by Emma Carroll
Tulip narrowed her eyes: it was, I was learning, her ‘thinking’ look. ‘You’d come with us, wouldn’t you?’
I almost laughed. ‘Me? I’d love to, but my parents couldn’t afford it. I’d have to trust you two.’
‘What if someone else were to pay for your ticket?’
Sadly, I shook my head. It wasn’t just the money. Apart from a day trip to Southend, I’d never been outside of London. Egypt was the stuff of dreams – the stuff of Grandad, who’d always been the adventurous one in our family. My parents weren’t like that. They worked hard, kept our rooms tidy, cooked a roast on Sundays if Mum could get a cheap cut of meat. That was their life – it was my life too. And it was far better than some. To wish for anything different felt ungrateful, somehow.
Anyway, Dad would never let me miss weeks of school. And Mum would worry for all of England that I’d catch malaria or some other nasty illness.
No, the closest I’d ever get to going to Egypt was hearing Grandad’s stories on a Saturday afternoon over a glass of chai.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said finally. ‘It’s impossible. I’ll have to do what I can here in England.’
After much debate, I was given the job of sending the telegram that would summon Mrs Mendoza to Egypt.
‘And I’ll pretend to be from the Washington Post and book the tickets,’ Tulip declared. ‘I’ll do it over the telephone in my best grown-up voice, then fetch them from the travel agent in person.’
‘You can do all that?’ I was amazed.
‘Don’t look so worried. Mama often asks me to call them for her if she’s rushing off somewhere. It’s very easy, I promise you.’
And I bet it was for her. She had a way of just opening her mouth and the right words came out in the proper order. Not to mention the charming, easy smile, so like her mother’s, that probably won people over before she’d even spoken. With Tulip on board I began to believe this crazy plan of ours might be possible.
‘All right,’ I said, with a nervous gulp. ‘Let’s give it a try.’
7
I’d assumed we’d get cracking on our plan straight away, but in our excitement, we’d forgotten it was the weekend. And that meant fewer trains, closed post offices and our parents at home an annoying amount of the time. We could do very little before Monday, which was hugely frustrating.
‘You all right, Lil?’ Mum kept asking all Friday night.
‘Fine.’ But I was pretty useless at keeping secrets, and by Saturday morning, I felt twitchier than ever. I’d also realised the flaw in our plan: Tulip and Oz were returning the jar to a tomb they didn’t actually know the whereabouts of.
I was pretty sure by now that it didn’t come from Mr Carter’s dig. Returning it there to break the curse would be pointless; we’d be taking it from one archaeologist’s hands and putting it straight into another’s. The evidence pointed to it being somewhere in the Luxor area, but where exactly?
What we needed was the rest of Professor Hanawati’s translation, which hopefully might tell us where Kyky was buried. I was already keen to read more about Lysandra and Maya, and what happened to poor Kyky in the end: the more I thought about it, the more pressing it became to get hold of the translation. Trouble was, it was very likely to be inside Professor Hanawati’s house.
*
‘It’s not exactly stealing,’ Tulip reassured me a few hours later, as we crossed the park in the middle of Russell Square. ‘More like collecting what he meant to send to your grandad.’
Directly after breakfast, I’d made excuses about needing a library book, then gone straight to Tulip and Oz’s house. Luckily, Tulip had that morning received her pocket money, which covered our bus fares to Russell Square. Professor Hanawati’s house was just around the corner.
‘But we’ve still got to get inside the building,’ I reminded her.
‘Knock on the door,’ Oz said, like we’d overlooked something obvious.
‘And say what, exactly?’ Because I knew I’d go completely tongue-tied.
‘I could pretend to be a relative,’ Tulip mused. ‘Though I’ll be surprised if there’s anyone at home.’
‘In which case, can’t I just crawl in through a window?’ I said, which felt far more straightforward to me.
‘In broad daylight? In central London?’ Tulip looked horrified. ‘Do you want to go to prison?’
I got the sinking feeling that I’d not thought this through.
