There's A Pharaoh In Our Bath!

by Jeremy Strong

  Mrs Lightspeed sekoned everyone through to the kitchen, where they could at least hear each other. She filled the kettle and began to make a very early breakfast, while Ben tried to explain the business with the candle.

  ‘They used to put perfumed wax on top of their heads,’ he said. ‘It would melt in the heat and the perfume would dribble down their faces. They thought it made them smell nice.’

  ‘Yuk!’ said Carrie.

  Mr Lightspeed grinned at them both. ‘It’s a good idea if you ask me. I bet he’d think it was just as strange to shove deodorant up your armpits! Anyway,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘it seems that a four-thousand-year-old Pharaoh with a thing about worms and sticking candles on his head has come to stay with us. What are we going to do now?’

  5 The Search Continues

  ‘He can’t just have vanished,’ said Grimstone to Professor Jelly in the museum cafeteria the following morning. They’d had a miserable night, getting thoroughly soaked, searching the streets until half past three before giving up. To make matters worse, Professor Jelly had got a puncture on the way home and had only crawled into bed at four fifteen. At least his headache had gone.

  ‘Somebody must have seen him, taken him in maybe, looked after him.’ Grimstone pushed a coin into the coffee machine and pressed a button. A plastic cup clattered into place and a thick brown sludge spilled into it. Grimstone sniffed it in disgust. ‘Hot chocolate,’ he scowled. ‘I hate the stuff.’

  ‘But you pressed the button for hot chocolate,’ said Jelly. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘What do you expect? If I press the black coffee button, which is what I want, do you think I get black coffee? Of course not. This stupid machine gives me tea. If I press the tea button you’d think I’d get coffee, but no, I get tomato soup. I thought if I pressed the chocolate button I certainly wouldn’t get chocolate, but I might get the black coffee I want.’

  Professor Jelly felt his headache about to come back. He couldn’t take all this in. ‘I like hot chocolate,’ he muttered, taking the cup from Grimstone and sipping it. ‘How are we going to find Sennapod?’

  ‘He can’t have gone far, and he’s going to stick out like a sore thumb in all those bandages. We shall have to hunt him down.’

  An idea occurred to Professor Jelly. ‘What about that film? Where those men go around looking for ghosts and trapping them in a special box.’

  ‘You mean Ghostbusters.’

  ‘Maybe there are people who catch Ancient Egyptians,’ suggested the professor. Grimstone considered this.

  ‘It’s possible. What do you think they’d be called?’

  ‘Mummybusters? Pharaoh-finders? Look in Yellow Pages.’

  Together they skimmed through all the telephone directories they could muster, but it was hopeless. Then they wondered about hiring a private detective, but quickly decided against the idea. They couldn’t afford a detective, and supposing they did hire one and the detective found out about the treasure? No, they had to keep this thing to themselves.

  Grimstone slapped a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Got it! The police! Why didn’t I think of it before? The police are bound to have picked him up. Nobody can wander around the streets at night dressed like Sennapod. The police will have picked him up and put him in an cell overnight for safe-keeping. Come on!’

  Grimstone’s tiny moped could hardly cope with two riders at one sitting. Jelly’s feet trailed along the road and the speed they made would hardly have done credit to a turbocharged sixteen-valve tortoise. The moped hiccuped past the MISTER FREE ZEE van at one end of the street and eventually phutted to a halt outside the police station. They hurried in.

  Wattle, the desk sergeant, raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’

  ‘We’re looking for a Pharaoh,’ said Grimstone, getting straight to the point. ‘Might have come in last night. Have you got one?’

  ‘Pharaoh?’ replied Sergeant Wattle, scanning the list of pick-ups brought in during the night. ‘Can’t say there’s a Mr Pharaoh here. Got a Miss Fairseat – she was picked up last night, and there’s a drunken fairy from some fancy-dress party. What does he look like? Any distinctive features?’

  ‘He’s covered in bandages from head to toe.’

  ‘Oh? Been in an accident, has he?’

  ‘Not exactly. Look, have you got him or not?’ demanded Grimstone impatiently. Sergeant Wattle shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, gentlemen. By the way, if that’s your moped outside, you do realize that one of you hasn’t got a crash-helmet? It’s against the law to ride a mo-ped, motor-cycle or any two-wheeled motor-vehicle without a crash-helmet.’

