by John Burke
The curtains stirred in the draught through the broken window. The Inspector suggested that he should try to have it boarded up without delay, but John was firm about this.
“I have a feeling in my bones”—the phrase made the Inspector shudder—“that we may be disturbed. And I think it’s best to make things easy. Leave the window as it is. We won’t be too cold. But if you could deploy your men . . .”
Inspector Mackenzie guaranteed to take the necessary precautions and then left the two men to their studies.
The reference books proved unhelpful. They said what John had expected them to say, confirming all that he and Hashmi had based their suspicions on. Every solitary reference to the curse agreed that only those directly involved in opening the tomb were in mortal danger. There must be some other element, something which had never been told and never written down.
It was inconceivable that the mummy, restored to its grim semblance of life, should be simply a mindless killer. Yet where would it stop; how could one tell who was in danger and who might be next; what ancient ritual governed its murderous actions?
John half hoped that tonight he would have to face the terror himself. If it must come, then let it come soon. He and Hashmi had both been concerned in the desecration of the tomb: they were here together now, and whatever psychic force drove the mummy to seek out its victims must surely guide it to where these two were waiting.
The curtains lifted gently inwards, then fell back like the slowly billowing skirts of a woman.
Hashmi looked up.
“Found anything?” asked John.
“There is nothing.” Hashmi closed another huge tome.
Again the curtains moved. John was directly facing them. He saw the bandaged hand gripping the edge of the velvet. The outlines of the fingers forced through, straining against the bonds, trying to become flexible and free.
Hashmi looked into John’s face and understood. He slid from his chair and edged round the desk.
Suddenly the curtains crashed down. The mummy was framed in the broken window. Its breathing was labored, its movements slow yet as inexorable as a juggernaut.
John groped behind him for the door handle and opened it.
“Inspector . . . !”
Mackenzie moved fast. As John and Hashmi stood aside, two policemen rushed into the room with a huge net. The Inspector followed them in, and watched approvingly as they flung the net. It settled over the mummy’s head and shoulders. The Inspector darted forward and tugged it down. The mummy struck out, but already the net was tightening around it. The policemen held firm as the creature strained against the trap; then, as they pulled on the ropes, it toppled forward with agonizing slowness and hit the floor. There it writhed impotently while John and Hashmi watched.
Hashmi stepped towards the imprisoned creature. Contrition came into his face. A cry of protest was torn from him.
“Stop it!”
Inspector Mackenzie glanced at him in surprise. John put out a hand, but Hashmi was sinking to his knees beside the mummy.
“O Ra Antef . . .”
The mummy stopped struggling and lay still. It ceased to breathe.
“Thou mighty prince of Egypt, son of the Pharaoh of Pharaohs, gaze upon the humblest of thy humble servants, who has transgressed against thee and heaped ridicule on thy head.”
“Hashmi!” John wanted to seize the Egyptian and drag him back, but something prevented him—something nameless and all-powerful, something which demanded that the scales of justice should balance.
“May the memory of my ancestors be erased forever,” Hashmi sobbed, “and the memory of my unworthy self remain only in the minds of vermin and the deceased creatures of the earth. I, who have committed the unforgivable and allied myself with desecrators and non-believers, implore thee to destroy my body painfully, and my soul shall pay penance through all eternity.”
The mummy’s breathing began again, harsh and purposeful. The two policemen, who had been gaping at Hashmi, had let their grip on the ropes slacken. Before they could resist, the mummy had reared up and thrust its arms away from its side. The ropes strained across its chest and then broke.
One of the constables lost his nerve and scrabbled away like an ungainly crab.
The mummy stepped towards Hashmi.
Hashmi’s head sagged to the floor. The mummy raised one foot and set it on Hashmi’s ear, lightly, as though to gauge the distance. Then the foot came up again . . . and down. Hashmi uttered one inhuman sound that was neither a scream nor a plea. The mummy stamped; and stamped again. Hashmi’s head was left as a pulp of blood, brains, and splintered bone.
