In the Eye of the Storm

by Thier, Robert

  No matter! Just keep busy, and don’t think!

  With flying fingers, I laced up the front of my dress, took a deep breath - and then made the mistake of looking in the mirror to check my appearance. I caught sight of my half-terrified, half-hopeful, half-angry expression. Can something have three halves, or is that impossible?

  Oh, to hell with mathematics!

  I could read the questions in my reflection’s eyes as clearly as if they were printed on the mirror’s surface: What will he say? What will he do?

  Don’t think, damn you! Keep busy!

  Whirling around, I marched to the window, threw it open and climbed down the ladder I had placed there last night before going to bed. I guess I could have gone out through the front door, but today I wasn’t in the mood to waste any time. I was heading straight towards what I was both anticipating and dreading more than anything else in the world. Putting it off would make it worse.

  Two minutes in the garden shed, and I emerged in my work clothes, out onto the street. Hailing a cab, I swung myself up inside and sank into the upholstery.

  ‘Where to, guv?’ the cabby called.

  ‘Empire House!’

  ‘In Leadenhall Street? The place where that posh bugger Ambrose lives?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it, exactly.’

  The whip cracked, and we shot forward. Only minutes later I climbed out of the cab in Leadenhall Street, the bastion of British commerce, Empire House rising right in front of me. Never had its huge portico, supported by two massive columns of grey stone, seemed less inviting than today.

  I raised my chin.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ I told the building.

  Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought I heard a faint answering growl.

  Ignoring my thumping heart, I marched up the stairs, right towards the maul of the beast. I arrived on the top step and pushed, forcing open the monster’s jaws, also known as doors. Cool, emotionless air with a familiar lack of smell drifted out to greet me. I swallowed and stepped in.

  The hall inside was just as I remembered it, and yet… different. More intense. Had there been quite so much activity when I had last been here? Hundreds of busy feet were pattering through the cavernous space. People were carrying files, delivering messages, and most of all, sweating their guts out for fear of the great master upstairs.

  I noticed everything with an almost supernatural focus. Sweat beaded on hundreds of foreheads. Dust motes danced through the air. Flies copulated on the ceiling, while trying their best to keep away from cobwebs. Atoms bumped against each other everywhere.

  I noticed all this, and yet, the details passed me by, like water flowing around a rock in a river. The only thing I could think, was: Oh my God! Oh my God, he’s right upstairs!

  And all that lay between him and me was the hallway. Oh, and the information desk. And the stairs. And another hallway. And a door. And then… then…

  Him!

  In person!

  Together with me!

  All right, I told myself. You are calm, Lilly. Calm and relaxed! You are a strong, sensible woman, and you will not lose your nerve simply because of some man.

  Him! Together with me!!!

  All right… maybe I was not quite so calm, after all.

  Gathering all my courage, I fixed my eyes on the opposite end of the hall and took one step towards the stairs. And then I took another. And another. Damn, why were there so many steps between me and that staircase? And how many had I already taken? I didn’t know. I had forgotten to count. I was too busy thinking He kissed me! On the lips! And now I’m going to see him again!

  What the bloody hell was going to happen? What was I going to do? And, again, the most important question: what was he going to do? He couldn’t possibly…?

  Oh my God, yes, he could!

  If he wanted to.

  But was he going to?

  No. No, of course not! I mean, doing something like that, here… that would be totally… No! Of course he wasn’t going to do that!

  With the slow steps of a doomed woman, I continued through the hall. The dust motes fluttered out of the way for me, and the flies stopped copulating to watch me pass. Even the spiders stopped spinning their nets for a moment. Finally, I reached Sallow-face’s desk.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said.

  He inclined his head about a quarter of an inch.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. His left eyebrow twitched suspiciously.

  Blast, blast, blast! Could he see on my face that I’d been snogging his employer? I bet he could read it on my forehead! Rushing past him, I stepped into the separate hallway that led to my destination. I looked up and saw the steps leading up and around the walls, all the way to the top of the building, steps even steeper than the ones outside.

