The Ghost Reapers

by Jackie Ferris

“He was not a bigamist.” Francisco stopped walking, then swallowed hard. “It was always going to be down to me to tell you the truth.” He paused. “He did not marry your mother.”

  “What…? Do you think I’m crazy?” Jazz shrieked back at him. “You said it yourself on that email: daughter of an Egyptian faker.”

  “I sent you the photograph, Jazz, not a note.”

  “That’s another lie.”

  “I’m not lying. Your mother wanted you to think they were married.”

  “Francisco, I was not born yesterday. My parents were married in Venice. Their wedding was held in some grand palazzo. Missing it annoyed the life out of my nan; all she got was a few sausage rolls in a church hall.”

  He sucked in air. “Is that what she told you?”

  “In great detail: the palazzo belonged to some Marquis, I forget his name.” She laughed. “Nan hated the sausage rolls too. She swore they were made from sawdust from the butcher’s droppings.”

  “You saw the wedding photographs?”

  Jazz was momentarily silenced. “Mother left them on the train on her way back from Venice where they married and honeymooned. It was one of her biggest regrets.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Not really; she was always going on about wishing I could see them.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw the wedding certificate?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Then the only evidence you have of their marriage is what she told you?”

  “I didn’t need evidence. Dad always behaved like they were married, even though he was hardly ever at home.”

  “It was a condition of his being able to visit you.”

  “Condition?”

  “Your mother’s; but, to be fair, Dad was afraid you would not trust anyone if you knew the truth.”

  “He laid the foundations for my mistrust. He did a good job; he laid them deep.”

  “It was never his intention.”

  “He never even sent me a Christmas or birthday card.”

  “He sent them. Your mother made sure you did not receive them.”

  Francisco checked his Rolex. There was so little time. “She blocked everything he tried to do. She even paid a psychologist to write a letter to him. To cut a long story short, it states that if he saw you it would have serious repercussions on your fragile mental health.”

  “My mental health was never in doubt.”

  “I can show you the letter.”

  “Did you contact me to destroy my world again?”

  His tone softened. “You are in trouble.”

  “Easy knowledge for a tweet stalker.”

  “I’m no stalker. Dad kept an eye on you. He asked me to do the same.”

  “Why?”

  “Family; you are his daughter, I’m your brother.”

  Jazz rapped her fingers on the desk. “Suppose I’m willing to go along with this story of yours: why the photograph? You superimposed the tattoo; what I don’t get is why?”

  “I needed your attention; unfortunately, recent events have made my getting in touch with you even more pertinent.” He crossed the street, glancing at: Newcastle’s Nefertiti’s Nails, overflowing with ample twenty-something women. He smiled: they were defying the bad weather in short white skirts and sandals.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Her shaking voice scared him. She had to trust him.

  “Carbon dating declared the Shroud a medieval fake. The same method classified Dad’s papyrus a fake, this discredited him.”

  “It was a fake.” Her voice trailed off, guilt adding to her doubts.

  “Not everything is what it seems; your own research proves it. Even with the advantages of modern technology, researchers have no idea how the image of a crucified man was created on the Shroud. The reddish-brown traces are blood, not paint. The blood is a very human A-plus, suggesting that a dead man spent some time wrapped in the Shroud.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Humour me. I want you to get where I´m coming from.”

  “What if I don’t want to know?”

  “You owe Dad that, surely.” He hated to pile on more guilt, but there was little choice.

  “Go on.” She bit her nail, aware that minutes earlier she hadn’t cared what he thought.

  “The Shroud’s image of the crucified Christ is typical of the execution methods used by the Romans on terrorists and vagabonds. Such practices were unknown in the mid-thirteen hundreds when the Shroud was first displayed. Was it a lucky guess? I doubt it. Religious art depicted Christ with nails in his hands and feet. The weight of his body would have ripped them off. Once the Shroud appeared, artists changed their portrayal.”