One of the policemen retched. The other grabbed a heavy inkstand from the desk and nerved himself to creep towards the mummy.
John waited for his turn to come—for the mummy to advance on him and crush him as it had crushed Hashmi. But Inspector Mackenzie and his two men formed a barrier between them. The mummy retreated before their shaky but courageous attack. As they grabbed for the ends of the net, it was twitched from their grasp. The mummy turned and blundered out of the window.
The Inspector followed it out, then stopped. He snapped orders over his shoulder.
“Get Sergeant Walters. Follow that thing—but keep your distance. Smith, find something to cover him up.” He nodded towards the corpse on the floor, then looked questioningly at John in search of inspiration. “Any idea where it could have gone?”
“Apart from the attack on Adam Beauchamp,” said John, “it appears to be revenging itself only on those who disturbed its peace.”
“Then that leaves you and Miss Dubois in danger. It’s left you for the time being. So . . .”
“I’m going after your sergeant.”
“Not on your own,” said Inspector Mackenzie dourly. “I want to be in at . . .” He faltered.
“At what?” demanded John.
“I nearly said . . . ‘at the kill!’ ”
14
The basement was more extensive than even the spaciousness of the house above would have led her to expect. Annette stared into the dim recesses and marvelled at the world she had entered. For it was not just the space that took her breath away: there was, above all, the way in which the space had been filled. At the foot of the basement steps crouched a black statue of the jackal god, Anubis, with eyes of obsidian and alabaster. Erect and splendid beyond it, with a lamp burning at its feet, was a gilded figure of Osiris. The walls were obscured by shelves, laden with precious objects. Many of them were familiar to Annette, though she had never seen so many perfect specimens assembled in one place.
She said: “I . . . I can’t believe it. Everything’s in such wonderful condition.”
Adam was beside her as she stopped at one shelf and picked up a magnificent crown. It carried the head of the vulture goddess Nekhabet, picked out in turquoise and lapis-lazuli.
“A Pharaoh’s crown,” breathed Annette.
“It has always been mine.”
Annette replaced it and steeled herself to face him. In this incredible setting she saw the true Adam—or was he now the true Be?
“What is going to happen? You . . . and I . . . what does it all mean?”
He said: “It means that I can die.”
“Adam!” It was the name of a human being, a man of her own day and age, that was torn from her. But now, calm and implacable, he was no longer Adam.
“When your father found the tomb of my brother,” he said, “he provided the means. But it was lifeless. It was left to you—you, my dear Annette—to provide the words that would revive it.”
“To me?”
From his pocket he took the medallion. Before she could ask how it had come into his possession he was gently fastening the chain round her neck.
“While the hand of my brother lives, I must use it. And then we can be together as I wanted. You and I, Annette, together. You said you would come, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said without knowing what she mean
t.
“Now.” He took her arm and led her to the centre of the cellar, where they were looked down on by the bland animal heads of gods aligned on every shelf. The place, thought Annette hysterically, was like some supernatural toy shop. She wanted to draw Adam’s attention to this; but Adam was no longer the man she had known. He knelt and indicated that she should do the same. His spell was still strong. She obeyed, while all the time her whole nature was trying to rebel. He said: “Repeat after me . . . ‘Awaken, O Silent One, thou who hast slept . . .’ ”
Annette’s lips were tightly shut. Her throat was dry. She clasped her hands together, but made no sound.
“Say it!” he shouted.
The words began to come from her, forced out one at a time without coherence. “ ‘Awaken, O Silent One, thou who hast slept . . .’ ”
“ ‘Appear!’ ” intoned Adam. “ ‘Thou art justified against those who sought to harm thee and thy resting place.’ ”
“ ‘Appear! Thou art justified . . .’ ”
Annette gasped. A panel at the far end of the cellar creaked open. Framed in the dark opening was the mummy. It stepped on to the stone floor.
Adam, his hands clasped in prayer, looked up. A wave of tenderness flowed into his face. The color ebbed and returned. A fearful joy throbbed in his voice.
