In the Eye of the Storm

08. Only a Factory Girl

Inside the factory, it was as dark as in a coalminers 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 under 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 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.

Mr Ambrose met their gazes steadily. Somehow, he managed to twirl his exotic, demon-faced club as if it were nothing but a simple walking stick. Somehow, he managed to make that effortless twirl seem like the most dangerous movement anyone had ever seen. Not even blinking once, he bent his head a fraction of an inch.

'If I might introduce myself – Rikkard Ambrose, not at your service. You were waiting for me?' His eyes focused on the man up on the machine, whose mouth was hanging open. 'I believe you had something to say to me.'

The man's open mouth moved – but no sound came out. Mr Ambrose started forward, ignoring the mob. It parted for him, lowering torches and axes, some people trying to hide signs behind their backs. Mr Ambrose only stopped when he was standing directly in front of the man on the machine. Somehow, even though on his impromptu pedestal, the worker stood far above his employer, it was Mr Ambrose who seemed taller.

'Tell me what you have to say to me. I'm most interested to hear it.'

Giving a little squeak, the man turned, jumped off the machine and vanished into the maze of mechanics behind him. I could hear the patter of his feet receding into the distance.

Nodding to himself, Mr Ambrose turned to the rest of the crowd.

'Now – does anybody else have something to say? What is the matter here?'

Some shouts rose again, particularly from the back of the crowd, out of sight of Mr Ambrose.

'Oppression! Against oppression!'