All These Shiny Worlds

by Jefferson Smith

  ***

  Philip dropped the lid back on the salver and swallowed hard. “Mrs. Hadsall. No more devilled kidneys for breakfast.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll take that away now. Will you be requiring—?”

  The doorbell interrupted her attempt to fill the void in his day with kedgeree, or eggs, or whatnot. Philip poured himself another cup of tea and moved over to the window. The roses Anna had planted next to the pergola had bedded in; he’d have to… He sighed. Would that be his life now? Would he pretend the projects she had started still meant something without her? At least the Egyptians believed their rituals helped the deceased; all an Englishman would get is a vicar blathering on about the consolation of grace.

  Two sets of footsteps padded along the corridor. He placed his cup on the table with a clatter. Who called before ten and then entered without being invited?

  Mrs. Hadsall pushed open the dining room door. “Detective Inspector Stevens.”

  As she ducked back, a man in his late forties stepped past. One side of his tweed jacket bulged. Shifting an unlit pipe to his left hand, he strode forward and stuck out his right. “Professor Luttman. Sorry to bother you so early.”

  Philip shook the outstretched hand. He vaguely remembered the inspector from the museum, but most of the night was a blur. “Can I offer you tea? Or perhaps some…toast.”

  The inspector grimaced. “Most kind. Expect you don’t want me eating when I could be out there searching, though. Two reasons for coming. I’ll get right to it. Not sure how it happened. You might want to sit down, sir. There’s been a problem at the mortuary…”

  Something about misfiled paperwork, apologies from the highest level, and heads rolling washed over Philip. They’d lost the body. How would Anna find peace without her body? He broke a piece of toast in half, then paused. It had been their little joke: I’d share my last piece of toast with you. Who was he going to share toast with now?

  China rattled, then a blurred cup of tea appeared. He should—

  “Take your time, sir.” The inspector rested a hand on his arm. “I’ll ask your housekeeper to bring something for the shock.”

  “No.” Philip turned his head away and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I’d prefer to keep my faculties sharp. If I don’t, I might forget she’s gone, and the remembering…”

  “Quite understand. Felt the same when my mother passed on.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. You said there were two things?”

  “Does the name Matt Timmins mean anything to you?”

  Philip racked his brains. Had he heard the name before, or did it just seem familiar because it was a common name? “I don’t think so. I know most of the museum staff but I might not recall a cleaner or delivery driver. Does this mean you’ve found the thieves?”

  “We recovered this from Mr. Timmins’ room. Unfortunately, we didn’t find anything else.” The inspector pulled a bundled handkerchief from the pocket of his tweeds. Holding it in the palm of his left hand, he eased back the corners. “If you could not touch. Do you recognise it?”

  Philip lowered his half-raised right hand and gazed at the arcs of ceramic beads interspersed with polished metal. “It’s a wesekh. A necklace indicating power or honour. If you’re asking whether it’s one of the stolen items, I’m afraid I don’t know. The manifest listed a wesekh, but we’d only opened a few of the crates when…”

  “…when you went to photograph the dagger.” The inspector wrapped the necklace up. “Thank you, sir. And sorry again for the mistake.”

  Inspector Steven’s mouth creased. After a half step toward the door, he swung back, then drew a deep breath. He stared at Philip for a moment, then turned back to the door. “I’ll show myself out.”

  Before Philip could respond, Inspector Stevens was gone. Found in the room of? The inspector hadn’t said whether they’d arrested Mr. Timmins, or anyone else. So the thieves must still be out there. But then, why didn’t he say they were pursuing leads? And why did Timmins sound familiar? It wasn’t anyone from the museum. And if there had been a connection, the inspector would have mentioned it.

  The cold dregs of his tea swallowed, Philip moved over to the bookshelves. A Reverend Timothy, but no Timmins. Someone Anna knew? He pulled open her top desk drawer.

  No address book. He checked the other drawers, but it wasn’t there. He frowned. Timmins still felt familiar. It would just be a random coincidence—if he even had seen the name before—but he wouldn’t be able to shake it until he found out. And he hadn’t told everyone she was… had passed away. He’d need Anna’s address book to make sure he missed no one.