  Grimstone turned to Jelly and shrugged. ‘Sorry, Jelly, looks like you’ll have to walk.’ Grimstone pulled on his helmet and rode away, leaving the professor gazing after him. Professor Jelly sighed and began to trudge back down the long street. This was absolutely typical. Why did everything awkward have to happen to him? Why couldn’t he have a decent break for a change?

  Professor Jelly glanced at the picture of ice-lollies on the side of the MISTER FREEZEE van as he passed, and his steps faltered. Why not? He fished some coins from his pocket and went to the counter. ‘I’ll have a triple cone – chocolate, pistachio and strawberry – with three flaky-bars, please.’

  ‘You look like you need it,’ said Tony Lightspeed, squeezing a big dollop of strawberry ice-cream into a cone. ‘Having a bad day?’

  The professor nodded. ‘And it’s only just started,’ he grumbled. ‘My friend’s just gone off on his moped and left me to walk. It’s miles to where I’m going.’

  ‘Must be one of those days,’ said Mr Lightspeed sympathetically. ‘I’ve been having trouble myself. You can’t imagine what I’ve got waiting for me when I get home.’

  Professor Jelly licked his ice-cream and shook his head.

  ‘An Ancient Egyptian Pharaoh,’ announced Mr Lightspeed. ‘Now, look! You’ve dropped your ice-cream on your foot!’

  But Professor Jelly didn’t care about his ice-cream. He gripped the counter with his pudgy hands. ‘Tell me more about this Pharaoh,’ he suggested slyly…

  6 Where’s the Asses’ Milk?

  While Sennapod dozed, with Rustbucket still on guard, Mrs Lightspeed worked away at her old, white dressing-gown. She had been altering it all morning, making the bottom longer and letting the sleeves down. It was almost ready.

  Ben and Carrie had been busy too. They had found a picture in one of Ben’s books of a Pharaoh, sitting on his throne. ‘He’s wearing make-up,’ sniffed Carrie. ‘So that’s why Sennapod borrowed all my stuff.’

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Ben. ‘How come the Pharaohs could look so good, but when you put it on –’

  ‘Ben!’ warned their mother, and he hurriedly studied the picture once more. On his head the Pharaoh wore a tall double crown, with the head of the cobra-goddess, to show that he ruled over both Upper and Lower Egypt. On his chin was the ceremonial false beard, always worn by the Pharaohs.

  Carrie and Ben set about copying them. The beard was easily made from a toilet-roll tube and some thin elastic, but the crown was far more complicated. Carrie bent some card round to make the main shape. Ben added a kitchen-roll tube – leaving a pile of floppy kitchen towel all over the floor – and topped it with a tennis-ball. Then he lifted the crown from the table and put it on.

  ‘What does it look like?’ he asked.

  Carrie studied it from several angles. ‘I think it looks like some wonky cardboard with a tube up the middle and a tennis-ball on top.’

  Mrs Lightspeed glanced up from her sewing. ‘It will be fine when you’ve painted it.’

  ‘The cobra-goddess is missing,’ Carrie pointed out. Ben rushed upstairs to his room and came dashing back, waving a big rubber snake. He grabbed the scissors, snipped off the snake’s head, plastered one end with glue and slapped it on the front of the crown. Carrie eyed it with distaste.

  ‘I loathe snakes,’ she muttered.

&nbs
p; ‘How do you manage to look in the mirror so much, then?’ Ben asked, pushing the cobra-head back into place as it slid down the crown for the third time.

  ‘Let me do it, Ben. You’re hopeless.’ Carrie used the stapler to punch a few staples through the rubber. ‘There. All it takes is a bit of intelligence.’

  ‘Don’t you two ever stop arguing?’ sighed Mrs Lightspeed. ‘Look, I’ve finished the royal robe. What do you think?’ She studied the children’s faces. ‘I know it’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing. It will look better when it’s on. Let’s see if Sennapod’s awake yet.’

  The Pharaoh stirred in the armchair. He snorted several times, wiggled his nose and slowly opened his eyes. He was certainly surprised by what he saw. Carrie was holding out the crown rather awkwardly. Ben had the beard, quickly coloured with felt-tips, and Mrs Lightspeed stood there holding out the royal dressing-robe, smiling sheepishly.

