by V. J. Timlin
With a sigh of relief, she collapsed against the foot of the cross, watching the man disappear out of sight.
Anouk waited a little while longer to make sure he didn’t return before daring to rise. Her whole body trembled with the shock of what had occurred. The bundle of flower wrappings lay in the middle of the path. She attempted to walk over and pick it up, but her legs had turned to rubber.
She needed to collect her thoughts. Anouk staggered back and landed hard on the stone. “Ouch! My bum.”
She looked down at her trousers. The knees were torn and dirty. She checked the rest of her clothing and body. Everything looked fine apart from the dirt on her hands, coat and shoes.
“Well, if my trousers are the only casualty, I can live with that.”
Anouk leaned her back against the cross. What was that man doing in the sarcophagus? How had he got in there in the first place? He had been flesh and blood, and not a ghost. Anouk shook her head. As if ghosts existed. Maybe he was some crazy taphophile who took his hobby a tad too far, like her Goth friend Geordie whose pride and joy had been a real human skull he had stolen somewhere.
Anouk rubbed her face. First Owen, now some crazy in a coffin. And she had thought the worst was over when she left the office. Yes, this definitely wasn’t her day.
She glanced in the direction the man had vanished. The path looked empty and no shadows were lurking under the trees.
“I hope that maniac is long gone.”
She pushed herself up and walked to the sarcophagus, picking up the bundle of papers on her way.
The cover lay next to the stone coffin on the ground and in one piece. Anouk stooped down to examine the cover which had come to rest at the base of Mr Rafael Cowen’s gravestone. It should be in tiny pieces, but it was fine… as was the sarcophagus. How could that be possible?
She straightened and took a deep breath before risking a look inside the casket, mentally preparing herself to see a smashed coffin and human bones protruding from within. She peeked inside, and an orange flash of light filled her vision—sharp pain stabbed through her eyes to the back of her skull and she jumped back screaming.
Chapter 2
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Did I scare you?” a man’s voice asked.
Anouk’s heart missed a beat. She swivelled her head towards the speaker, but bright orange dots bounced around, filling Anouk’s world. She blinked to ward them off but with no success.
“I can’t see!” Anouk flailed her hands around, trying to find something solid to hold on to. Her fingers brushed the rough edge of the sarcophagus. She grabbed it with both her hands, ignoring the sting of small crystals biting into her palm.
“Oh, you looked directly at the light, didn’t you?”
“Am I going blind?” Anouk squeezed her eyes tight before opening them again. The frantic light show persisted, and the throbbing dull pain behind her eyes beat to the rhythm.
“No, but it will take some time before you get your sight back. Here, let me help you.”
Owen’s favourite horror movie The Mummy’s Curse popped into Anouk’s mind. She startled back. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
She lifted her arms in front of her, readying herself to block him should he try to attack her—blind or not, she wasn’t going down without a fight. That said, her skills in martial arts were useless against a gun or a cursed corpse. Or, indeed, a cursed corpse with a gun!
“Of course not, I’m not a brute.” There was amusement in the man’s voice.
A soft thud came as he jumped down from the sarcophagus, followed by the clinking of metal and rustling of fabric. A warm hand touched hers. Anouk was relieved to find it wasn’t wrapped in a shroud. Thank God, not a homicidal mummy after all. But, was he the same man who just a few minutes earlier shot at her? No, that was impossible, she hadn’t seen him sneaking back. To be on the safe side, it was better to play along for now, so she clutched his hand. The man’s other hand found her shoulder and she let him guide her.
The orange lights showed no sign of dissipating.
“How long does it take?” Anouk asked.
“How long does what take?”
“To get my vision back.”
The hand from her shoulder moved to take her by the elbow. “Not long. Now, let me help you sit on this stone slab,” the man said and assisted her to a seat. “I won’t leave you before you get your sight back, ma’am.”