At the edge of the park we stopped. It was yet another bitterly cold, grey November day, and it made me wonder vaguely if feast days to the sun actually worked, and whether we should try it some time. We huddled together for warmth – at least, Tulip and I did. Oz stood apart, hands deep in his pockets.
‘Which house is his?’ Tulip asked, scanning the rows of tall buildings surrounding us on all sides.
‘It’s down that side street.’ I pointed to a turning on the right. The professor’s address had been on the letter he’d sent Grandad. ‘Number ten.’
It was obvious which house it was – a policeman had been stationed outside. Our chances of getting inside, already slim, now seemed about as likely as a heatwave in December.
It wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years to approach the policeman, but Tulip was quite composed. ‘Let’s see what we can find out from him.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked warily.
‘Lil,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’
I glanced at Oz, who did a funny half shrug. ‘All right.’
We headed down the side street. The policeman, when he saw us coming, rocked back on his heels. Straight away Tulip took charge.
‘Can you help us, please? We’re supposed to be visiting …’ Rummaging in her coat pocket, she pulled out a crumpled bit of paper. I was close enough to see it was a receipt from a bookshop, but bold as brass, she pretended to read out an address. ‘My uncle lives there. I’m in the right street, aren’t I?’
‘He’s expecting us, you see,’ I chipped in.
‘Number ten? Your uncle?’ The policeman rubbed his chin.
I worried she’d gone a bit far. But the policeman, taking in Tulip’s dark complexion, was clearly of the opinion that if two people had brown skin then they must be related. In short, he believed her.
‘This might be a shock to you,’ the policeman said. ‘But I’m afraid your uncle has passed away.’
‘Oh! My goodness!’ Tulip wiped her eyes: there might even have been real tears in them. She’d also, cunningly, kept moving closer to the house’s front steps. ‘Is my aunt at home? She’d never forgive us if we didn’t pay our respects.’
But the policeman was getting suspicious.
‘The house is under investigation. You can’t go in,’ he replied, beckoning us away from the door. ‘So I’m afraid you’d best hop it, kiddies.’
*
‘He’d never have let you inside,’ Oz told Tulip once we were safely out of earshot. ‘He probably hasn’t even got a key.’
‘You still could’ve backed me up,’ she said crossly.
‘Thanks for trying, anyway,’ I told her.
But we weren’t any closer to getting our hands on the translation. I was feeling cold and rather fed up. At this rate, we’d have to wait till after dark to sneak inside the house, and by then our parents would be wondering where we were.
I was mulling all this over when a coal merchant’s horse and cart swung out into the street. It’d come from an alleyway alongside the last house in the row. If, as I was thinking, it was a tradesman’s entrance, the alley would run along the back of the whole terrace.
It gave me an idea, which I quickly explained to the others.
‘You’re mad,’ Tulip said, though she didn’t try and talk me out of it, which I took to be a good sign.
When the policeman was looking the other way, we ducked down the alley. True enough, it ran along the backs of the houses. The plan was for Tulip and Oz to stay near the entrance and keep watch.
‘Don
’t be long!’ Tulip whispered.
I’d once heard it said that thieves would spend hours watching a house they planned to rob, but we didn’t have that luxury.
‘I’ll time you,’ Oz said, looking at his watch. ‘Ten minutes. Go!’
I set off, aiming for the third house in the row. What I hoped to find was a little larder window left open or a cellar door unlocked. I was nervous, and was sure it looked obvious to everyone that I was up to no good.
Almost immediately a servant girl came out of the first house to throw potato peelings in a bin. She glared at me, hands on hips. ‘You better not be one of them newspaper reporters, sniffing around here again.’
She must’ve had terrible eyesight to mistake me for a grown-up.
‘I’ve lost my dog.’ It was the first thing I could think of.
‘Aye, that’s what they all say,’ she sneered, but thankfully went back inside.