  Dong…

  The ominous sense of déjà vu overcame me again, even stronger than when I awoke. I turned my head westwards. There, a small window stood half open, just like it had been on my first day at work, letting a bit of light fall into the stark stone hallway. And, through that window, there now also came the sound of a bell. A deep, reverberating sound that chilled my bones.

  Time for work. Time to meet my fate.

  Dong…

  But was this truly déjà vu?

  Dong…

  Admittedly, as I panted, desperately running up the stairs, some things were the same. Like my thinking Oh my God, Oh my God, I’m going to be too late! for instance.

  Dong…

  But on the other hand, some things were different.

  Dong…

  For instance, on my first day I had not been thinking Bloody hell! He kissed me! He actually kissed me!

  Dong…

  But then… that fact wasn’t so very significant, was it? Oh no, of course not! I was a feminist! Why would it matter to me that some chauvinistic son of a bachelor pressed his lips to mine?

  Dong…

  He did! He really did! Crap, crap, crap!

  I almost wished myself back at that moment, back to when life had been so uncomplicated, without kisses and caresses and confusing feelings. But then I thought of the look in Mr Ambrose’s dark, sea-coloured eyes just before our lips met…

  No! Don’t think! Go on! Run!

  Dong…

  By the time I reached the sixth landing, I was ready to collapse. Go on! I screamed at myself. Just a few steps more, and you’re there!

  Dong…

  Wheezing, I staggered onto the top landing and grabbed the brass doorknob. Turning it, I shoved open the door and stumbled into the long, narrow hallway at the end of which stood the desk of Mr Stone, the upstairs receptionist. I waited just a moment, until I was sure my heart wasn’t going to burst from overexertion. Then I straightened, tugged at my clothes to get rid of a few creases, and walked forward as nonchalantly as I could. Maybe, if I just walked past in an innocent, everyday manner, Mr Stone wouldn’t notice me. Maybe I would get into my office without-

  ‘Good morning, Mr Linton.’

  Wincing, I halted at the sound of the familiar voice. I inclined my head at the young man behind the desk in front of Mr Ambrose’s office door. He was quite a friendly young man, actually. It wasn’t his fault that, from my viewpoint, today he had the job of Cerberus, guardian of hell.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Stone.’ I said.

  That seemed to exhaust our conversational possibilities. Longingly, I glanced towards my office door, and inched a step closer. But Mr Stone’s next words froze me in place.

  ‘Mr Ambrose would like to see you.’

  My fingers clenched into fists, automatically.

  ‘Oh, he would, would he?’ I took a step away from Mr Ambrose’s office door, and towards my safe haven. ‘Perhaps later. Right now I have…’

  Mr Stone gave me a look that was not without compassion, but still firm. ‘Perhaps I should rephrase. Mr Ambrose demands to see you. Right now.’

  All colour drained from my face. Then it rushed back again with
a vengeance.

  Damn!

  ‘Oh.’ Swallowing, I nodded. ‘I see.’

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped past Mr Stone and towards my employer’s office door. The door creaked open as slowly and menacingly as the gateway to Pandemonium - or maybe just like the door of a man who was too stingy to buy oil for the hinges. Inside, it was dark. The curtains were closed, letting in only a thin lance of light that sharply silhouetted the dark figure of the man sitting behind the massive desk.

  I gulped.

  Broad shoulders, short, elegant and precise black hair, a chiselled face, a posture as stiff as a rod of iron - even if anyone but him would have dared to sit behind that desk, that dark silhouette left me in no doubt whom I was facing. Gathering all my courage, I stepped forward until I was right in front of the dark figure. His face was cast in shadow, so at first I couldn’t see what kind of lack of expression was on it at the moment. Only when my eyes got used to the gloom did I see the darkly motionless, beautiful mask which he called ‘face’.

  He stared at me in silence.

  I stared back at him in silence.

  We stared at each other in silence.

  Then we stared at each other in silence some more.

