Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  Wallace stays silent, but his eyes tighten. I could see what was going on behind those piggy little peepers. I’d just put my finger on a major and pretty obvious weakness in his system, and he wasn’t going to thank me for making him feel stupid.

  He picks up a copy of the London Times – guess that came by sea too – and flicks through the pages, landing on one that’s headed ‘DOES CLEOPATRA’S RUBY CARRY A CURSE?’ Can’t work out what else it says – I can read upside down as well as the next gumshoe, but Wallace’s fat fingers are all over the print as he goes through it line by line. ‘“The winning bidder remained anonymous”’ – he pronounced it like it was Mickey’s little sister Anonny – ‘“but is rumoured to be American. The transaction was completed by Mr A. Floyd, originally of New York State. Mr Floyd declined to speak to our reporter.”’

  ‘There you go,’ I say, pointlessly. His face is getting redder than my Manhattan. I figure I’d better get out of his way. ‘Why not get on the long distance to your guy Floyd, ask him if he saw anything suspicious, any strangers? It’s, what, late afternoon over there? He should be around.’ Wallace’s face makes it clear he could not care less about disturbing this Floyd’s sleep. ‘Meantime, I’m gonna go chat to a few people,’ I go on. ‘See if any fences have been put on standby, that sort of thing.’ I stand up ready to go, then turn back and pick up the newspaper. ‘Mind if I take this? Get me up to speed, then I’ll do a bit of research of my own.’

  He nods, and I leave.

  So I head back to the public library again. Libraries aren’t really my bag (creepy places full of silence and shadows), but I’ve been here a heck of a lot lately; I’m guessing pretty soon they’re gonna put my name on the back of a chair, like movie directors get. Reason is, I been reading through the whole ‘hardboiled’ section, Sam Spade and the like – being a classy British dame don’t go down too well in certain company, so as you may have noticed I’ve adopted a much more ‘pulp’ vibe. It mainly involves being extremely grammatically incorrect, for example saying ‘ain’t’ a lot and remembering to put ‘wasn’t’ when you mean ‘weren’t’ and ‘weren’t’ when you mean ‘wasn’t’. I’ve made myself a little lexicon full of words like ‘flimflam’ and ‘yeggman’ and sprinkle them into conversation here and there. The trouble is, it’s absolutely exhausting to keep thinking in that style; sometimes I do slip up and halfway through saying something like, ‘Who you say you was, you goddam fink?’ I’ll add, ‘I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it, but that zoot suit is simply stunning on you.’ Still, if they find that funny I let my Magnum do the talking and they stop laughing real quick.

  But back to the library. No ’tec fiction for me this time, I’m here to see what I can dig up. ‘Dig up’ being a pretty appropriate phrase.

  You know Tutankhamun, right? The boy king with the fancy gold mask? You remember they dug him up a few years ago, poor kid? Trouble is, it wasn’t just the gold and the goodies that they found. See, there was supposed to be a curse on anyone disturbing the boy king’s last resting place. Lord Carnarvon, the guy who funded the dig, died six weeks later. A few others popped their clogs here and there. Howard Carter, the one who broke the seals? He died just last month. And OK, that’s, what, 17 years later, which is a pretty good margin for a curse, but still. Dead is dead.

  For a while, the world went crazy for all things Egypt. The lure of gold and maybe getting your name in the history books made every Tom, Dick and Ptolemy want to head out there with a spade, curse or no curse. But the frenzy faded, like frenzies always do, and Egyptology was eventually overtaken by exciting new crazes like jazz music, yo-yos and Stalinism.

  But some people didn’t move on. For some people, Egyptology remained not only their job, but in a lot of ways, their life.

  Now, when I was reading all that stuff about Cleo earlier, what it didn’t tell me was the location of her tomb. The reason for that? No one knows where it is!

  And that’s where my guy Wallace comes in. Have a look at what the paper says.

  DOES CLEOPATRA’S RUBY CARRY A CURSE?

  Over the last few decades all the world has thrilled to tales of exotic Egypt, with its incredible pyramids and mysterious mummies. The sad death in March of Mr Howard Carter, the distinguished archaeologist who discovered the tomb of pharaoh Tut-Ankh-Amun, has brought the subject back into the public’s eye.