Anouk squeezed his hand. “Thanks.” The idea of sitting alone and blind in a cemetery was creepy. Although… sitting with a stranger might not prove much safer in the long run. What did he want from her?
“Who are you?” Anouk asked.
“I’m so sorry, I forgot my manners. Nat Walla at your service, ma’am.”
For the first time, Anouk paid attention to his voice. It was rich and resonant, but his accent was strange. It was an odd mixture of posh and Gaelic with a sharp rolling of the letter ‘R’. She frowned. Where did they speak like that?
“Anouk Herring,” she blurted, not knowing how else to respond. His old-fashioned greeting had warmed her but the last man who climbed out of that grave had shot at her. Now, if ever, it was best to be polite and not give this one any reason to do likewise.
“Pleased to meet you, Anouk Herring. You have a beautiful name.”
Anouk burst out laughing, albeit tinged with hysteria. “Which? Anouk or Herring?”
“Well, both, but I meant Anouk. I haven’t heard that name before.”
“It’s Dutch.”
“Dutch?”
“Yes, my father is Dutch and Anouk was his grandmother’s name. He wanted me to be named after her. My mother is British; she died a few months ago. I was visiting her grave when I bumped into a guy who, by the way, shot at me, and then… you. I do hope you don’t have murder on your mind.” Anouk tittered nervously, wondering why she was babbling.
“My deepest condolences for your loss, and no, I don’t go about killing women,” Nat said, a note of indignation in his serious tone.
“Of course not,” Anouk hurried to say. Well, at least he didn’t confess outright to being a maniac killer. If he was, would he admit it? Maybe not. “It was a joke—a bad one. Believe me, I’m infamous for telling bad jokes. And thank you for your condolences.”
Fabric shifted. Anouk tensed, waiting for something to happen. After a few moments, Nat asked with a concerned voice, “Did any bullets hit you?”
Anouk relaxed an iota. “No, I wouldn’t be this calm if they had. Thanks for asking though. I managed to dodge the line of fire. Which reminds me, do you happen to have a phone with you? Mine is dead.”
“Er… no. Again, I apologise.” He hesitated. “By any chance, did you see which way he went?”
“Yes, he ran towards Uxbridge Road.”
“Can you show me? I mean, after you get your sight back?”
“Sure,” Anouk paused. “Wait a minute. You know him?”
He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, I think you deserve an explanation.” Nat drew a deep breath before continuing. “The man is a dangerous criminal who has escaped from a high-security prison. I’m trying to take him back.”
“Are you a policeman then?”
“Well, not exactly, but I do cooperate with law enforcement—I’m a bounty hunter.”
Anouk whistled. American reality TV shows came to mind. Did he look anything like them? Tattooed, clad all in black, with tacky gold jewellery? She turned in his direction. It was hard to tell, everything was still a bit blurry. “So there’s a bounty on his head?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, right,” she said, rolling her eyes. Did he think she was an idiot? “So you are telling me he dug this very long tunnel from a prison miles away, raising no suspicions, got explosives from somewhere to blow the lid off the sarcophagus, and escaped? With all due respect, that sounds like an awfully complicated prison break. Besides, bounty hunters do not exist in the UK, only on American cable TV.”
“No, he wasn’t in
any of the prisons here. By the way, where is here?” Nat turned his head looking around.
“London.” Anouk stared at him, furrowing. “Are you lost or something?”
“London… right.” Nat’s tone was tight. “No, not exactly but… it’s hard to explain.”
“What then?”
He turned to face Anouk. She couldn’t quite see his expression but the pregnant pause spoke for itself; he was gauging her capacity to understand. What the hell was going on?
He took a deep breath. “Stalo, the escapee, broke out of the high-security prison in Anglea, stole a piece of technology—killing its owner—and ended up here through this grave. The energy field generated by the Gadget caused the cover to come off when Stalo entered it.”
Anglea? Gadget? What the…
“Woah, woah, woah.” Anouk lifted her hands. “Sorry, but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes, it probably sounds implausible.”