  Sennapod straightened his aged back and took the crown from Carrie with both hands. He lifted it slowly to his head. It fitted rather well. ‘We’ve still got to paint it the right colours,’ Carrie pointed out. For a moment the Pharaoh’s black eyes lost their stony glint.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said loftily. ‘Maybe you are not worms after all. Perhaps you are only small animals of some kind, mice perhaps, or small rats.’

  ‘You are most kind, Your Majesty,’ smiled Mrs Lightspeed, giving a little curtsy. ‘Now, I think it’s time you had a bath. Then you can try on your robe.’ She spoke so briskly that Sennapod listened in astonished silence. ‘Come on, this way.’ Mrs Lightspeed pulled the Pharaoh from the armchair and pushed him up the stairs in front of her, with Rustbucket trotting at his heels – the two now seemed to be inseparable.

  Mrs Lightspeed showed Sennapod the little bathroom, gave him a clean towel, put in the plug, turned on the tap and then pulled the door shut. She had taken barely five steps when the door was whisked open and Sennapod put his scowling head round the door-frame. He fixed Mrs Lightspeed with a very imperious eye.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded. ‘You must come and bath me, and Carrie too.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ cried Mrs Lightspeed, shocked from head to toe. ‘We shall do no such thing. How dare you!’

  Sennapod stepped out into the hallway and glowered back at her. ‘How dare you speak to the Pharaoh like that! I command that you both be my handmaidens. I am always bathed in asses’ milk by my handmaidens.’

  Mrs Lightspeed took a deep breath and pushed Sennapod back into the bathroom. ‘That was long, long ago. You’re a big boy now. You will have to bath yourself. Now, get those stinky bandages off and get on with it.’

  She hurried from the bathroom, pulled the door shut and almost ran downstairs. With a sigh of relief, she collapsed into an armchair. Having a Pharaoh in the house was hard work.

  All at once a loud cry came from upstairs.

  ‘Where’s the asses’ milk?’ demanded Sennapod from the top of the stairs. Mrs Lightspeed groaned and looked across at her children, busily painting the Pharaoh’s crown.

  ‘Ben, go and chuck a tub of yoghurt into his bath will you, there’s a dear.’

  7 Sennapod the Champ

  Sennapod looked much better after a long bath, although when he slapped some yoghurt under each arm, it did feel a bit odd. After pulling on Mrs Lightspeed’s altered dressing-gown, he searched through his ancient bandages. Shortly he found a flattened piece of parchment. He looked at it intently before glancing around the room. He crossed to the big mirror and carefully pushed the ancient treasure map out of sight behind it. Then he noticed his reflection.

  At 4,600 years old, he was in good shape. He tried on the ceremonial toilet-tube beard, but he had never come across elastic before. The beard was accidentally catapulted across the room. It scored a direct hit on a small flowerpot, sending it crashing into the toilet bowl, where it floated about rather prettily.

  At his second attempt, the beard knocked the bubble-mix jar into the bath. The third time, it bounced off the ceiling and rocketed down into the frothy bubbles that were already rising over the sides of the tub.

  Sennapod swished his hand around, searching for the lost beard and creating even bigger bubbles. Eventually, he fished out a very soggy piece of card with a dollop of yoghurt on one end. He held it to his chin, but it didn’t look right at all. Never mind, he’d order the slaves downstairs to make him another.

  Sennapod shouted from behind the closed door. ‘Make way for Sennapod, He Whose Name Shall Rumble et cetera, the Pharaoh desires to leave his bath.’ He stopped and waited. Was nobody going to open the door for his royal personage? Where were those slaves? He tried again. ‘Make way for Sennapod, Lord of Serpents, Master of Hippos, Osiris on…’

  The door was thrown open by Carrie and her mother. ‘Do you have to stand up here shouting?’ demanded Carrie. ‘And why are you talking to the door?’

  ‘I was waiting for a worm to open it,’ said Sennapod pompously.

  ‘Oh, we’ve gone back to being worms, have we? We’re not your slaves, you know.’

  ‘But you are,’ insisted Sennapod. ‘You must be my slaves.’

  ‘Oh yes? Why?’ Carrie folded her arms defiantly. Sennapod’s reply was very simple.

  ‘Because I am the Pharaoh and all people are my slaves.’ This shut Carrie up long enough for Mrs Lightspeed to admire her dressing-gown.

