Hunting for Silence

11. The Return of the Yellow Piggies

The insult I wanted to throw at the hypocritical son of a bachelor was muffled by his tailcoat. Struggling free, I bent my head back until I could meet his gaze and jabbed a finger against his chest.

'D-dead drunk? Ha! I'm just a little tipsywipsy. Besides...how do you know I didn't start on your investigigi...investititty...investic nation?'

Dark, sea-coloured eyes seared into mine.

'I would say that the fact you cannot pronounce the word "investigation" is a pretty strong hint.'

'Ha! That's where you're wrong, Mr Ambrose, Sir!' I thumped his chest. 'I made huge leaps in the investiture...investmentality...in...in...oh, heck! In my job!'

'Indeed?'

'Oh yes indeed, Sir!' I beamed up at him. 'I persuaded a very nice lady to translate for me when I interview the staff tomorrow.'

'And how did you do that?'

'I drunk her under the table,' I announced proudly. 'Bloody hell, those French singers can drink a lot of plonk! But I beat her! She's sleeping the sweet sleep of approaching hangover. Which reminds me...maybe someone should scrape her off the floor.'

'So let me recapitulate.' Mr Ambrose was as deadpan as a skillet that had just committed a tragic suicide by hurling itself into a furnace. 'You got drunk on the job in order to do the job.'

'Yep!' I grinned up at him, proud of myself at having found such fabulous reason to be nefarious. The yellow piggies clapped and applauded, their cute little tails wiggling. 'I absolutely did. Tomorrow morning, I'll have a translator, and I'll be able to investimalate to my heart's content.'

His grip tightening around me, he pulled me up until I was standing on my feet—or at least wobbling.

'I usually do not make predictions based on feelings, Mr Linton, but I have a feeling that tomorrow morning, you will be busy with other matters. Ones that involve a bucket and an icepack on the forehead.'

I was about to respond when, suddenly, the floor lurched beneath me. Heck! Why did the bloody floor insist on acting up every time I took a little drink?

Of course! The floor was a temperance activist! That was it! The evil floor wanted to outlaw my drink and banish the little yellow piggies!

Well, I couldn't allow that, now, could I?

I kicked the floor.

'Bad floor! Bad! Take a drink yourself before you judge.'

'Err...Mr Linton?'

'Bad floor! Bad! Just because drunk people always end up drooling on you, that's no reason to be vindictive. How could you want to hurt those cute little piggies? Can't you see how well they dance?'

'Mr Linton, I think I'd better get you upstairs to your room.'

'No! I need to have a serious talk with this floor.'

'There's plenty of floor upstairs, Mr Linton.'

Really? Damn! This was a conspiracy. 'Is he a bloody teetotaller, too?'

For some reason, Mr Ambrose seemed to take this perfectly harmless question as reason for concern. In one swift movement, he bent down, knocked my wobbling legs out from under me and caught me up in his arms.

'Woah! What are you doing?'

'I'm taking you upstairs.' His tone brooked no argument. 'Now.'

He started forward, and his long legs quickly ate up the distance to the door. With the heel of his foot, he pulled the door open and marched through, towards the stairs.