  Letting people know! She’d called her cousin about something on Tuesday. The sense of familiarity grew as he strode into the corridor and snatched up her address book from next to the telephone. No Timmins. He flicked through again to be sure. Nothing even close. As he turned towards his study, the notepad caught his eye. The top sheet was blank, but he had the strongest feeling that was where he’d seen the name. He tilted it back and forth. There were indentations in the paper, too shallow to read. Maybe in a better light.

  He rushed into his study to find a pencil. Even with the desk light and a magnifying glass, the pencil rubbings were too faint to make out clearly. Abandoning his project, he realised he couldn’t face calling casual friends and distant relatives. Address book and notepad back in their normal places, he buried himself in Culp’s notes.

  ***

  Philip blinked at his steak pudding. Apart from the two forkfuls he’d forced down to stop Mrs. Hadsall lurking in the doorway, it was the same as when she brought it half an hour ago. He’d barely touched breakfast and missed lunch. He should eat, but those mouthfuls had tasted like dust. Defeated, he headed for the sideboard. A little whisky would take the edge off. And if his appetite came back, he’d ask Mrs. Hadsall to bring something.

  After the second tot, the pudding smelled more appetising. Fork clutched in his right hand, he alternated between scoops of meaty filling and sips of whisky until only fragments of pastry remained. Rich food and poor sleep dragging at his eyelids, he dozed. The image of the telephone pad drifted up. Timmins, 14 Langdon Road—

  His head thudded against the back of his chair as he jerked awake. He remembered. Not just Timmins, but three other names and addresses. The steak pudding and whisky twisted in his stomach and a drumming filled his ears.

  His sleepwalking was worse. Three dreams about horrible murder. Timmins had been the third. The inspector hadn’t said why they had searched Timmins’ room, but he had called at breakfast; if someone had reported a disturbance in the night, the time was right for Stevens to have come straight here. Or was this his mind putting random pieces together?

  The fourth address. Simon, 67B Cardew Street. Not the best area; exactly where he expected a thief to live. Did that make it more or less likely? If one of the thieves lived there, then…then what? He should tell the police. But how would he explain knowing?

  It was better to be sure. Even if he knew the addresses, it didn’t mean he’d killed anyone. He headed for the front door.

  “Professor? You’re going out in this weather?” Mrs. Hadsall frowned at him from partway along the hall.

  Philip realised the drumming was rain hammering against the windows. “An urgent errand.”

  “Well, at least let me call you a taxi.”

  “No.” He yanked the door open. “Need to clear my head.” One shoulder of his jacket already sodden, he scurried down the path, still pulling his coat on.

  ***

  Hair flattened and coat defeated, Philip stumbled into Cardew Street. His shoes squelched each time he took a step. If it were possible to feel less like a brutal killer on a relentless hunt, he didn’t know how. Grief made people do odd things, and this was one of them. He should—

  The entrance to 67B gaped, rain driving into the gloomy hallway. He stepped in, wondering whether to call out.

  A door swung open at the far end, re
vealing a hunched figure lurking behind something.

  Philip flattened himself against the wall. The man slipped out of sight.

  Before Philip could decide what to do, a flash of lightning lit the hallway, flaring off glass. A mirror over the fireplace. Not a lurking figure, but his own reflection, soaked to the skin. As he crept to the end room, an acrid smell wafted out, raising memories of the War.

  A small man, apparently unconscious, lay next to an overturned chair. Dark stains further marred his already-tattered shirt.

  Gaze flicking around the room, Philip moved closer. A flash of lightning caught the mirror over the mantle, drawing his eye. For an instant, the after-images made his reflection appear to twist in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. What was—?

  With a crunch, the man’s chest tore open, exposing his lungs.

  Acid boiling up his throat, Philip sprinted from the room.

  ***

  Rain battered Philip’s face. He lay on wet soil. Thorns tugged at his sleeve. Anna’s rose bushes. He was in his own garden.

