Hunting for Silence

11. The Return of the Yellow Piggies

I stopped in front of Mr Ambrose's door. Or, to be more exact, my mind stopped. The rest of me needed a moment or two of wobbling to catch on. For a moment, I gazed consideringly at the three doorknobs on the door. Finally, I grabbed my favourite, before it disappeared, and turned it. It actually stayed substantial.

'Yay! Victory!'

Triumphant, I pushed open the door and swung into the room with it, dangling from my trusty friend the doorknob. It really was a nice doorknob. I should come visit it more often in future, maybe start exchanging news on women's rights and brass polish...

'Mr Linton?'

My philosophical reflections on human-doorknob relations were rudely interrupted by a familiar cool voice. Glancing up, I saw a tall, dark figure standing at the window. Or maybe two. Or three. Math was so difficult to deal with when some nefarious character had stuffed your head full of cotton wool. The Ambrose(s) stood with their back to me, not moving an inch.

'You've concluded your interviews for today, Mr Linton?'

'Yep!'

'And? Did you find out anything?'

'Y-yep!' I announced, cheerily. 'I f-found out that those French singers carry some s-strong strong stu...stubledywubledy...stuff.'

He stiffened. Hm...was he tense? Did he need a backrub?

Slowly, so slowly he could have counted the dust moats in the air, Mr Ambrose turned around, his dark eyes flashing.

'No. No. Not that again.'

'Hello!' With a bright smile, I waved at him, then turned a bit to the left, towards the yellow piggies dancing in the corner. 'Hello to you, too! I've missed you! Where've you been?'

'I've been here the whole time, Mr Linton!'

'Not you! I'm talking to my friends over there. And psht!' I held an admonishing finger to my lips. 'You'll interrupt their performance.'

Mr Ambrose turned to glance into the corner, then turned back to me. 'Mr Linton—how much alcohol exactly did you consume?'

'Enough to be completely rat-arsed,' I announced proudly.

'Mr Linton!'

'Funny expression, that, isn't it? Rat-arsed? I mean it's not as if tipple came out of a rat's arse. Or maybe it does? I've never seen alcohol be made. Hm...I wonder if someone ought to look into that...Only not too closely unless they want their nose bitten off.'

'Mr Linton! Cease talking immediately!'

'Why?'

'Because I told you to!'

'That's no reason!' I told him, raising a hand to wag an accusing finger in his face. 'You can't tell me what to do. You can't—'

Unfortunately, the hand I had raised to admonish him was the one I had used to cling to the doorknob before. Without its friendly support, my face decided it was time to French kiss the floor.

'Ow!'

'Mr Linton!'

Suddenly, strong arms were around me, lifting me up, holding me close.

'Oh, sure,' I muttered into a comfortingly warm chest. 'Now you rescue me, after I've rammed my head into the floor. Very gentlemanly, I'm sure.'

'Rescue you?' Icicles were hanging from Mr Ambrose's voice. 'I gave you the task to undertake an important investigation, Mr Linton, a very important investigation—and you return to me dead drunk. I don't think you're in a position to throw around accusations. Besides...' Fingers slid down my cheek. Fingers that felt hard as steel and at the same time unbelievably gentle. 'I've been reliably informed that women have just as much right as men to smash their heads into the floor. It's called equality.'