  But what the world has not known until now is that another discovery may have been made that would put even the boy king’s tomb to shame. It has been revealed that some years ago an expedition led by Mr Geo. Badger of Oxford may have come across the tomb of the most famous lady pharaoh of all, Queen Cleopatra.

  Many tales have been told of the curse that smote down all those who disturbed the boy king’s grave. Sadly, it seems that a similar curse may have struck the finders of Cleopatra’s last resting place.

  This is the story, as told to our reporter:

  In the Year of Our Lord 1934, Mr Geo. Badger led an excavation in Egypt, assisted by Mr Edwin Wivenhoe of the Royal Society, alongside other helpers and native workers. At one point it is believed that Mr Badger went missing, returning to his colleagues some time later to their great relief, claiming he had made a most amazing discovery. He led a party back through the desert and they helped him uncover the entrance to a tomb in which lay an undisturbed sarcophagus. Hieroglyphs indicated that this held the remains of a most important person, and what is more, it was a woman of royal blood. Among the grave goods was found a ruby of great size, which Mr Badger referred to as ‘the Eye of Horus’. He plucked this jewel from its setting, and no sooner had he done so than there came a cry from the entrance. The excavation had caused a rock fall. All made it out with no more than minor injuries, but the entrance to the tomb had been rendered impassable.

  The party returned to camp to treat wounds and fetch tools that would enable them to enter the tomb once more. But the rock fall was not the only misfortune to befall the expedition. That very night, men began to sicken. The native workers got restless, believing in their primitive way that a curse had been brought upon them, and blamed Badger for removing the Queen’s jewel. They wished to return the ruby to the tomb to obviate further harm. Mr Badger laughed at their superstition, describing himself as a man of science.

  Unhappily, the curse, if such there was, fell then on Badger himself, and his science could not save him. He began to sicken and, believing he had little time left in this world, entrusted the ruby – together with a letter of farewell to his wife – to his friend Mr Wivenhoe.

  All this we know from the letter itself. A little more is known from what Wivenhoe confessed to fellow passengers on his difficult journey back to England, although it is notable that he did not mention to any of these fellows that he had in his possession the priceless ruby. He said merely that he had had to flee Egypt, and was devastated that he was unable to repatriate the body of his colleague and friend, who had died in his arms. He had given some coins to a native he believed trustworthy, hoping that a burial could be arranged, but he was warned to flee as bad feelings increased. This turned into a full uprising among the native workers that saw the rest of the party slain. Wivenhoe himself barely escaped with his life.

  Sad to relate, the curse of the ruby followed the archaeologist across the sea. On his return to England, Mr Wivenhoe went immediately to deliver the terrible news, along with the parcel, to Mrs Badger. He had almost reached his destination when he was hit by a car and killed instantly. However the package, being addressed, found its way to the unhappy widow, and enquiries made by the police unearthed the information above regarding her husband’s death in Egypt. What was not unearthed at this time was information relating to the full contents of Wivenhoe’s parcel, which did not come to light until the death of the widow in January of this year.

  Following the death of Badger, his family found itself in somewhat straitened circumstances. It seems the son of the family wished to sell the ruby, but his mother jealously guarded the jew
el, and who can blame her? For it was bequeathed to her with her husband’s dying breath. Those who know the family speak of gambling debts that could not be repaid, which led to an estrangement between mother and son. Upon Mrs Badger’s death, all she possessed, including the ruby, was bequeathed to the child that had stood by her through the last few years of poverty, her daughter – who by some strange quirk of fate Mr and Mrs Badger had, some 21 years earlier, named Ruby.

  Young Miss Badger had no such sentimental attachment to the jewel; indeed, while not going so far as to acknowledge the curse, she nevertheless wished rid of the gem with all haste. She approached the world-famous auctioneers Bothesy’s of London and, with Badger’s final letter establishing its provenance, it was at this point that the existence of the ruby and its tragic history became known to the world.

  The Egyptian government was approached, and finally agreed that the ruby could be sold, on condition that half the proceeds went to itself. This was a great relief to Miss Badger, who had endured a great deal of worry and grief, and in one of her rare interviews spoke of her desire to get away from the family home and all its associations as soon as the sale had been made.