“Yeah, just a little.”
“Hmm… I think I have to tell you the truth, whatever the consequences might be.”
“That would be nice.”
“Right. Stalo and I are from another world, different from yours, based on what I can see from here. The Gadget is an instrument that allows us to travel between worlds. I wonder whether you have similar devices?”
Anouk’s jaw had dropped. Was he taking the piss out of her?
At last the dancing dots gradually faded away, and Anouk was face to face with a man around her age, mid-thirties. Or rather she would be face to face with him if he was not turning it away from her all the time. A mass of brown curls and dark stubble framed his square face. A pair of bright brown eyes stared back at her from underneath the brim of his top hat, but only in short intervals before he resumed scanning the cemetery. Goggles and a red scarf hung around his neck. His brown trench coat was open, revealing a light blue shirt and black vest. A small brass box was attached to the back of his gloved left hand—switches, silver plates, clocks, gauges and brass buttons Anouk couldn’t identify covered its surface.
The tension in her shoulder loosened. This was just a stunt—some silly game. “I didn’t know there was a steampunk convention going on here in London.”
Nat shot his gaze back at her, his eyebrows nearing the brim of his hat. “Excuse me, what convention?”
“A steampunk convention. You are attending it, right?” Anouk asked. “Where is it being held and how many days are left?”
“No, not a steampunk convention…”
“A Gothic convention then? That would explain the grave stunt, though, frankly, jumping out of old graves and vandalising them isn’t Gothic. Well, not mainstream anyway—a bit too macabre.”
“No, this isn’t anything like that.”
“What then? A LARP?”
“Excuse me?” Nat gaped at Anouk.
“A LARP. You know, a live action-role playing game.” Anouk frowned. “If it’s LARPing you and that guy were doing, you have gone a bit too far. Whoever your game masters are, you should sack them. Stunts like disturbing graves and shooting at people will get you behind bars before you know it. And I do hope those bullets were blanks. It’s lucky for your mate that the battery of my phone was flat. I was about to call the police.”
“Er… yes, I’ll have a serious talk with my men. We’ll sack the… game masters.” Nat wore a wary expression on his face.
“Good. I like your costume, by the way. Very steampunk.” Anouk looked Nat up and down. And he was very handsome…
Nat looked down at his clothes, his jaw hanging open. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Anouk.” She smiled and stood. “Okay, I have to get home.”
Nat had risen as well and offered his arm. “Please, allow me to accompany you.”
“No need. I live right outside the cemetery. Thank you for the offer though. You call your friends to lift that cover back on the sarcophagus, and I won’t report it to the police. Deal?”
“Er… yes, it’s a deal, Anouk.” Nat bowed and took Anouk’s right hand before bringing it close to his lips, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Forgive me if I stare, but you have exceptionally mesmerising eyes.”
Anouk blushed. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Nat.”
Nat smiled and winked and Anouk turned to go.
“Anouk?” Nat called behind her.
“Yes?” She twisted her head.
“Could you tell me the direction of Uxbridge Road?”
“That way.” Anouk pointed along the path she was following. “It’s the road beyond the gate.”
“Much obliged.”
Anouk waved her hand and resumed walking. He was rather hot. The steampunk costume was very becoming, and those eyes… maybe she should have given him her number.
“Okay, Anouk. Snap out of it. Handsome and well mannered, yes, but decidedly weird. The guy jumped out of a grave, for God’s sake. Maybe I should check tomorrow if they did lift the lid back,” she muttered.
She came to the gate and turned to walk along Uxbridge Road. Her neck started to itch as if she was being watched. She spun around. An elderly couple sauntered along the opposite side of the road, but their gazes were directed at each other. A stream of cars drove past and a dog walker popped behind a corner. His dog stopped, sniffing a lamppost before lifting its hind leg.
Pressing her head down, she resumed walking. She was imagining things. Still, the itch on her neck persisted as she hurried home.
