‘Yes!’
Mr 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.
Without wasting another word, Mr Ambrose stepped up beside old Ben’s draisine and heaved. With a strangled groan, half from his throat, half from the protesting metal and wood, the vehicle keeled over, and everything that had been inside toppled onto the tunnel floor.
‘Hey!’ Old Ben rose from his sitting position, waving his sausage around threateningly. ‘Now, look here young fellow, you can’t just…’
I didn’t hear any more. Mr Ambrose came running towards me. He jumped onto our draisine and uttered a single, decisive word: ‘Move!’
Knowing all too well what he meant, I jumped on, gripped one end of the see-saw, and pushed. We shot forward, past old Ben and his bloody sausage, towards… towards what? Freedom? Escape?
‘Get them! Get them!’
A shot whistled over my head, and I ducked, my heart hammering faster.
Well, at least we were rushing away from the heavily armed hunting party, that much was sure. The draisine tilted, and off we went down another decline.
‘Hands off the see-saw!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘Get down and stay out of sight!’
He didn’t follow his own advice. Instead, he knelt down right behind the mine cart container and laid the barrel of his gun on top of the metal, narrowing his eyes. I was beside him in a flash.
‘What are you doing, Sir?’ I demanded.
‘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.