  Three days ago, the auction took place at Bothesy’s. Many well-known names were there, including noted collector Mr Calvin Cuttling, and Mrs Peterson-Lee of Esher, who will be familiar to many from the pages of society magazines. The winning bidder remained anonymous, but is rumoured to be American. The transaction was completed by Mr A. Floyd, originally of New York State. Mr Floyd declined to speak to our reporter; however, it may be the case that the ruby is even now carrying its curse away from our shores. Our transatlantic cousins may need to take care.

  So it’s pretty darn clear that out of everyone who went into Cleopatra’s tomb that day, not a one of them made it home again. Then Wivenhoe gets wiped out on his way back – the son gets chucked out – the widow dies – the daughter suffers. Now Marvin Motson, courier – dead.

  Coincidence – or curse?

  And so now I’m wondering, do I really want to find this ruby? Sure, I’ve got bills to pay. But dead men don’t need to pay no rent – and dead women don’t either.

  And you’re going to rot in hell for what you did—

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STORMCAGE, AD 5147

  I stopped typing and ripped myself out of Melody’s world, realising my fingers had automatically added words that had come via my ears, rather than my brain. Someone, somewhere, was shouting, and I could hear them in my isolated cell. Echoey … distant, but also strangely close … coming from my bed?

  Well, I’ve come across a lot of things in my time, but a haunted pillow is not one of them. I pulled the mattress away from the wall, and there it was. Air vent. Floor level. I’d noticed it before – of course I had, I’d examined every inch of my bijou home-away-from-home during my various incarcerations – but as it’s too small to function as an escape route it’d not been of any great interest, and I’d forgotten about it. Now it was channelling voices to me: there were people at the other end, perhaps some previously empty cell with its own hidden air vent had a new tenant. Lucky, lucky them.

  OK, so I’d broken into Stormcage for a bit of peace and quiet – but a girl still gets a bit lonely sometimes, you know? And lacking a holotelly, a library, or a way of teleporting in an entire male voice choir (chorister robes optional), I wasn’t averse to a bit of free entertainment. I pushed aside the typewriter and lay down on my bunk, arms crossed behind my head, listening in to see if the latest arrival might turn out to be a new BFF, or just a momentary diversion.

  A male voice. Not one I recognised. Hoarse, gruff – despairing. ‘Why can’t you just let me die?’

  ‘Because my job is to be out here, making sure you stay in there – safely – until you go to trial. That’s it.’ That voice I did recognise. Tomas. On my personal gaoler scale, which goes from 1 (monstrous sadist) to 10 (cute, willing to look the other way, cake on my birthday), Tomas is about a 5.5. Not nasty, just fairly indifferent.

  ‘I didn’t want any of this to happen.’

  ‘No one plans to end up in Stormcage.’ (Well, some of us do. But I admit we’re a rare and precious breed.)

  ‘But—’

  Cutting across: ‘Get used to it. Make sure you digest the rules before lights-out.’

  ‘Don’t leave me alone! Please!’

  I waited for a few minutes, but there was nothing but the occasional groan or sob. Not great entertainment value. Oh well. I leaned closer to the vent and called out, ‘Hello neighbour!’

  A slight shriek. My new neighbour may be just a teensy bit on edge. Now I was wishing I’d pretended to be a ghost. My wailing is second to none.

  ‘My name’s River. Cell 426.’

  ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘You’re a prisoner?’

  ‘I prefer “involuntary inhabitant”,’ I said. Let’s not confuse him straight off by telling him I’m in here voluntarily. It sounded like he was a prison virgin; I didn’t think he’d understand.

  ‘Oh,’ again. Then, ‘My name’s Ventrian. I’m here because—’

  Sadly, although I’d have been extremely happy to overhear the juicy details, thanks to having developed a conscience at some point (I was quite happy being a sociopath, but the universe had other ideas), I felt I had to abide by the prisoners’ code. I jumped in and shhhed him. ‘You don’t have to tell me. You’re in the highest-security prison in the Seven Galaxies; you must have done something fairly noteworthy. To make things tolerable over the breakfast table, we don’t generally divulge our … shall we say, felonious faux pas to each other. Hard to enjoy your eggs when you know you’re sitting next to someone who tortures kittens for fun.’