* * *
Anouk woke up in the middle of the night, nauseous and with a skull-splitting headache.
She groaned. Oh, shit. That bright light must have triggered some sort of migraine or something. She staggered to the bathroom and fumbled through her medicine cabinet for painkillers. She tossed two aspirins deep into the back of her throat but before she could swallow the pills, her stomach lurched and a geyser of vomit erupted from her mouth. She managed to get over the bath as her digested dinner began splattering against the white enamel.
“Great,” she moaned.
She crawled to the toilet seat. A cramp tightened her abdomen again, and she emptied another load.
“Dear God…”
Hanging her head over the toilet bowl she sobbed and disgorged. “This isn’t a migraine, but some really bad stomach bug.”
Purge.
“I’m a fucking fountain of puke.”
Purge.
“I’m dying!”
Purge.
The next morning Anouk awoke on the bathroom floor, her body sore and head aching. Exhausted, sick and feeling like death, she now questioned if it were she who had crawled from a grave, in contrast to being no more than witness to the same act.
“If this is the afterlife, it’s bloody awful.”
She held on to the edge of the bathtub and hauled herself up. The sight of the vomit in it made her gag. She grabbed the shower head and washed the mass of indistinguishable foodstuffs down the drain.
Still holding the shower head, she pondered should she take a shower as well but decided against it. No work today, that’s for sure.
She checked her face in the mirror above the basin. The image of the woman staring back at her made her grimace—her jaw was smeared with vomit, the greenish-brown of her irises stood out against the pink-hued whites of her eyes, the freckles against her pale skin looked darker, matching the brown of her long, knotted hair.
“I look like a bloody zombie.”
She rinsed out her mouth and rubbed the grime off her chin before glancing back at the mirror. “That’ll do.”
Anouk shambled out of the bathroom and headed to the bedroom. She collapsed on the bed and struggling, reached for the mobile phone on the nightstand. It was half-past eight. She searched for Alison’s number and pressed the green receiver symbol.
After several hollow rings Alison replied, the background noise of commuting nearly drowning her voice, “Hi, Anouk.”
“Hi. Look, I’m not coming to work
today. I’m sick,” Anouk croaked.
“Oh, poor you. Hopefully it’s nothing serious.” Alison exhibited a tone of exaggerated sympathy that irked Anouk.
“No, just a stomach flu or something. I’ll call the boss after nine when she’s in the office. I wanted to let you know first, though.”
“Good that you did. I would have been worried.”
Anouk rolled her eyes. Did Alison think she was prone to slashing her wrists? Alison needed kids, cats, whatever. She would buy her one before Alison drove her to it. Anouk pinched the bridge of her nose, acknowledging she was not being fair on Alison. She was just being a good friend.
Alison’s voice drifted from the other end of the line, “Do you need anything from the shop or pharmacy? I could get something for you so you don’t have to go out yourself.”
“No, no. I’m fine. Don’t need anything. Thanks for asking, though.”
“Okay. Well, call me if you need anything, alright?”
“Yeah, I will. Bye for now.”
“Bye. Get well soon.”
Anouk waited half an hour, lying in her bed before she called her boss who was more than happy to grant her as many days off as she needed. Yes, no one wanted a stomach bug, thank you. One of the team members would finish the report.
She tossed the phone back on the nightstand and lay back on her bed, with strength only to stare up at the ceiling. Where had she got that bug? From Nat? To think of it, it wouldn’t be a surprise, after all he had been rolling in bones. God knows what illness had claimed the deceased in that sarcophagus.
“Hope this isn’t the plague or I’ll sue that man. Handsome or not,” she muttered.
She smacked her tongue against her palate and swallowed. Saliva stung her throat as if she had swallowed a cactus. She grimaced. Her mouth tasted like a rat had crawled in and died. Judging by the foul taste, the rodent was already decomposing. She needed a cup of strong tea.