‘Well, fortunately, neither am I,’ I said, watching the head of the monster with trepidation. ‘Real animals are scary enough. I have no idea why any people would want to dream up even more monstrous creatures, and for a celebration, to boot. Give me a nice, quiet suffragist demonstration any day…’
‘If you’re quite finished, we should get going.’ Mr Ambrose jerked his head in the direction of number 97. ‘Or we will get shot in spite of the performance of our Chinese friends, and I’d hate to have spent enough money for an entire dragon and twenty-four pairs of legs for nothing.’
Without waiting for my response, he whirled. Drawing his cloak in closely around himself, he started across the street. Crouching low, he stayed out of the light of the street lamps, jumping from shadow to shadow. Karim followed without hesitation.
I gazed at the thirteen steps or so that separated me from number 97 with trepidation. At any one of the thirteen steps I would have to take, I might get shot. I wondered what it would feel like, having a bullet pierce my flesh. Yet - the longer I stood here wondering, the more likely I would be to find out. And he was already halfway across.
You don’t really have a choice, do you?
I threw myself forward.
When I had just taken my first step, I thought I saw a glint on the rooftop of number 97, and my heart almost stopped. The barrel of a gun! I expected the crack of the shot, the bullet hitting me - nothing came. It must simply have been a drainpipe, glinting in the moonlight.
Ten steps left.
Inwardly, I cursed the London authorities for making this road so damnably wide. Couldn’t they have reduced the size a bit? Couldn’t they have felt compassion for poor girls who were running across the street in the darkness, hoping not to get shot by villainous assassins? I was sure if there had been a woman on the planning committee, she would have thought of it! It was such an obvious point to consider in city planning.
Seven steps left.
Every time one of my feet hit the ground it sounded like a drumbeat in my ear. I wondered at the fact that the men on the roof hadn’t heard it yet and put a nice, round hole into me. But in reality, the clash of the cymbals and dozens of thundering feet on the opposite side of the building were probably more than covering the noise of my advance.
But they could still see me, if they were not looking the other way. I drew the mottled cloak tighter around me, though I could not really believe in its powers of disguise. It was only a cloak, after all…
Three steps left.
I surged forward with renewed effort. In front of me, I could see Mr Ambrose and Karim appearing out of the gloom. They were pressed against the brick wall of number 97. Closing my eyes, I leapt forward. If I was to get shot at the last moment, I didn’t want to see the blood.
I slammed into something hard - much harder than a brick wall! From above me, I heard a sharp exhalation, and then, suddenly, a set of arms was around me, pulling me to a chest that felt wonderfully familiar.
Well, maybe that’s because you’ve been pressed up against it twice already in the last hour!
This time, he wasn’t holding me to shut my mouth, though, and my back wasn’t to his front. Instead, the hard muscles of his chest were pressed more tightly against mine than they had ever been before. He was holding me so tightly, I thought he didn’t ever want to let go again. I would not have minded if he never did. I felt so overjoyed to still be alive, and here, and with him…
A strange feeling flooded my body. A feeling of heat and weakness and wanting… something. From one moment to the next, I went limp in his arms, collapsing against his chest with a faint sigh.
What the hell is happening? Lilly to legs: start working again, now! Right now, do you hear me?
Above me, I heard him catch his breath. And then, something happened which I would never have thought possible, certainly not here. Not now. His hands started roaming over my body, expertly probing my face, my neck, my arms, my… oh my!
My heart beginning to beat a frantic rhythm, my legs wobbled and almost gave way. His hands travelled farther down, over my waist, down my hips and to my legs… wait a minute! What did he want down there?
My eyes fluttered open, just in time to see him straighten and give me a cold, questioning glance. ‘Why did you sag against me?’ he demanded in a low, burning cold voice. ‘I have checked everywhere and cannot detect a single sign of a shot wound! Have you sprained your ankle?’
Checking for shot wounds? He was checking for shot wounds?
‘Um… no.’ Hurriedly, I straightened, hoping that with my tanned complexion and in the gloom of night, nobody could see my furious blush. ‘I was just exhausted from the run, I suppose.’
He made a soft noise in his throat that combined a minimum use of his vocal cords with a maximum of male scorn. Then he turned to Karim, who had been watching everything with narrowed eyes. The minute Mr Ambrose turned towards him, his features became as neutral as Switzerland, though they remained considerably hairier.
Mr Ambrose didn’t speak, but made a few, quick, hard gestures with his hand. Obviously, they must have meant something to Karim, who unslung the bag from over his shoulder and opened it. From its depth, he retrieved… was it a rifle? My eyes widened.
Is he going to shoot at the guards on the wall?
But no. Mr Ambrose was many things, but not a fool. And now that Karim lifted the thing up, I could see more clearly. Contrasted against the moon that rose above the roofs to the north, I could see that, while the object had the same basic shape as a rifle, two slightly curved arms extended from it, one on each side.
And there was something pointy at the end, some kind of arrow with a strange head. What in heaven’s name…
Twang!
With a sharp snapping noise, the strange arrow flew upwards and over the wall. Behind it, a sort of tail was flailing in all directions. No - no tail, a rope!
I had to strain my ears to hear the dull thud as the arrow landed beyond the wall. And even so, I only heard it because I knew it was coming. The racket from the other side of the building was still overwhelming.
Mr Ambrose made another one of his cutting, silent gestures. I raised an eyebrow, quizzically.
‘That means “move”,’ he hissed. ‘Now move.’
Oh, I bet he wished he could use that strange sign language in the office! Then he wouldn’t have to talk to me at all, or write, but could just order me about with a twitch of his hand. And what did he mean, move? Move where?
Karim was in motion already. With two steps he was at the rope. Giving it a hearty tug, he tested whether it sat well. Apparently not displeased, he gripped it with both hands.
For the first time, the significance of the rope hit me. Blimey! He was expecting me to climb up there?
Bracing his massive legs against the wall, the Mohammedan began to climb, determinedly. Soon, he had vanished into the darkness above me. Mr Ambrose followed, swift and graceful. And I…
Well, I followed, too. Probably more determined than swift or graceful.
After only half a yard or so, my arms began to scream in protest. My palms were on fire, bitten with the hot teeth of the coarse rope from which I hung like a leg of mutton from a meat hook. Clenching my teeth and ignoring the pain, I took one of my hands from the rope and reached upwards. Thank God I was wearing men’s clothes! The weight of my usual collection of petticoats would have been enough to drag me to my doom.
Halfway up the rope I decided that, yes, my derrière was too fat. I really had to do something about it. Not for the sake of appealing to Mr Ambrose! No, not at all! Simply for the sake of rope climbing. Maybe I should eat less solid chocolate…
Three quarters of the way up, I looked towards the sky, only to see Mr Ambrose’s face above me. He made another sign at me, which I immediately understood: Hurry up! What are you dangling down there for?