  I cleared my throat.

  He remained silent. And stared at me. Silently.

  I stared back. And I did it in silence. We stared. At. Each other. In a long, silent silence. Full of silentness.

  All right… maybe it’s time for someone to say something.

  You remember that I mentioned my courage? The one I had been trying to gather? That was all gone now. Faced with the stare of his deep, dark, sea-coloured eyes, I had no courage of my own left. Oh, what the hell! I could always pinch some from someone else!

  ‘Mr Ambrose?’ I took a step forward. ‘You asked for me, Sir?’

  He continued his stare for a moment longer. Would it surprise you to hear that he did it in silence?

  Then…

  ‘Yes, I did, Mr Linton.’

  More silence.

  I wet my lips.

  ‘So… What do you want from me, Sir?’

  God, if he says come here and kiss me, I’ll-

  I cut off the thought before it could really form. But… what if he did say that? What if he demanded it, in that voice of his that brooked no argument? What would I do?

  Would I run?

  And, more importantly, would I run towards him, or away? My throat suddenly felt very dry.

  ‘What do you want, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

  He leaned forward, until both of his powerful fists rested on the desktop, knuckles down. ‘I want…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want file 38XV180!’

  I blinked. ‘What?’

  He cocked his head, questioningly. ‘Are your ears malfunctioning, Mr Linton?’ Leaning forward a little more, Mr Ambrose fixed me with one of the superbly cold glares that were his speciality. For some reason, it filled me with a warm and fuzzy feeling. ‘Bring me file 38XV180! Now!’

  Thank you, God! I shot the words silently towards heaven as relief flooded through me. Thank you so very much! The world is back to normal!

  I snapped to attention. ‘Yes, Sir!’

  For some reason, a wide grin spread over my face.

  ‘Stop wasting your muscle energy on useless facial contortions, Mr Linton!’

  My grin got even bigger. ‘Of course, Sir! Just as you say, Sir!’

  ‘Now bring me the file!’

  ‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’

  ‘And be quick about it! I don’t tolerate tardiness!’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!’

  And I danced from the room, happier than I had ever been in my life.

  THE END

  Special Additional Material

  TWO CHAPTERS FROM MR AMBROSE’S PERSPECTIVE

  ‘Cold and Hot’ & ‘Hot and Sweaty’

  Chapter Titles are a Waste of Ink

  I woke up to the sensation of being tortured. You want to know what it felt like? All right. Prepare yourself.

  I was lying on a bed. A soft bed, that smelled of flowery perfume. With a mattress that had feathers inside. The thick blanket on top of me was intolerably warm and comfortable, and someone had actually deposited a pillow beneath my head!

  Whoever did this should pray they paid for these useless luxuries out of their own pocket. If they didn’t… if they had even dared to touch one single penny in my purse—

  My thoughts abruptly cut off as something soft touched my cheek. God! Not another pillow!

  But… no. This wasn’t nearly big enough. And it almost felt alive. Like a hand. Why in the name of King Midas would anybody dare to touch my face with their hand? This was intolerable!

  ‘There, there,’ a sickly-sweet voice whispered somewhere above me.

  A woman? A woman was touching my face? Scratch intolerable. This was outrageous!

  ‘There, there…’

  There? Where, exactly? And what was supposed to be there? What was this female prattling on about? I tried to open my eyes, but they felt as if they had been glued shut with molten tar. I croaked, trying to speak.

  ‘There, there, my little honey-bunny. Don’t strain yourself.’

  Honey-bu… This woman was out of her mind! I had fallen into the hands of a crazy person! I had to get out of here before she tried to smother me with another of her cushions.

  ‘Violet?’

  Another voice. Thank God! Someone who could rescue me from the madwoman.

  ‘Yes, mother?’

  Or maybe not. Mothers were notorious for their disinclination to put their daughter in a straightjacket.

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  Terrible! Horrifying! Gruesome!

  ‘Simply wonderful, Mother. He’s such a dear.’

