by Kevin Ashman
‘He’s a bit nice, isn’t he?’ said Amy.
‘Who Lucas? I suppose so.’
‘How old do you think he is?’ asked Amy.
‘Too old for you, dear,’ laughed her mother, ‘so get those thoughts out of your mind.’
‘I’m sure, I don’t know what you mean,’ said Amy, making a show of examining her own fingernails at arm’s length.
‘Oh, Amy,’ said her mother, ‘you look so nice and you’ve gone and spoiled it with that black nail varnish.’
‘I think it looks lovely,’ said Amy, ‘anyway, as long as Lucas likes it, who cares?’
‘Amy,’ laughed her mother, ‘now, stop it. Come on, you can help me lay the table.’
----
The next few hours went by far too quickly for Amy, as though she usually found this sort of evening boring, the combination of Lucas’s charming personality, his lovely accent and of course, his boyish good looks made her glad that her mother had insisted she attend. Eventually, they all sat in the lounge, the men sipping brandy, while Amy and her mother finished off the wine.
Conversation focused on the state of the publishing industry and again Amy was getting bored until unexpectedly, it once again turned to her favourite subject, Vampires.
‘Of course, you do know they actually existed?’ said Lucas.
‘Poppycock,’ laughed Amy’s father.
‘It’s true,’ said Lucas, ‘I don’t mean the Hollywood versions or even the sort that Bram Stoker wrote about. No, I’m on about the ones that countless cultures from around the world have believed in since records began.’
‘Really? I thought that all the stories came from the time of Vlad the Impaler.’
‘It’s true that Stoker got the name for his character from that era,’ said Lucas, ‘but the belief in vampires, as we now call them, existed long before that.’
‘How interesting,’ said Amy’s mum.
‘Yes, they were even known in cultures as diverse as the Greeks and the Romans. I’m not saying they had fangs and drank the blood of young maidens, but it seems that in all cultures there seems to be some sort of monster or demon who rises from the dead to kill the living and drink their blood. It’s quite an easy tale to conjure up, really,’ he continued, ‘If you think about it logically, it preys on some of humanity’s greatest fears. The raising of the dead, the drinking of blood, and a demon you can’t kill, it’s all perfect to frighten any civilization. Even today, with all our scientific knowledge and the amazing technology we have, there are still people who not only believe in them, but actually indulge in vampire like activities.’
‘Surely not,’ gasped Amy’s mum.
‘Oh yes. Like I said there are hundreds of different groups who run around dressing like their favourite vampire character or join social network groups, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, but we did that sort of thing as teenagers,’ said Amy’s father, ‘though with us it was punk rock.’
‘I agree,’ said Lucas, ‘but the people who I am talking about, go much, much further. Some of them even drink human blood as part of secret ceremonies. Nothing to do with killing people, I hasten to add. At least, I hope not, but they have their own little ceremonial traditions that you have to undergo to join their gang, so to speak.’
‘You’re not serious?’ asked Amy’s mother.
‘I sure am,’ said Lucas. ‘I even joined one once in the name of research. Very interesting too, but when the self-styled vampire queen, a seedy stripper from Hamburg, if I recall correctly, cut her thumb with a knife and ordered me to drink her blood, I legged it.’
‘No, seriously,’ said Lucas when they had stopped laughing. ‘There are discoveries being made even today, proving that the belief in vampires was rife throughout history. Graves have been found in Ireland, where the bodies had been decapitated, and the head placed between the corpse’s knees, a typical method of immobilizing a vampire in that culture. Other graves have been found on the continent where the bodies had been weighed down with giant boulders, before being buried, in the hope that they wouldn’t be able to rise again.’
‘But it’s absurd,’ said Amy’s father. ‘How could they believe all that stuff?’
‘Don’t forget, people were very superstitious and believed in all sorts of things.’ He leaned forward to emphasize his point, ‘Imagine that you lived five hundred years ago in Eastern Europe and a young woman died and was buried in a coffin as you would expect. However, a few days later, something happened to make the villagers exhume her, and you found that not only did she seem just to be sleeping, but also she appeared to be well nourished, had grown a set of long teeth and there are stains around her mouth where she appears to have been drinking blood. Not only this, but when a stake is driven into her corpse to make sure she is dead, she groans as if in pain. Think what impact that would have made on simple superstitious villagers.’
‘But surely that’s all just rumour and hearsay?’ said Amy’s dad. ‘Stories passed down from generation to generation and exaggerated as they went.’
‘No,’ said Lucas, ‘there are actual documents from that time recording exactly those circumstances. Obviously all those symptoms can now be explained by science, but still.’
‘How can they be explained?’ asked Amy, transfixed by the depth of knowledge shared by this gorgeous man.
‘Well, when a body dies, Amy, there are still all sorts of chemical reactions going on, and along with the gases given off by the decomposing process, they can combine to give skin a ruddy complexion. Bodily fluids can bubble up to escape through the mouth, and as one of the first parts of the body to decompose is the soft tissue around the lips and gums, the process can exaggerate the size of the teeth. As far as crying out when speared by some implement is concerned, well that’s just an escape of gases built up in the body due to the decomposition process. It’s even thought that gas escaping past the larynx in a corpse, makes a sound similar to groaning. Imagine how all that must have looked to the superstitious folk of back then.’