By the time I got to the right house, I was sweating. I’d visions of the Hanawatis’ maid chasing after me with a broom, or their cook threatening me with a rolling pin. But the back of the place was completely shut up and silent. There were no lights on inside, no smoke coming from the chimneys. Steps led to a basement, so with a quick glance over my shoulder, I went down them, and found the door at the bottom locked.
Somewhere out in the lane, I heard another door slam, and voices – a girl’s and a man’s – coming from the opposite end to where Tulip and Oz were keeping watch.
‘She’s down here somewhere, poking about,’ the girl said. I recognised her voice and groaned: it was the short-sighted servant again.
‘You did the right thing, coming to find me. Now leave this in the hands of the law,’ the man reassured her.
I gulped: the law? Drat and blast it! The stupid girl had only gone and fetched the policeman from round the front.
Flustered, I tried the basement door again. It was still locked. No amount of rattling and pushing would change it. Nor was there time to run. Already I could see the top of the policeman’s helmet as he approached the house next door. Desperately, I tried to think up an excuse for being here – the dog one obviously hadn’t worked.
When I saw the coal-chute door, all thinking stopped. It was at head height next to the basement entrance, and metal. And more importantly, when I lifted the hatch, it was just about big enough. This was my way in.
With a great heave and a kick, I scrambled through the opening. The hatch swung shut behind me. The policeman must’ve thought I’d vanished into thin air.
The chute part was short. I slid down it chin first and hit the ground with a whump. It was pretty dark down here, and stank of damp and coal, though thankfully the floor was a soil one and soft, so I wasn’t hurt. I scrambled to my feet.
The door from the coal store led out on to a brick passage. Down one end was the kitchen: the only sound coming from it was that of a dripping tap. At the other end was a staircase that I guessed led to the ground floor. I sprang up the stairs. Though I could feel my heart beating strongly, I wasn’t scared any more. I’d done the hard bit. I’d got inside. All I had to do now was find the translation and crawl back up the coal chute.
In the hallway, I hesitated: where to look first?
In his letter to Grandad, the professor had mentioned a study and working at a desk.
The study was the first room I came to, though finding it wasn’t down to luck. What got my attention was a terrible smell. On opening the door, the smell got ten times worse, so bad in fact that I had to cover my mouth with my hand. It was worse than a meat locker in summer. Worse than our outside lav when the drains blocked up. It was so bad, I couldn’t put a name to it.
The room itself felt strange too, the air prickly, as if someone had been in here only seconds ago. For the first time since coming into the house, I began to feel ill at ease. Though the shutters were closed at the windows there was enough light to see by: everything looked black and grey. At the centre of the room was a desk – smaller than Grandad’s and definitely tidier. A blotter, a stack of notebooks and a letter rack were all lined up neatly down one side. A jacket had been slung across the chair, like someone had just taken it off. It made me suddenly sad, that jacket: I tried very hard not to look at it, instead keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of Professor Hanawati’s distinctive royal-blue writing paper.
A couple of steps to the left and I realised I’d trodden in something horrid. In the gloom I couldn’t see what, but the soles of my shoes were sticking to it. Lifting my feet made a slurpy, wet sound, and the smell, if it was possible, got worse. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, only that it filled the whole room and made my stomach heave.
Quickly now, I searched the professor’s desk. There were no letters. The notebooks were mostly empty. The translation wasn’t here, either. I just hoped he hadn’t hidden it somewhere unlikely. I didn’t think my guts could stand this smell much longer.
Next, I searched the bookshelves. Shook out books. Felt between them. Nothing. Then, on a side table, I noticed a photograph in a silver frame.
In the picture were two men – one I didn’t recognise, with a dark, proud face, and the other I did: it was Grandad. The photograph was taken in the desert – Egypt, I guessed – and though the jar wasn’t in the shot, like an invisible force, you could sense the damage was already at work. Professor Hanawati – for that was who the other man was, I was certain – looked angrily at the camera. Grandad stared at the ground.
It was a shock to see them both as young, unhappy men. But it was nothing compared to what I saw next. When I’d first come into the room, the desk had blocked it out. Now the hearth rug lay before me in all its gruesome glory.