“Osiris, father of all, give this thy servant that which you bestow upon the unborn bird in the egg. Give it life and the powers of death.” Adam held out his arms imploringly towards the mummy. “Osiris, set the time that it may come forth and loudly raise up its voice to praise thee. And may it do thy will. Grant me release.” On his knees he edged towards the mummy, a suppliant with his arms still outstretched. “Awake, O Ra, my brother. Awake, son of the Pharaoh of Pharaohs. Awake, Ra, Prince of the Desert.”
Annette heard what she had not heard until now—the sound of the mummy’s breathing, quickening and intensifying. It took three steps towards Adam.
Adam rose. “Welcome, my brother. The time is now at hand for you to complete your earthly mission, that you may rest in peace again for all eternity. I plead for your mercy on me. And first”—without looking at her he reached out and seized Annette’s arm—“I humbly offer you one whom you have been seeking. Destroy this miserable desecrator!”
Annette tried to free herself, but she was held in the grip of a madman. Desperately she writhed, while Adam stood holding her and grinning in sadistic triumph.
The mummy came closer, its right arm raised. Annette screamed. Adam wrenched her forward, offering her as a sacrifice. This was his love, this his purpose for her—to be given up into the ritual killing which his ancient tradition demanded.
“Before we brothers pass into the shades,” cried Adam, “let this creature be obliterated. She is not fit to look on our final rites. Deliver me, Ra—but do not defile us by suffering the presence of another.”
Somewhere overhead there was a faint thud. A faint patter of footsteps went across the floor like distant rats scurrying for cover.
Faintly the voice of Inspector Mackenzie called: “Search the house. The whole lot. Don’t miss anything.”
Annette screamed and screamed again. Adam tried to stop her, but she yelled until her voice cracked. A door rattled, not far away. Voices were suddenly loud down the echoing basement steps. And as she reeled away from Adam, strong arms were folded round her. The foetid grave stench enveloped her. The mummy lifted her and floundered away through the panel.
“Adam!” She heard John’s cry and then, more faintly, “Annette . . . where is she?”
The panel must have closed behind them, for now there was nothing but darkness. The cloying smell which seeped out of the mummy’s ancient wrappings grew more oppressive, and somehow there was a stronger, different stench of corruption. In the hellish darkness Annette had no idea where they were going, but she felt that they were bumping down further steps into the very bowels of the earth.
From behind them there was a crash, and light filtered down the steps. It reflected from the surface of dark water below.
They were in the sewers. And Adam was scrambling down behind them. John shouted after him. Dark shapes jostled through the opening.
The mummy reached the bottom of the steps and turned along a narrow walk beside the noisome, steadily murmuring water. It went from one low-roofed tunnel to another through a grating which swung open. Adam hurried after, with John and Inspector Mackenzie in hot pursuit. As Adam ducked and came through the grating, John plunged madly forward and caught hold of it. He dragged the grill back . . . and it sliced through Adam’s hand. Trapped for a second, the hand seemed to clench and then let the fingers splay out; and then it drooped and fell.
Adam was howling like a wounded beast. He stumbled, clutching the stump of his arm, and splashed into the foul channel of the sewer.
Still the mummy did not falter. It trod on its way, clutching Annette and stooping below the slimy roof. Annette tried to look back, but could see only the edge of the water.
The surface rippled and broke. Adam pushed himself up and groped hideously back on to the walk. He was beside the mummy as they reached a wider chamber in these rustling catacombs.
“In there!” he said.
The mummy lowered Annette and gently but firmly set her against the rear wall of the chamber. The mummy and Adam blocked the exit.
Adam was almost doubled up with pain. Blood dripped to the floor. Soon he would be too weak to walk or think. But he was immortal, thought Annette wildly: he would go on living, he would recover, there was nothing that could happen to him which would kill him. Unless . . .
The mummy, having stood back as though to contemplate her, now moved forward again.
