A really, really strange nightmare.
‘Don’t you make no fuss,’ the barrel-bellied bartender growled. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’
‘You’d better!’ The person at the bar with Mr Ambrose’s voice and looks growled back. ‘I’m dying for a few pig ears!’
Correction: a completely crazy dream!
When the landlord turned his back on the Pseudo-Ambrose - or was it him? It had to be! - to fill a tankard, I sidled up to him.
‘Pig ears?’ I hissed into his ear. ‘What the heck do you want with pig ears? I thought we were here for the file.’
He jerked.
‘You!’ Mr Ambrose’s usual, cold, cultured voice came out of the corner of his mouth and let me tell you, I had never been so relieved to hear it! Hooray! This was not a nightmare, and not a body-snatching double either! Mr Ambrose was still alive and right in front of me!
He, however, didn’t seem so overjoyed to see me. Dark, sea-coloured eyes bored into me. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Don’t try to change the subject! What do you want with pig ears?’
He growled. ‘I do not want pig ears. It is cockney rhyming slang for “big beers”. I was ordering a drink whilst trying to fit in with the natives. Now tell me, what are you doing here, Mr Linton?’
I drew myself up to my full height - which, unfortunately, was nowhere near his. ‘I’m coming with you, Sir.’
‘I specifically ordered you to stay outside!’
‘Yes, Sir. That’s why I came in. I find it very hard to be docile and obedient.’
About one hair of his left eyebrow twitched, betraying a desire to rise. ‘Indeed? I hadn’t noticed.’
He eyed me coolly.
‘I have the feeling that it will not do any good to argue with you about this.’
‘You’re right.’
‘And of course you know I can’t argue with you, really, because it would draw attention to us.’
‘You put it succinctly, Sir.’
‘You are a devious individual, Mr Linton.’
I dipped my head courteously, doing my best to conceal a grin.
‘Thank you, Sir. So can I stay?’
‘Agreed. You can remain.’ He leant a bit closer. I had to strain to hear him now. ‘But if you value your life, behave inconspicuously. I will see if I can find our man at the tables.’ With his head, he motioned over to the dirty tables, where the patrons were just now singing a song that seemed to include a lot of ale, men, women, and combinations of the latter two elements. ‘You stay at the bar and mingle with the patrons. Talk like they do, do what they do, and listen.’
At that moment, the landlord turned around with a tankard of ale in his hand. Mr Ambrose grabbed it and was gone before I could answer.
So I turned to the bar and eyed the patrons suspiciously. They were a motley crew - cab drivers, sailors, factory workers, and some shady individuals whose profession I would prefer not to learn. All of them looked even more dishevelled and dangerous up close than they had from afar. The only one who looked even more disreputable than all of them put together was the bartender. He was eyeing me suspiciously, which didn’t really surprise me. In his eyes, I had to be a small, beardless youth in baggy, middle-class trousers. Not his usual customer at all.
Talk as they talk, do what they do…
Well, at the moment, the others at the bar weren’t doing much of anything except slouching. I was wondering whether I should just try to imitate their general silent sullenness when, suddenly, one of the patrons held out his tankard and the bartender turned his suspicious gaze from me and started filling it with a glistening amber liquid. As soon as it was full, the man drank it down in one gigantic gulp.
Do what they do…
Inspiration struck me.
‘Ey, landlord!’ I pounded the bar with my fist. ‘I want some great big pig ears! The fattest, rosiest pig ears you have! Lots of them!’
Napoleon and all the Little Piggies
A hand tapped on my shoulder. With some difficulty, I turned around to see Mr Ambrose standing before me, his face as cold and expressionless as ever.
‘I believe I have discovered our man,’ he hissed, and made an inconspicuous hand gesture. ‘His name is Thomas Gurney, a factory worker who now and again seems to like doing work not quite legal to improve his monthly earnings. He’s sitting at that table over there, engaged in gambling activity. I believe I can…’
Suddenly, he stopped. His voice turned lower and darker as he asked: ‘Why are you grinning, Mr Linton?’
‘Because p-pig ears are w-wonderful,’ I declared, my grin widening. ‘Truly, they are. I must remember to congatel… concattle… congratulate a farmer the next time I see one. It is really worth raising all those pigs and fattening them up and whatnot, just to get such wonderful pig ears to d-drink.’
I frowned.
‘The only thing I d-don't understand is how they end up liquid in a tankard. I c-could swear somebody told me, only I c-can’t remember…’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Y-yes, Sir? I’m here, Sir! Ready to obey your every command, Sir!’
‘Lower your voice, Mr Linton! And do not call me “Sir” while we are here incognito.’
‘Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir!’
‘Mr Linton, I have a question.’
‘Shoot!’
He leaned forward until his granite face was only a couple of inches away from mine.
‘Are you intoxicated?’
I blinked. That word had too many syllables for my current mental capacity to cope with.
‘Intoxiwhatsy?
‘Intoxicated. Inebriated. Lashed. Mashed. Tiddly. On a bender. In other words, Mr Linton: are you drunk?’
Slowly, the frown on my forehead deepened.
‘D-don't know. I’ve never been drunk b-before. How do you… How do you tell, Sir?’
‘Well, the inability to speak correctly is generally considered a reliable indicator of intoxication.’ I may have imagined it, but his reply sounded a tiny bit sarcastic. ‘And I told you to not call me Sir!’
For a moment, I considered complying. But he had hounded me for so long to call him Sir, it was too good an opportunity to get back at him by doing what he’d actually demanded of me.
My grin returned.
‘I owe you p-proper respect as my s-superior, Sir. I could never be so d-disrespectful as to forget that, Sir.’