  “You read my tweets, why repeat it?”

  “Your evidence is not new.”

  “My hate trolls are enough. I don’t need you adding to them.”

  “Slow down; I’m on your side. The evidence supporting the Shroud’s authenticity is pretty strong even if Christ was a giant, so why is the Church so adamant that it’s a fake?”

  She held up her hands. “Who knows? The Church’s love of relics with no provenance is well documented. Three centuries after Christ’s death, the mother of the Roman Emperor Constantine stumbled over the True Cross, while wandering around Jerusalem. The Church accepted it as genuine. As soon as the Shroud was unveiled, some bishop declared it a fake. From then on it was consigned to anonymity – spot the anomalies.”

  Francisco sighed. “Once a fake always a fake?” He started walking again.

  “Is that an oblique reference to Dad?” Jazz shuddered, as the memory of her mother and Nan castigating her father flitted into her head.

  “A conviction does not make it true, any more than the Church’s declaring the Shroud bogus, makes it a fake.”

  “Ouch.” Jazz shook her hand. “Later researchers have cast doubts on the carbon dating of the cloth. The piece they used could have been a repair made after one of the many fires the Shroud survived.”

  “Weren’t the pieces chosen by the Church?”

  “Church officials watched the removal of the linen. It was taken from a single site, hence the repair theory. If you ask me the carbon dating is a red herring. The double negative highlighting the image on the Shroud is the conundrum. Photography wasn’t invented when the Shroud resurfaced.”

  Francisco smiled at an old woman who was staring at him, as Jazz continued to expound.

  “The cloth proves something inexplicable is out there. Yet the Church branded it a fake. Why?” She did not seriously expect him to answer.

  “You don’t have to convince me. You are being discredited, just as the Egyptian authorities destroyed the reputation of our father.”

  Her stomach dropped to somewhere below her knees. “The circumstances are different.”

  “Circumstance perhaps, but there is a bigger picture out there. There are things you don’t understand.”

  “And you do?”

  “I’m a physicist. I research dark matter.”

  She laughed. “Are you going to tell me Dad was really the Dark Knight? Does that make you the Joker?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Jazz. We can’t see it, but dark matter holds the universe together.”

  “What has that got to…”

  “The night sky is only a small part of the universe,” he interrupted. “If something is invisible or not recorded, it does not imply non-existence. Secrets run a lot deeper. Our historical records of the ancient past don’t add up.”

  She puffed out her cheeks. “I hate to admit it, but I like where you’re going with this.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Dad’s death made me realise that I was stupid to probe the dark matter of space when the dark matters in my family remained unresolved. He spent most of his life trying to prove his theories. He believed that Nefertiti knew something damning about the Egyptian past. He was pretty close to uncovering it when the Egyptian authorities discredited him. I have
information which he made me promise not to use until after his death. He wanted your consent before I could access it.”

  “Mine?”

  He shook his head. “I have said too much already on this device. It’s new, but you never know. I don’t think your phone is bugged, but it might be. Can we meet?”

  “Distance is a factor. I’m not in the habit of hopping over to New York.”

  “No need, I’m on the corner looking up.”

  She rushed to the window. A tall man with thick dark hair and wearing a camel overcoat was waving up at her. She swallowed hard. Doubts ravaged her. Was it really possible that the past she had believed in was a lie? Dare she hope that her father had been wrongly discredited? She remembered the article in National Geographic. Order came out of chaos. Crazy as it seemed, she felt that whatever she said next would change her life forever. “Come up.”

  Chapter Five

  The numbers blurred as the lift ascended. An image of the teenage boy Jazz had met at the Tower of London clogged her thoughts. She knew it was crazy; her solitary connection with her step-brother was a memory string so why was she even giving this stranger air space?

  It was too late now, she bit her lip, stepping back as the numbers came into focus on thirty-five.

  Behind the closed doors, Francisco clenched his fists; more than anything, he wanted her to believe him.

