Death's Sweet Echo

by Maynard Sims

  ‘They took them, Tiaa. The followers of Menes, they took your mother and father, your brother, and you, too, so that the priest could reign unencumbered as Pharaoh. They are dead, Princess. I couldn’t save them.’

  ‘And yet you saved me only, to bring me back in… this body.’

  ‘But I loved you. I couldn’t let you go. I have stayed with you throughout the centuries. That ankh, your gift to me, has allowed me to watch over you. To protect you.’

  She swung her legs from the plinth abruptly. ‘Come here, Samhut.’

  Barrett hung back, shaking his head. ‘But…’

  ‘You may approach.’ Her tone was imperious – a tone that said she was used to being obeyed.

  He took a step towards her, bowing his head slightly.

  She reached out and took his face in her hands. When she spoke, the impatience and anger had gone from her voice. ‘My loyal and faithful Samhut,’ she said, almost cooed. ‘Perhaps I have misjudged you. You only wanted to keep me safe, to save me from harm.’

  ‘Of course. I would do anything for you.’

  Her fingers entwined themselves in the chain holding the ankh around his neck, his tree of life.

  ‘Then I will give one final reward.’

  ‘Yes, any–’

  She yanked her hand down, snapping the chain as if it were made from cotton, and grabbed his head.

  The words died in his throat as searing pains coursed through his body. He stared into Tiaa’s eyes, as they started to glow a deep crimson.

  As her hands increased the pressure on his head, he felt his strength leaving him, flowing into her.

  ‘I steal your life force, a just reward for not finding me a more suitable vessel.’

  The pressure increased and his legs began to buckle, to shrivel, and he managed one last breath before his heart imploded in his chest and his lungs collapsed.

  As his sight began to dim, he saw the bodies of Florrie and Jimmy lying dead on the floor of the cellar, unable to help him now as Tiaa, his princess, his love, sucked the last of the life-force from his body.

  ‘You will be with me forever,’ she said.

  Tiaa released her grip and Barrett’s body dropped to the floor, little more than a desiccated husk. She stared down at it dispassionately, poking at it with her toe until a cool draught blowing across the floor of the cellar flowed over it, making it crumble to dust, dust that was caught in the draught and scattered about the room.

  Tiaa slid from the plinth and stood there, gathering her thoughts, gathering her strength, and then, without a backward glance, she stalked from the cellar.

  ***

  Deep in the cold stone sarcophagus, tightly swathed in crumbling, decaying bandages, Lizzie Stirling lay, unable to move, her mind awash with images of desert sands and vast stone pyramids, and of cruel, red, hostile eyes that burned into her soul, stripping away its humanity.

  Hot tears squeezed out from behind her withered eyes, soaking the musty cloth that covered her face, while her mind shrieked – a long, silent, despairing scream.

  HOPING HE WOULDN'T BE TOO LATE

  He hurried along the street, head bowed against the raging rain, grateful that the wind-blown water masked his tears. It would be too late, that was what he feared the most – that he would arrive at the house but it would all be in vain, he hadn't got there in time.

  It would be Melissa's fault if his haste was to be wasted. He knew that, and he had been less than moderate when he said as much to her before he left. Their relationship was well beyond any honeymoon period, and pretence at more than casual affection was a memory that he continually found it hard to engage with. Perhaps they should never have married.

  It was too late for that now, of course, and he had other matters to occupy his mind. Would he get there while it was still worth it?

  He skipped around an overturned dustbin on the pavement and almost lost his footing on the damp concrete. That would never do; the old neighbourhood wouldn't be forgiving if one of its own fell over in the street. There were rules about that kind of behaviour. He had never actually seen them written down, but it was acknowledged that residents of the area expected a particular standard of decorum, and falling down even when sober was definitely an offence to be frowned upon.

  Why he was crying, he couldn't explain, and so it was just as well there was no one about to ask him. He was certain there would be spying eyes behind the drawn curtains, fingers lifting slats of blinds to peer out at the hurrying stranger. That was what they would assume, he knew, a stranger, even though he had been born here and lived most of his life in this very street. Recognition faded, and he had been gone a few years. Houses had new owners, people who might recognise him would have grown old, and some wouldn't have known who he was even if he introduced himself.