  Another burst of nausea surged as he remembered the graunch of ribs opening. He rolled over and vomited thin matter. Eyes tearing from the bitter stench, he pushed himself upright. Dark stains coated his hands. He’d run. He hadn’t touched the man. How did he have blood…?

  What if it was hysteria? Had he killed the thief and then imagined he’d only witnessed it because he couldn’t cope? Were the dreams memories? He needed to call the police.

  As he shoved the front door open, his feet slipped on the wet step, pitching him to the floor. In the light of the hall, the backs of his hands looked more brown than red. The dark stains were soil. He hadn’t killed anyone. Had it even happened, or had he been sleepwalking and dreamt it?

  Coat dripping on the carpet, he headed up to the bathroom. Wash his hands, pour a stiff drink, then decide what to do. Mud, a reassuring dark-coffee tone, swirled away. He reached for the tap to wash the residue away, pausing for a moment as a dragging sound came from above him. Strange time for Mrs. Hadsall to be in the attic. Steering the large drifts of dirt into the drain, he swilled his fingers under the running water and twisted the tap off.

  Calmer now, he realised his trousers clung to his legs. Change first, then have a drink. As he squelched along the landing, he heard an incoherent muttering coming from above. What was Mrs. Hadsall doing?

  He headed up the attic stairs and pushed the door open. The scent of natron and cinnamon filled the room. Philip stumbled to a halt. Candlelight spilled from an old full-length dressing mirror, falling on bare boards edged with boxes and dust-sheeted piles, yet there were no candles in the room.

  It must be a trick of perspective; the candles must be behind a pile of boxes. Taking a few steps forward, he looked for the source of the light. Only bare boards met his gaze. Even more confusingly, the mirror reflected the boxes but not him.

  Instead, four canopic jars stood in a square, and within them Anna’s body. Before he could reconcile the image with reality, the back of a man came into view, almost against the frame.

  Philip rubbed his eyes. The man wore the same suit as Philip did, but the stains on his fingers were too red to be mud.

  Dagger raised in his left hand, the man paced towards the falcon-headed jar. His body shifted for a moment, seeming shorter and broader. He crouched and ran the dagger around the base of the lid. The light glinted from a plain gold band as he twisted the lid free with his right hand.

  Faint vapour rose from the jar and drifted over Anna’s body.

  The man moved to the human-headed jar. As he crouched, his jacket fell back, revealing a bloodstained rip in the side of a crumpled shirt. Why would he wear such a cheap shirt with an expensive suit? Then the figure looked up.

  Philip’s breath stuttered. The man could be his twin. Except for the eyes: the man’s eyes were so sunken they seemed almost black.

  When Philip’s double rose, the image tore apart, stretching and thinning to reveal another man within: his attacker from the museum. A breath later, the two figures snapped back together.

  Continuing his widdershins circle, the re-merged figure opened the jackal-headed jar, then moved to the last lid. But—unlike at the other three—Philip’s almost-twin removed it without cutting around it first. Of course! The jar of Hapi contained the lungs. They’d only been taken this evening, so the killer wouldn’t have needed to seal the jar to keep them fresh.

  Arms spread, Philip’s almost-duplicate shouted, “Kn’a ron ngthrod uaaah chafh’drn shagg!” Left arm sweeping in, he collapsed backwards. The mirror juddered in its frame as he slid down until only the top of his head was visible.

  Philip shuffled a few steps closer. The flickering light fell on untidy curls, not Philip’s short-back-and-sides. As Philip inched closer, a stocky body in an old shirt came into view. He moved nearer still. The dagger jutted from the side of the man’s abdomen. Exactly the height Philip’s hand would have been when they collided in the corridor.

  One body with the face of another. How could the thief have Philip’s own face? It didn’t make sense. And yet, the Egyptians had believed the personality, the ba, could interact with the world after death, could leave the corpse at night and return at dawn. Egyptian funerary practices were supposed to send the ba into the afterlife, to stop it merging with the corpse, prevent the shambling, bandaged monster of cheap novels. If the ba separated from the body but the rituals to release it weren’t performed, it would have no rest; just as the dagger said.