‘They must have been terrified, ’said Amy’s mother. ‘Poor devils.’
Amy stared at her mother in disbelief at the understatement and they all burst out laughing.
‘Anyway,’ said Lucas, ‘the point is, I don’t think you should be too harsh on Amy, as there are millions of people out there just as fascinated by the tales of the undead, and I am proud to be called one of them.’
Amy was thrilled with the support from this strange man, and she was very disappointed when the time came for him to go. After he had gone, the family sat back in the lounge drinking coffee.
‘Well, that was nice,’ said Amy’s mum. ‘Was it what you expected dear?’
‘Not really,’ said Amy’s dad. ‘He was a lot younger than I expected and seemed a bit too focused on all that vampire stuff for my liking. Still, he gave me the number of his agent and promised he would put a good word in for me, so that’s good.’
‘I thought he was brilliant,’ said Amy, blowing over the surface of her coffee.
‘Yes, we noticed,’ said her mum, ‘you didn’t take your eyes off him all night.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Amy.
‘She’s right,’ said her dad. ‘It was a bit awkward at times to be honest, but still; I don’t suppose we’ll see him again. Right, that’s me done, I’m off to bed. I have an early start tomorrow.’
‘Hang on;’ said her mother, ‘I’ll come up with you. The dishes can wait until tomorrow. Amy, would you lock the doors before you go to bed, dear?’
‘Okay,’ said Amy, and continued to sip her coffee as her parents went up the stairs. A few seconds later, she took out a small card from her pocket and her heart raced as she read it properly for the first time. It was a very simple card, with just a name on one side and a phone number on the other. She memorized the number and then turned the card over to read the name, Lucas Klein, and a thrill ran up her spine as she remembered the way he had secretively passed it to
her under the table at dinner.
Amy locked the doors and made her way up to bed, knowing full well that she wasn’t going to get much sleep that night.
----
Chapter Ten
London 2012
The rain was falling quite hard as the taxi pulled up outside a set of wrought iron gates in the Kent countryside. The driver looked over his shoulder to speak to his foreign looking passenger.
‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the run-around, but it’s the first time I’ve been out here and the Sat-Nav is knackered.’
The passenger glanced up at the meter. Seventy-seven pounds, it said, and although he couldn’t prove it, he had an inkling that the driver had taken advantage of his passenger’s ignorance to make the journey longer. He hated England and hadn’t been here for many years. It seemed that every time he came, it was raining.
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ he asked.
‘Mulberry Lodge,’ said the driver, ‘that’s what it says on the gate.’
‘Can we go in?’
‘The gates are locked; hang on, there’s an intercom. I’ll see if they’ll open up.’ He wound down the window and leaned out to press the button on the post alongside the driver’s door.
‘Hello, Mulberry lodge,’ said a distant voice.
‘Yeah, hello,’ said the driver, ‘I’m in a taxi and I’ve got a passenger who wants to come in.’
‘What’s the passenger’s name?’ asked the voice.
The driver turned around and spoke to his passenger.
‘They want to know your name,’ he said, and when he had the answer, he leaned out again and pressed the button. ‘The passengers name is Samari,’ he said, ‘Doctor Samari.’
‘Okay, come on in,’ said the voice and the electronic gates swung open gracefully before them.
----
Ten minutes later, Doctor Samari was standing in the sumptuous entrance of a grand manor house, situated at the end of a long, tree-flanked driveway. He placed his suitcase against the desk and waited politely as the receptionist finished a call. Eventually, she looked up and beamed a winning smile at him.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘you must be Doctor Samari, welcome to Great Britain.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I believe I am expected.’
‘You are,’ she said, ‘and everything is ready for you. We have given you a lovely room in the west wing, overlooking the gardens. It is a private wing, so you shouldn’t be disturbed by any of the guests.’
‘Guests?’
‘Yes, we call them guests, their families prefer that. And to be honest, when you are paying as much as they are, then they are entitled to be called whatever they like.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Samari, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the receptionist, ‘I thought you would have been informed. Mulberry lodge is an exclusive retreat for the elderly and the infirm. The only difference is that these are the families of the rich and the famous. They get to see out their days in the best surroundings money can buy and receive the best medical treatment in the world. I assumed that, because of your title, you were coming to work here.’
Samari thought quickly before answering.
‘That may be the case,’ he said, ‘but this is a fact finding visit. Anyway, it’s been a long journey and I am very tired, so could someone show me to my room?’
‘Of course, Dr Samari,’ she said, ‘I’ll get someone straight away. Oh, one more thing, I have a message from Mr Leatherman. He said that he’s running late, but he will be in touch as soon as possible.’
‘Thank you,’ said Samari, and taking the key, followed the porter to the far staircase.