  ‘But I didn’t—’

  ‘I’m afraid there are three types of people in here. People who are proud of what they’ve done; people who are full of excuses or justifications; and people who claim to be innocent. The first lot are insufferable, the second are pathetic, and the third … ’

  ‘The innocent people?’

  ‘The people who say they’re innocent – well, they’re the ones who’re going to have the worst time. Because once you’re in here, you’re here for good.’ I mean, that is true for most people. I’m not most people. But no point telling him that. I stay on reasonable terms with most of the warders here because they know I do solo breakouts only, and I come back.

  ‘That wasn’t what I was going to say,’ he said. ‘I’m not innocent. It was my fault. It was all my fault. I deserve to suffer.’

  Ooh, who had ‘martyr’ on their prison bingo cards?

  ‘Well, that’s lucky,’ I said. ‘Because this place isn’t exactly the Navarino Super Happy Time Fun Palace.’

  He went quiet then, and I felt ashamed of myself. Just because I’ve come to terms with imprisonment over the years didn’t mean I couldn’t be sympathetic to someone just starting out on that journey.

  There was silence for a few minutes before he said, as if he’d just been replaying our conversation in his head, ‘What do you mean about breakfast table? I was told I’d never leave my cell.’

  I shrugged, then realised he couldn’t see me. ‘Figure of speech. No breakfast table. No breakfast, actually – it’s nutrition pills only, apart from Christmas. But we wave at each other on our way to the governor’s office, or the meteor-shower block.’

  ‘Why won’t they just let me die …?’

  ‘None of that,’ I replied in my best teacher voice (seriously, I could practically feel the mortarboard on my head – not to mention the cane in my hand). ‘Make your bed, learn the rules, keep your head down – for a while, at least. You’ll find it easier than you think.’

  ‘That guard, he said something about the rules, but no one’s told me … ’

  Typical Tomas. Couldn’t be bothered to explain properly. Apathy, rather than malice – some guards (the sub-4-pointers) would deliberately withhold the rules then punish you for not knowing them. ‘He gave you the clue. “Dige
st the rules.” Open your New Prisoner pack. See a yellow pill?’

  I heard some movement, then he said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should have some sachets too. Dehydrated water, daily ration. Open one, it should liquefy. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now you can swallow the pill. The rules will get into your system, make it through the blood-brain barrier in a few hours. Rather more efficient than forcing you to read a 500-page manual. Done it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said again.

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll let you digest in peace … ’

  ‘No!’ he yelped. ‘Please. Don’t leave me alone.’

  I was already feeling that I’d done my good deed for the day; Ventrian hadn’t turned out to be a particularly interesting correspondent, and I wanted to finish my chapter before bedtime. But I’m a pussycat at heart (must be why I’m so sensitive to kitten torture). ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But we’ll have to stop speaking if any guards are around. I’m fairly sure no one would approve of prisoners having a tête-a-tête. So … ’ Inspiration failed. I fell back on the inane. ‘Tell me about yourself, Ventrian.’

  ‘I’m – I was – an archaeologist.’

  Hot diggity! We have lift off! ‘Me too!’ I said, temporarily failing to be cool, calm and collected. Maybe he wasn’t such a wash-out after all!

  ‘Did you say your name was River? Not … not Professor Song?’

  Oh, I do like being famous. ‘Well, as a matter of fact … yes.’ I wondered if it would be polite to pretend I’d heard of him in return but, while lying can be fun, I didn’t really want to put in the work right now.

  ‘I’ve read some of your papers. Concomitant Development on the Ood-Sphere and the Sense-Sphere, that was you, wasn’t it? Fascinating! And the one about the earliest manifestations of Kroll. That was so insightful.’

  I relaxed back on my mattress (non-prison issue, I had it smuggled in on one of the laundry trucks – maximum security is one thing but I’m not compromising my spinal health for anyone) and prepared to spend some time hearing about how wonderful I am. It would be my good deed for the day – taking Ventrian’s mind off being in prison for ever. And if I happened to enjoy being feted, well, that was just a happy coincidence.