  The Book of Going Forth By Day spoke of it happening after death. What if there were a way to separate it before death? Didn’t fakirs and mystics claim they could send their spirit out of their bodies?

  The dagger was more than a way to free the soul before death. It destroyed the victim’s ba, replacing it with the wielder’s, consigning an enemy to the flames. Egyptian religion was half cursing enemies and half buying power in the afterlife. A weapon to punish the enemies not with mere death, but with becoming your slave fitted both.

  His dreams of vengeance were so vivid because he had been there, in spirit if not body. And he knew the addresses because the thief did; like a spiritual palimpsest, some knowledge from the previous occupant had remained. There must be more to it, though. The ritual had only been visible in the mirror. Mirrors. The odd reflections when the thief had been killed. Dyer’s guide had tried to steal a mirror, too. The hieroglyphics on the dagger meant “Place of Judgement” but they could also mean “Gateway.” To a primitive desert culture a mirror would be the work of a skilled craftsman, but even a pauper could afford pure glass in England. Locked doors would be no barrier and witnesses no risk if you could pass through any reflective surface, kill a man not in this world but in its reflection. But why a reversed mummification ritual?

  “Philip.” Philip stared into his wife’s eyes as she beckoned him closer. Of course! Resurrection. The highest goal of all Egyptian magic. He merely needed to pass through the gate.

  He reached for Anna’s hand, only to stop as his fingers struck the glass. It didn’t make sense. The thief’s body was in the mirror, and must have passed through it several times to gather the organs for the ritual and to take Anna’s body. Why couldn’t Philip pass through? “How do I pass through?”

  “I don’t know.” Anna reached toward him, but had no more luck than he. The tips of their fingers turned white as they each strove to bridge the thin gap between them.

  After a moment longer, Philip drew his hand back. How could a thief do it when Philip couldn’t? Even after it all, that thug was with Anna while Philip couldn’t reach her.

  But the thief hadn’t done it. The idea of a thug like that performing magic, knowing even one word of it, was ridiculous. Words. That had to be it. Egyptian magic was based on words. Not wanting things but demanding them, stating them so forcibly they became truth.

  Philip drew himself up and spread his arms wide. “I am Philip Algenon Luttman. It is I who perfo
rmed this ritual, not another. The mirror does not reflect me because I do not stand before it. It shows my enemy, for he lies here dead. Philip Algenon Luttman passed through the gate. Let he who denies it be cast into the flames. Let—”

  Pain lanced into Philip’s side. Vision blurring, he struggled for balance.

  Warm arms and the gentle scent of roses enveloped him.

  About The Author

  Dave Higgins writes speculative fiction, often with a dark edge. Despite forays into the mundane worlds of law and IT, he was unable to escape the liminal zone between mystery and horror. A creature of contradictions, he also co-writes comic sci-fi with Simon Cantan. Born in the least mystically significant part of Wiltshire, England, and raised by a librarian, he started reading shortly after birth and hasn’t stopped since. He lives with his wife, two cats, a plush altar to Lord Cthulhu, and many shelves of books. It’s rumoured he writes out of fear he will otherwise run out of books to read.

  For more information, visit http://davidjhiggins.wordpress.com/.

  The Ant Tower

  Christopher Ruz

  Editor’s Note: A grown man may not believe in bogeymen, but let him travel alone awhile through strange and foreign lands, then ask him again what he fears.

  The sandstorm wails and scratches and tries to tug away the kaffiyeh pulled tight over my face. The soldier ahead is a dim silhouette behind the howl. I hear nothing but the wind; not the slap of my sword against my leg, nor Officer Slopes shouting at me from behind. I ache through and through, all the way down to the ends of my fingers. They throb with my heartbeat. I can’t stop to rest. If I tire I’ll lose sight of the line, and the desert will dry me out until I’m shrunken and empty, sightless sockets forever staring at the sky.