----
Fifty miles away, Becky was at home preparing dinner. John had finally turned up a few weeks earlier, and they had both spent the day together wandering around various antiques shops and museums, enjoying a relatively stress free day. It had been three months since their adventure in Egypt and they had spent a lot of time since, asking discreet questions about any new finds discovered in Egypt. But apart from those that were well known throughout the science world, nothing had emerged out of the ordinary. Gradually, John’s interest in what had happened waned and Becky knew that if she approached the authorities, they would have asked too many questions. Just the fact that she had taken part in an illegal dig could cost her career. Subsequently, she had stopped asking questions and although it hurt, Becky knew that her father would have preferred it that way.
Back in her sitting room, the phone rang and she hurried in, wiping her hands on a tea cloth as she went.
‘Hello;’ she said, ‘Becky Ryan.’
‘Hi, Becky’ said a voice, ‘it’s Amy. Sorry to bother you, but something has happened at the museum and I thought you should know before you come back in tomorrow.’
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, intrigued at the concern in Amy’s voice.
‘Becks, you know that set of twelve Ushabti that we placed on display a couple of months ago?’
‘Yes, what about them?’
‘Well, we had a visitor to the museum today, and he made a complaint about the authenticity.’
‘Why?’ asked Becky. ‘We know they are genuine, they came from the Cairo museum. In fact, both my father and Montague authenticated them in Cairo. There’s no way they can be false.’
‘Look,’ said Amy, ‘that may be the case, but all I know is that Montague is furious and he wants you in his office first thing in the morning.’
‘Shit,’ said Becky as the seriousness of the situation sank in. ‘Okay, Amy, thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Bye, Becky,’ said Amy and the phone went dead.
----
The following morning, Becky was at the museum early. She had had a restless night, and although she was sure there had been a mistake, Montague was well known for his short temper. If she had made a mistake, the very least she could expect was a severe dressing down. The security guard let her in and she swiped her card at the reader before making a way across the hall toward the staff stairs that led down to the vaults. As she approached the door, a voice echoed around the large marble chamber.
‘Miss Ryan,’ boomed Montague’s voice.
‘Shit,’ mumbled Becky to herself, she had been hoping get some answers before facing the curator. She looked up toward the domed ceiling high above and saw Montague leaning over a balustrade on the second floor.
‘Mr Montague,’ she said with a false smile, ‘you’re in early.’
‘As are you, Miss Ryan. Nothing to do with a certain mix up I suppose.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said innocently, not wishing to get Amy in trouble for tipping her off.
‘Becky,’ said Montague, ‘I know how loyal that girl is to you, quite an admirable trait for someone so young. I would be very surprised if you didn’t get a call last night bringing you up to speed.’
Becky knew it was pointless bluffing any more. Montague was too astute for that.
‘Look, I don’t know what has happened…’ she started, but was cut off by his booming voice once again.
‘My office, Miss Ryan,’ he said. ‘Straight away, if you please,’ and disappeared from view.
The other staff arriving for their days shift, questioned her silently with their eyes.
‘What’s up?’ whispered one as she passed.
‘I don’t know?’ she said, ‘but I am about to find out. Wish me luck.’ With that, she headed toward the wide sweeping staircase that curved around the entrance hall to reach the upper floors. A minute later, she knocked on the door and entered Montague’s office.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Look; I’m not going to beat around the bush here. Yesterday I was put in a very awkward position. One of the visitors to the museum complained that one of the exhibits in the Egyptian display was a fake. Now, at first, as you can imagine, the duty warden dismissed his concern, but the pe
rson in question turned out to be an archaeology student and insisted he was right. In fact, he made such a scene that we had to call security to calm him down. Anyway, he stood his ground and insisted he speak to someone in authority. By now, a crowd had gathered around and he was causing quite a stir. As it was your day off, the only other Egyptologist available was me, and I had to leave a very important meeting to come down and speak to him.’
‘But surely you put him right?’ suggested Becky.
‘Oh, at first I did,’ said Montague. ‘In fact, I virtually staked my reputation on it. I also assured him that I had personally confirmed the provenance back in Egypt.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Let me answer that with the question he asked me, Miss Ryan. What is the earliest recorded Ushabti ever found in Egypt?’
‘It was during the middle kingdom, about the middle of the fourteenth dynasty, if I recall correctly.’
‘You do indeed recall correctly,’ said Montague, ‘approximately two thousand years BC in fact. Second question. What do you know about Khufu?’
‘Early kingdom Egyptian king,’ she said, ‘responsible for building the great pyramid of Giza. What’s all this about?’
‘Again, you are correct,’ said Montague, ignoring her question, ‘and I would expect no less from someone of your pedigree, but what concerns me is this. If you are so sure of your facts, then why is one of the Ushabti that you gave me to display in the great hall labelled thus.’ He slid a printed description of an Ushabti across the table toward her. It was mounted on an information plaque typical of many of the exhibits.
‘Forget the detail, Miss Ryan, just read the heading.’
Becky picked up the plaque and read the inscription.
‘Early example of funerary Ushabti, uncovered in the burial chamber of Cheops.’
Beck looked up, aghast at the obvious mistake.
‘But that’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Cheops was also known as Khufu, but his mummy has never been found. His empty chamber was found in the great pyramid, but that was built over five hundred years earlier, during the fourth dynasty.’