  As the door slid open, Jazz was relieved that she had changed into a green dress. At six foot four, he was a good eight inches taller than her. Silver flecks peppered his thick black hair, giving him a distinguished look. There were laughter lines around his cornflower-blue eyes, which sparkled with mischief: exactly how she remembered them.

  Francisco briefly appraised the waif-thin figure. Her striking beauty was fragile and there was a haunted look in her emerald eyes. He resisted the urge to wrap protective arms around her as he held out his tanned, manicured hand. “Jazz.”

  The accent she had picked up on the phone was East Coast.

  His gaze strayed beyond her to the open door behind her. “Shall we go in?”

  His question wrong-footed her and leading the way into her apartment, she was acutely aware that a cat might struggle to swing in it.

  Francisco’s eyes flitted around the living room which dropped off from the small hallway. “It’s cosy.” He shook his head. “Damn, I should have brought champagne to celebrate our reunion.”

  “Hardly cause for a celebration.”

  She registered the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “There is some chardonnay in the fridge, would you like a glass?”

  He nodded, following her into the galley kitchen. Jazz pushed the remnants of dried milk and muesli left over from breakfast, into the sink, then turned towards him. He grinned back, showing off a set of white teeth fashioned in Hollywood. “I’m starving. The food on planes is dreadful, no matter which class you travel.”

  She smiled, wondering what he would think of the ham and cheese toasty she was about to offer.

  Scarily he seemed to read her mind as he added: “I love ethnic food. You must have the number of a local Indian? I’ll order another bottle of wine too. I have a feeling we might need it.”

  Jazz decided against explaining that the Indian takeaways she used didn’t usually supply wine. Instead she ferreted through a pile of papers looking for a flyer.

  Ordinarily, she would have ordered what she wanted. He did not ask as he took the brightly coloured paper from her, and then ordered half the menu from his mobile.

  “Shall we move into the living room?” She handed him a glass of wine. “The takeaway will be at least half an hour.” She tried not to think how they would eat it. Her dining table was a pine trunk which doubled as her footrest and table when she watched TV.

  Francisco caught the quiver in her voice as he sipped the wine. “I’d love to sit down. The transatlantic flight is too short to justify the bed, but you feel obliged to use it. I spent most of the flight staring at the ceiling. To add to my misery, the leg room on the shuttle coming up here was Lilliputian.” He grinned, hoping she would relax, but her face muscles tensed as he opened the buttons of his coat. “Do you mind if I take this off?”

  She felt stupid. She was blocking his way into the living room and everywhere else. “Let me have it, there are some hooks in the hallway.”

  The hooks in question were smothered with jackets, coats and reusable supermarket bags. She found a space for it, and then hurried back to the living room.

  He was staring out of the window; as she entered he turned. “Stunning view, this is a nice city. The Georgian buildings are beautiful.”

  A ghost of a smile escaped her lips. Whatever else, he was charming. “On clear days you can see the river.”

  “And the delivery guy, the Taj Mahal van, just pulled up.” He pointed downwards.

  Jazz made a face, unable to believe he had been there that long. “That was quick. I’ll get the door.”

  “Wait, it’s my treat.” He handed her two fifty-pound notes from his wallet. She looked at them strangely.

  Francisco mistook her hesitancy. “Will that cover the tip? New York is crazy; a minimum of twenty percent is required, otherwise they shout at you.”

  “You’ll have plenty left over, even with the wine.”

  Francisco shook his head. “Give it to him. Money is the least of our problems. We need to eat and then we need to talk.”

  Chapter Six

  26th November 1922, Valley of the Kings

  A candle flickered hesitantly in the darkness. It was the only source of light for the two middle-aged men huddled together, in what they hoped was the entrance to the unopened tomb. Around them, stale air bridged the three millennia separating past from present. Howard Carter took a deep breath before plunging the candle further into the darkness. He had waited thirty-one years for this.

