my mouth and nose with my arm. Mr Ambrose seemed to suffer no such problems. He strode directly towards the large crowd of factory workers - men, women and children - gathered at one end of the hall.
No, not a crowd - a mob. They had all the paraphernalia essential to the modern, self-respecting mob: torches, axes, protest signs heavy enough to bash people on the head with and, most of all, bloodlust in their eyes.
‘…ain’t gonna suffer under the yoke of oppression any longer!’ one of the men who had climbed onto one of the machines was yelling. People all around him were nodding and cheering him on. ‘The pittance that bugger Ambrose pays us ain’t worth pissing for, let alone working!’
I winced.
The crowd cheered.
Mr Ambrose stared up at the man. Very intently. Very coldly.
‘We’ll have our due at last!’
More cheers.
Another wince.
More staring. Very, very cold staring. I wondered how the man was still able to move his arms. Hadn’t they frozen yet?
‘When that tosser Ambrose shows his bloody face here, I ain’t gonna be afraid of him! I’ll step up to him, and tell him to go bugger himself! Aye, I will!’
Oh dear…
There were more cheers from the crowd.
And then, someone cleared his throat. Technically, it shouldn’t even have been possible to hear it. The cheers were as thunderous as a hurricane. But this was a very special cough. Not the kind of cough you make when you have phlegm in your throat, oh no. It was a cough as cold as a knife blade, and cut through the cheers with ease. Slowly, they subsided, and everyone began to turn towards the cough’s originator.