There was something on it. Something dark and grey that looked like cinders from the fire. The once pretty carpet was now completely blackened, yet the armchair right next to it hadn’t even been scorched.
Come to think of it, the ashes weren’t like ones from a fire. They were darker, heavier, with a smell like bad meat. I felt clammy and sicker than ever, because I’d read the newspaper report, so I knew exactly what I was looking at. The article had described the hearth rug in horrid detail. This was the very room, the very spot where Professor Hanawati had burned to death.
Someone had tried to clear away the mess: the one small mercy was the feet had gone. But my brain still couldn’t cope with what I was seeing.
I didn’t know if I was going to be sick or faint. I couldn’t stay in this room any longer. As I turned to go, at the very last moment, I spotted the corner of a piece of bright blue paper sticking out from under the armchair. I hesitated: it was right next to the ashes.
Holding my breath, I ducked down. Grabbed it quick. And it was paper – more than one piece – with the title ‘Lysandra’, and completely untouched by the fire. I’d never been so glad to see anything in my life.
Stuffing it down my coat, and before I breathed another breath, I ran for the door.
LYSANDRA
The feast day dawns with a clear blue sky. Kyky has chosen his favourite horses for the chariot race: Lion, a young chestnut, and Myrrh whose black coat ripples like water. Sensing excitement in the air, they refuse to keep still as I try to plait their tails.
Roti the stable boy admires my handiwork. ‘I’d bet my finest blanket on those horses winning!’
Most of the wagers are on the king himself, Roti tells me. In the palace courtyard, under the fig trees, crowds are gathering to place their bets. A medicine woman is offering to pull out bad teeth for free. There are bottles of sandalwood, heeled shoes, puppies, a song to charm snakes. The queen has bet her finest earrings, so loaded with rubies they make the wearer’s earlobes stretch.
The sun is shining, the air is warm. Amun is smiling down on us again. It is a day for being happy, I tell myself, yet it does little to calm my nerves.
The race is scheduled for mid-afternoon. A crowd lines the route which runs from the palace, through the marketplace down to the river,
before looping back past the temple with its newly built ram-headed sphinxes. It’s turned into a hot day. Mother and I are wearing white tunics, and kohl under our eyes to beat the glare. We take our spot outside the palace gates where the race will start and end.
‘Maya could win,’ Mother says proudly, but under her breath.
‘The king always wins,’ I remind her.
When the two chariots appear it’s not hard to see why. Maya looks almost too big for his vehicle. All arms and legs, he’s struggling to keep his balance. His horses, Bes and Beetle, have grazed too much winter grass on the riverbanks, and are plump next to Kyky’s pair.
Kyky, in contrast, is regal. He too has kohl painted thickly on his eyelids. He’s wearing a gold headdress, and a breastplate bright with jewels. His horses, I think smugly, are exquisite. They’re snorting and shaking their manes, pawing the dust. In this rare moment when he truly looks like a pharaoh Kyky’s the obvious winner.
On the palace steps, Horemheb the army general starts the race. Behind him, seated, is Ay. Kyky glances at his godfather, raises his hand – wish me luck, that little wave says. Ay nods, then looks away. It makes me sad for Kyky, whose devotion to his godfather is never quite returned.
All eyes are on Horemheb now as he holds aloft a bronze gong. Excitement shimmers through the crowd. As he thumps the instrument, it booms. There’s a fraction of a moment when neither Kyky nor Maya moves. Then the creak of wood, reins snapping against horses’ necks and dust everywhere as the chariots surge forwards. A terrific roar goes up from the crowd.
Mother grips my arm: I grip hers. We stand locked together.
As the dust clears we see the back of Kyky’s chariot speeding down the street. Despite the bumps and holes, he’s going steadily. Maya is some way behind. He’s shouting at his horses, at Kyky to slow down. The crowd laughs; they’re loving it.
When the chariots are out of sight, the crowd goes after them. A great wave of people jostling, necks craning, blood buzzing.