“Adam . . . please.” She could not bear to die: not here, in this awful place, at the hands of this monster. “Stop him. Please stop him.”
“Don’t be frightened of death.” In spite of his agony, Adam’s voice was as level and persuasive as ever. “Welcome it as a release. Turn away gladly from the torture and torment which fools call life.”
“No. No . . . I want to live.”
“There will be no suffering. Death will be brief. It is nothing compared to the pain I have seen, wandering this earth for three thousand years. Plagues, famine, pestilence, wars, and man’s daily inhumanity to his fellow men.” Adam raised the mangled, dripping stump of his arm. “The pain of this is nothing, set beside what I have seen. Life without end is the only thing we should not be asked to suffer. You are so fortunate, Annette. So fortunate, my dear.” He watched the mummy and smiled, urging it on. “Now, Ra—now!”
The mummy’s hand reached for Annette’s throat. She felt the coarse clumsiness of the groping fingers. Yet they were gentle. Suddenly there was a sharp tug. She felt the chain of the medallion snap.
The mummy stepped back again, the medallion dangling from its hand.
Adam stared.
“Kill her!” The shriek, so different from his measured tones of a few seconds ago, echoed along the sewers.
The mummy stood quite still. The medallion swayed and turned slowly, revolving in the faint, pallid light.
“Kill her!”
There was a knife in Adam’s hand. He stepped past the mummy, his face contorted as he approached Annette. All the evil of his past throbbed through him and transfigured him.
“Ra,” he cried scornfully. “Must I do this for you? My poor, aesthetic, beauty-loving brother!”
The knife was raised. Annette let out a sob. The knife did not descend. It was held in mid-air as the mummy’s hand closed on Adam’s wrist. There was an instant in which the two stood still. Then Adam, with one arm useless at his side and the other stretched to its limit, began to sag.
The mummy turned once. It was enough to drag Adam round and pitch him over the edge into the water. The mummy held on to his wrist until the last moment. Adam’s hand thrust out above the surface, the fingers suddenly limp, the knife gone. It was a picture which would be burned on to Annett
e’s mind until her dying day. Then the hand seemed to float away, turning in on itself and at last disappearing.
The mummy straightened up and looked back at Annette. She tensed. It must end soon. She could bear no more. She would sooner throw herself into that foul channel and be carried away than endure another minute of this. But the mummy blocked her way. She could not spring past it.
There was a faint chinking sound as the medallion rotated. The mummy appeared to look down.
Here, surely, the story must finish. Annette offered up a silent prayer. The ancient curse had been wiped out. Did there have to be more killing: had their crime in opening the tomb of Ra Antef to be expiated right to the last breath of their lives?
Abruptly the mummy was no longer standing across the mouth of the recess. It stepped out along the walk and stopped at the junction of two sewer channels. Annette crept forward, not daring to run yet, and not knowing which way to run if she had the chance.
The mummy raised its head and reached up to touch the ceiling, curving down over the tunnel. The roof blocks were ragged, with gaps between many of them where the filling had rotted away. The mummy’s hand probed into a crack. A shower of fragments fell into the water, followed by the splash of a large stone.
Annette backed away and flattened herself against the wall. The mummy lifted both hands and pulled with inhuman strength at the roof.
It began to collapse. A huge slab fell sideways across the mummy’s shoulder. Stones and dust seethed down in a growing avalanche. The mummy remained erect in the middle of the chaos, staggering under the impact of repeated blows but keeping its arms uplifted. The medallion swung and danced in the dust cloud.
“There she is!” It was Inspector Mackenzie, somewhere not far away. “I can’t see anyone else.”
“Annette!” John was calling.
She turned her head away as a few jagged splinters of stone were tossed against her cheek. But she had to look back, to watch the mummy as the world collapsed around it. She saw the medallion fall at last, to be lost in the water, swept away or buried in a jumble of masonry. She saw the mummy’s arms drop to its sides. The head bowed at last, the shoulders bent and succumbed, and the tattered bandages disappeared into the dust and darkness.