  Interesting. I wonder how she was able to come to that conclusion while I was unconscious. From the nice way in which I breathed, or the sympathetic way my head lolled to the side?

  ‘And so handsome, too,’ sighed the mother.

  Apprehension gripped me. I recognized that tone. It was the voice of a mother in matchmaking mode. Normally, this wouldn’t concern me. I wasn’t like the other rich bachelors of London society who were hounded by a pack of salivating mothers, their supposedly eligible daughters in tow. Normally, one cool glance from me was enough to send them scurrying away. And if it wasn’t, I’d make a gesture to Karim, who would promptly scowl threateningly and put his hand on his sabre. That impressed upon most mothers how very unsuitable I was as a potential son-in-law. But right now, neither of these defence strategies were open to me. My eyes remained stubbornly closed, and Karim was God—or Allah, in his case—only knew where!

  ‘So handsome…’ Another sigh from the mother. She put a hand on mine, and I tensed. What was she doing? Was she planning to slip an engagement ring on my finger while I was sleeping? I wouldn’t put it past her. If my experience in the colonies had taught me anything, it was that mothers were more ruthless than the most murderous cutthroats or savages.

  ‘Do you suppose he’s a gentleman?’ the daughter enquired. I could practically hear the hunger in her voice and tried to raise my hands in preparation to defend myself. But they wouldn’t move! ‘Someone with a fortune? A position?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ The mother sounded doubtful. ‘I mean, look at his clothes. They were damaged by the shipwreck, yes, but they were practically second-hand rags before that.’

  What?

  ‘No gentleman would walk around in tatters like that, Violet.’

  No gentlem… The impudence! I would make clear to this lady exactly what kind of ‘gentleman’ I was—the moment I got that infernal voice of mine back!

  ‘But don’t you remember this, Mother?’ There was a soft metallic scrape. ‘See? His watch has a coat of arms on the lid. Looks really fancy, too.’

  ‘Maybe he stole it.’

  Of all the insolent…!

  ‘A man like that wouldn�
��t have to steal, Mother.’

  Ah. For once, a true statement.

  ‘With a face like that, he could become an actor any time. People would pay gold to see him as Romeo.’

  What?

  This was becoming too much. I had to get out of here. Out of this madhouse, out of the clutches of these harpies!

  With all my might, I tried to lift myself off the bed. I had managed about three inches, when female hands that were a lot stronger than they should be clamped down on my shoulders.

  ‘Now, there! Don’t move! Don’t hurt yourself. You should be resting.’

  I opened my mouth, trying to fling something vile at my torturers. A soft but determined finger pressed down on my lips.

  ‘Psht! No need to thank us. Mother will get you another blanket, and I will make you a nice, warm bowl of broth. How does that sound?’

  It was official. I was in hell.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Before I had decided that it was mostly waste of time, I had attended school like every other proper English gentleman’s son. From my Eton days, I vaguely remembered that whenever people described hell, be they Dante, Blake, or Milton, they generally emphasized things such as fire, devils tweaking unfortunate souls with glowing tongs, and people forced to roll rocks up mountains over and over again.

  There was none of that for me. The only heat I felt was that from smouldering under a heap of too-soft blankets. There were tongs, but they were of the sugar variety, and only employed at teatime, when the creature called ‘Violet’ asked me in that sickly-sweet voice: ‘One lump or two, honey-bunny?’ And as for rocks… The only one I ever felt was the one in my stomach when I was forced to look at that female. What had God been thinking when he took that rib from Adam?

  No matter the lack of fires and devils: I knew what the worst circle of hell was, and I was right inside it.

  If only I had been able to flee! But first my legs refused to move, and then the doctor came, telling me that if I did not rest, I might have a relapse. The thought of breaking down again and having to stay here even longer than was absolutely necessary kept me abed, my limbs turned to stone. Days, seeming like months, passed in an agony of torture. It was one afternoon, after the mother monster had just forced me to gulp down an entire bowlful of foul-tasting broth, that the doorbell rang.