  It was a wide street, with grass edges to the pavement, and leafless trees at regular intervals. The houses were large and well-spaced, with cars confined to the driveways. Most of the houses were discreetly lit from the outside by lamps seated on top of the gateposts, as well as from security lights that dotted the walls, especially illuminating the front doors as if in false welcome. Some were in darkness, the residents no doubt in a room at the rear of the property, while some had dim light showing through thick curtains at the front, televisions flickering.

  He barely glanced at the houses as he hurried on by, but their details registered in his mind, familiar yet alien. The wind had picked up since he left the train station, and his coat had proven to be less protection against the rain than he might have hoped. He was soaked through around his ankles and below the knees, his hair was plastered to his head, and rivulets of moisture dribbled down his neck. He felt miserable. How appropriate. How comfortable.

  He blamed Melissa for so much these days, far more than just delaying him today. She had taken him away from here: that had been the start of it all, the first step on a slow descent. It hadn't always been discord, he was brave enough to admit that – if only to himself. When they met, he had been overwhelmed by the sensations that surged through him, a love that he had only read about in the books that he devoured in his room, when the lights had been turned out in the house, and the illusions of sleep had been switched on.

  She had been able to show him a world that he didn't realise existed outside the four walls, beyond the confined streets, away from the prying eyes, the rules and the restrictions. It felt like a rebellion when he took her into town, laughing at what others might perceive as vulgarity, excited by her abandoned approach to love in all its forms. He lost his virginity to her early in their relationship, and there was no going back after that. She had him hooked and he was a willing catch for her bait, a puppet to her ministrations.

  When he asked her to marry him, he was aware that it was fraught with dangers, most of which he couldn't begin to understand. It had been a sheltered life until he met her, and he knew now that it was the thrill of the unknown as much as any fondness he had for her that propelled him into such blasphemous behaviour. They married quietly; none of his family attended, and only some of hers, although he discovered later that those who had bothered to come were pretty much all the family she possessed. She had her own reasons for attaching herself to him.

  They moved away, and he felt the wrench as a physical pain. The house they could afford wasn't as grand as he was used to, but he fell into a pattern that was comfortable. As time passed he wondered, and with an increasing frequency, what was happening at home, as he would always refer to the house and the neighbourhood. Many times he was tempted to go back, even if only to stand on the periphery and gaze in. He resisted, mainly because he knew Melissa would disapprove, and he had grown fearful of her rages.

  Now, when it was important that he did go back, and at the allotted time, she had contrived to delay him, threaten him with being late, and for that he didn't think he could ever forgive her. Now that he had come back, and at the same time left her, it might, if
he was lucky, mean a permanent departure from her, and, more attractively, a welcome home from those he had left.

  The rain had flattened his hair so that some pink skin peeked through, and he felt the wetness penetrate his shoes, the shoes like seaweed inside, moving and uncomfortable. His coat was buttoned up, but the missing button at the top was proving too tempting to the wind, which was attacking the gap with wicked abandon, driving raindrops against his throat and down the top of his chest.

  Then it was there, just ahead, the black wrought iron gates open, as if they were the open arms of an embrace. The home he hadn't seen for far too long. Lights were shining from downstairs rooms, and he tried to decide which rooms they were. So much had become obscured over time, the memories faded, like an old black-and-white negative dissolving with age. When he thought back to his younger days in the house, there were times when he saw the images in his mind as if they were a film being played at the wrong speed: some scenes speeded up, others flickering tantalisingly out of focus before thrusting into his brain, shouting the recollections in case he forget them altogether.

  He walked through the gates and heard them shut behind him. He turned to watch as they clanged closed, swaying slightly with the impact on one another. No one was there to shut them; there must be an electronic system he didn't remember, and wouldn't have understood even if he did.

  The front door was closed and he pressed the doorbell, waited, and then knocked with his fist on the richly painted wood. There were no responses from inside. At least here, in the porch, he was sheltered from the weather. Although not yet inside the house, he felt comforted just being near, the porch seeming to be warm arms compared to the wind and the rain he had endured just to get this far. He tried the door handle and was surprised when it turned and the door opened inwards.

  The spacious hallway had been decorated since he'd last seen it, but the feeling of returning was overwhelming. He closed his eyes and was transported back to the times when, as a boy, he had run up and down the ornate staircase, just for fun. And slid back down the wide banisters, jumping the distance at the end and trying to leap further each time.

  He was tempted to go up the stairs, to seek out his old room: curiosity at what had become of it in his absence, but a strong calling that he was finding hard to resist. He could be safe up there, cosy and warm, away from the temptations and the injustices. First, though, he had to seek them all out, to make sure he hadn't arrived too late.