  His mentor, Lord Carnarvon, had waited longer. Unable to contain his impatience he leant towards him, whispering. “What can you see?”

  “Wonderful things.”

  As he spoke, Carter used his hands to move rubble and widen the entrance to the tomb. It took time and he was sweating with anticipation as he thrust a torch into the opening. It was a moment before he could speak. “Gold, golden artefacts, the burial place is littered with them. This tomb has not been opened since Tutankhamun’s interment three thousand years ago.” He took deep breaths between each word, as if not quite trusting them.

  Carnarvon wiped perspiration from his brow. He had chosen Carter, because he was a stupid man blinded by the romance of the quest, to discover an unopened tomb. “Good man, Carter, good man.”

  Howard barely heard as he worked with his hands to shift more debris.

  Dust clouds sprayed the air. The musty smell percolating downwards made Carnarvon nauseous. He tapped Carter on the back. “We must be careful; everything needs to be itemised and photographed once we are inside. I will enlist a team of experts to ensure nothing is broken. We cannot lose history’s legacy.”

  He glanced at the plaster marking the opening of the tomb. Soon it would be obvious that the tomb had been resealed. There was nothing he could do to hide it but everything else would be stage-managed. Truth was about perception, not fact. Tomorrow would prove a bigger test, when the door sealing the entrance was broken.

  27th November, 1922

  Carter had not slept a wink. His insomnia had sparked his return to the tomb’s entrance, shortly after daybreak. There were three hours before his scheduled meeting with Lord Carnarvon. The tomb guards, who yawned idly, were patently bored with their task. Their leader shuffled from foot to foot. Carter sensed his uncertainty about allowing him to enter without the permission of their benefactor as he rubbed his stomach and smiled at the leader.

  “Strong Arab coffee, which you can smell before you drink, combined with superb buffalo yoghurt. The flat-bread is exquisite; if only my chef could make it as well.” He pointed to the tents flapping in the morning breeze abo
ut a thousand yards away. The guards peered at the distant shelters, then returned their attention to him. Seeing their resistance wavering, Carter rubbed his belly again. “Their coffee beats anything the finest hotels in Cairo offer. Go on; you will be back well before His Lordship gets here. I will clear the steps. No one knows Tut’s tomb is here, everything is safe with me.”

  Carter watched them run down the hillside, needing no further persuasion. He grinned as he instructed Muhammad, his faithful companion, to clear the steps, then hurriedly made his way into the antechamber that had been cleared the previous day.

  Afraid to touch anything, he looked around in awe. Two hours later he was still staring at a past unseen for more than three thousand years. In front of him, golden boxes, chairs and couches were heaped in disorderly fashion against the wall opposite the entrance. He studied the pile of treasures. Normally, tombs were meticulously set out for the journey into the afterlife. Whoever had created this sacrilege of discarded golden afterthoughts did not believe in the Egyptian version of the resurrection.

  Bewildered, he turned his attention to the two statues of Tutankhamun standing like sentinels against the right-hand wall. Carter moved closer. They were clearly protecting the sealed door. It had been broken into at the bottom and crudely resealed. Afraid to go further without Lord Carnarvon, he studied the mangled parts of disassembled chariots to the left of the door. He scratched his chin, trying to make sense of it. Why would robbers not take the gold?

  Searching for answers, he appraised the chaotic antechamber again. On another wall behind some golden couches a hole, big enough for someone to have crawled through, was just visible.

  “Carter.” Carnarvon’s voice, rumbling down the stone stairwell made him jump. He turned quickly, then ran up the carved sandstone steps. Lord Carnarvon looked anything but pleased.

  “What were you doing in there?” his sponsor barked, staring beyond him at the newly brushed steps.

  “My intention was to clear the staircase before you got here, sir. I also took the liberty of checking out the antechamber. Someone was here before us. The tomb was broken into.”