  ‘You do look nice, Senny. Those sleeves are just the right length – but what about that lovely beard?’ The Pharaoh held out a handful of mushy card. ‘Never mind, Ben can soon make a new one.’ Her face took on a bewildered squint as she watched a tidal wave of bubbles creep up behind Sennapod. ‘Oh dear, I think you may have used a bit too much bubble-mix. Carrie, take Senny downstairs…’

  ‘Do NOT call me Senny!’ hissed the Pharaoh.

  ‘Don’t call us worms, then,’ Mrs Lightspeed suggested, trying to load handfuls of bubbles back into the bath.

  At the top of the stairs, Sennapod paused and listened. Weird bleeping and blooping noises came from Ben’s bedroom. The Pharaoh went across and poked his ancient head round the door. In an instant he was transfixed by a scene of such utter wonder, he almost fainted with pleasure.

  Ben’s eyes were glued to his TV screen, where strange little creatures were whizzing around: running, leaping, fighting – all to the accompaniment of magical sounds. Ben’s fingers flicked across his control pad. Suddenly a mournful drone came from the TV and Ben sighed. ‘Rats! I’ve died!’

  Sennapod stepped into the room and spoke in an awed whisper. ‘What is this wonderful machine?’

  ‘This? It’s my Mega-CD. I’m playing a game called Magnificent Marvin.’ Ben held up the control pad. ‘Want a go?’ Sennapod sat down quickly and grabbed the pad. Ben hastily explained all the different buttons, but the Pharaoh just wanted to get going. Ben started the program. Within thirty seconds Sennapod had died three times. He started again, reached Level One, then Level Two. Ben couldn’t believe how quickly he’d picked it up. Within ten minutes Sennapod was on Level Seven and Ben was hopping up and down.

  ‘It’s not fair – I’ve only ever got to Level Five.’ All the same, he was fascinated by the skill and ease with which this Ancient Egyptian was racing through the game. Soon the TV gave a whoop of triumph and a message flashed on-screen: WELL DONE, SENNAPOD! YOU ARE THE CHAMPION! CONGRATULATIONS FROM MAGNIFICENT MARVIN.

  The Pharaoh sighed with pleasure and handed the control pad back to Ben, who was quite speechless. ‘Thank you, that was good.’ Sennapod got as far as the door, then stopped. A small frown added even more wrinkles to his brow. He turned back to Ben. ‘This Magnificent Marvin,’ he asked. ‘Was he a Pharaoh who came after me?’

  8 The Hunters Close In

  ‘I feel stupid,’ said Professor Jelly, trying to yank the tweed skirt over his knobbly knees. ‘This is really itchy. I don’t see why I had to dress up as a woman.’

  ‘I told you,’ grunted Grimstone. ‘We don’t wa
nt MISTER FREEZEE to recognize you. Remember that he’s seen you once already. Please try and keep still, Jelly! How do you expect me to keep an eye on the van with you joggling about?’

  The two men were sitting on Grimstone’s moped, some way up the road from the icecream van. When Professor Jelly had told Grimstone of his good luck in finding Sennapod, they had put a rapid plan into action. For the last three hours they had sat there watching MISTER FREEZEE. Grimstone was holding up a newspaper. There was a carefully torn hole in the centre through which he was trying to watch the van.

  Professor Jelly went on fidgeting nervously. He’d left his sweets in his own clothes and he really missed them. He felt very self-conscious wearing a lady’s tweed suit, a long blonde wig and a little hat with a feather perched on top. ‘You might have let me have a beard and moustache,’ he complained.

  ‘There weren’t any left in the Disguise Shop, and stop wriggling. I think he’s packing up.’ Grimstone pressed the starter on the moped and prepared to follow the van. Sure enough, MISTER FREEZEE began to move up the street, and Grimstone followed at a discreet distance. Within seconds there was a startled shriek in his left ear and he almost swerved on to the pavement.

  ‘My hat’s blown off!’ squeaked Professor Jelly. ‘Don’t go so fast. It will be the wig next – it’s twisting round. I can’t see a thing. Stop!’

  ‘I can’t stop, you fool. We’ll lose the van. Just hold on to your wig, will you?’

  Grimstone tried to shut his ears to the non-stop moans, groans, squeaks and squawks that continued to come from the professor as he fought with his wig, his skirt, his shoes and his balance.