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‘You’re damn right I’m not!’
‘Slaves don’t complain as much as you do. Besides, their fortunate owners are allowed to use whips on them.’
‘You bloody bas…!’ My voice failed me. This was too much! I should go and chuck everything… No! No, that was what he wanted. He wanted to make me angry, to make me quit. I would not!
‘There’s another reason why I’m not your slave,’ I said, sweetly. ‘Do you want to hear it?’ Silence. A triumphant smile spread across my face. ‘Unlike a slave,’ I cooed, ‘you have to pay me for my work.’
More silence. Ha! That had shown him!
I started to pace up and down in the hallway. From time to time, Mr Stone threw me a half-anxious, half-curious look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cheque for two pounds and four shillings sticking out from under his paperweight. Apparently, Mr Ambrose didn’t make quite as much trouble before paying him. Ha!
Finally, I returned to the door, and knocked. Or maybe ‘hammered’ would be a better word.
‘Let me in!’
‘Four minutes and fifty-five seconds.’
‘Let me in, blast you!’
‘Four minutes and fifty-three seconds.’
‘Gah!’
I resumed my march, my footsteps thudding a bit louder than before. Now and again, I muttered a few curses. If I only had a watch!
Well, that’s something for you to buy once you have your money, isn’t it?
Yes - once I had it! Which didn’t help me much now, did it?
When I at last returned to the door, I tried to not use it as a punching bag. Be calm, I told myself. Be calm. He wants to make you angry. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Sir? May I come in now, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘One minute forty-seven seconds.’
Be calm. Be calm. Be c-
Oh, to hell with it!
‘Let me in, blast you! Let me in, or I’ll beat this bloody door down!’
‘One minute and forty-three seconds.’
I went back to my pacing. The rest of my waiting time I alternated between fantasizing about the things I would buy, and fantasizing about strangling Mr Ambrose with a piece of washing line. In spite of these two very appealing scenarios, never had one minute and forty-three seconds felt so long. When finally I heard the bell of St Paul’s Cathedral strike the hour, I was quicker at the door than a thirsting lion at a Sahara waterhole.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, I demand that you-’
I was interrupted by the sound of the lock clicking. Slowly, the door swung open. In the doorframe stood Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his eyes as deep, cool and dark as I had ever seen them.
‘Come in, Mr Linton.’
‘Why, thank you, Sir.’
If he noticed the sarcasm dripping from my voice, he did not comment on it. He let me into his office and closed the door. Then he turned to face me.
‘Are you sure about this, Mr Linton?’
‘About finally getting money out of you? Hell, yes!’