  He could hear voices – from the kitchen or the lounge, he couldn't be sure. He left the front door open, he couldn't explain why, and walked slowly through to the sounds.

  There were several of them, most of them familiar from the past, some showing the inevitable signs of aging, others seemingly unchanged by time. His parents were there, of course, standing side by side, looking suitably resolute, nodding and talking to relatives and friends that approached them.

  The focus of attention was the open casket in the centre of the room. People were moving to it, glancing in and moving swiftly away as if the sight of what was inside was too much to bear.

  He lurked in the doorway, watching the people from his life as they milled about, a crowd that seemed to be waiting in anticipation of something. He stepped inside the room, but no one paid him any attention. He nodded to one or two that he knew, but they looked straight through him, not even meeting his eyes, ignoring him completely.

  As he neared the casket he heard snatches of conversation.

  'He left, of course, unforgivable.'

  'Never should have gone, but then there is no coming back.'

  Before he looked into the casket he wanted to speak to his parents. Even with the anticipated rebukes and recriminations, he had to try and make them understand why he had deserted them. They were still standing together, looking out over the gathering with an imperious air about them. He felt nervous, a little scared, as he approached them.

  Before he got close to them, his father held up his hand, palm outstretched, in a gesture designed to stop the person that approached.

  'I just want to say sorry.'

  His mother began to weep.

  ‘It's your turn, Marc, you see that, don't you?’ his father said, and there was more inevitability in his voice than sadness.

  'My turn for what?'

  'Look in the casket.'

  Marc realised that all conversation had stopped. The room was holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do. He did as he was told, of course. He went to the casket and peered in.

  'It was your favourite suit,' his mother said. 'When you lived at home.'

  He was staring down at his own face, his own body, laid out peacefully and smartly in the silk-lined casket. It had been too late, his arrival, the hurrying counting for nothing. It was too late for him and probably always had been.

  He pushed through people as he ran for the door. The front door was open, as he had left it. He turned and glanced behind him. His parents, everyone, was walking slowly but purposefully after him.

  He ran down the path to the wrought iron gates. They were high, but he was determined. He scaled them, and as he dropped onto the wet pavement on the other side he felt his ankle twist under him. The pain was excruciating, but he hobbled away from the gates, away from the house.

  It was then that he saw the others.

  Each house in the street had its doors open and everyone was crowding out onto the pavements. He recognised some, from the old days, but others were strangers to him. They were forming a barrier across the street, preventing him getting away.

  'It's your turn, Marc.' He heard voices call out.

  He stopped. There was nowhere to run. He had come back, and now he would never leave again.

  Behind him, he heard the gates to his house open. When he looked back, his parents stood just inside, the rest of the gathered people poised behind them.

  His father took a step forward and held out both his arms.

  Marc walked towards them. He was going home at last.

  I’M HERE

  It didn’t feel like Christmas morning.

  It was unseasonably warm, but a steady drizzle fell from a leaden sky, dampening his spirits even further than they had been when he’d surfaced from a restless sleep a little before dawn.

  William Burton switched on the wireless and made a pot of tea while he waited for the valves to warm up. As the melodic voices of the Westminster Abbey choir filled his tiny kitchen with a rousing carol, he stared at the gilt-edged invitation leaning up against the milk bottle on the kitchen table, and shuddered. The invitation to the Mayfields’ Christmas party had dropped through his letterbox onto the doormat two days ago and had rested there, against the bottle, ever since.

  As the choir launched into a robust rendition of O Come, All Ye Faithful, Burton snapped off the wireless and went to the bathroom to shave and get himself ready.

  The drive up to Suffolk, and the Mayfields’ house, which was situated in a small village just outside Bury St Edmunds, was easy. There wasn’t much traffic on the roads at this time of the morning on this special day, when most people were sitting in their cosy homes with their families, tearing the gaudy paper from carefully wrapped presents to reveal the prizes within. The journey took him just over two hours.

  The last section of the drive was through a series of country lanes, bordered by high hedges that formed the perimeters of bare, harvested wheat and corn fields, and meadowlands populated by Friesian cows and small collections of miserable, scrubby horses, their winter blankets saturated by the steady rain that fell from the sky.

  He gave a sigh of relief when he finally entered through the gates of the Mayfields’ grand country pile and pulled up next to the dozen or so cars that were already there, parked in regimented order on the wide gravel forecourt at the front of the property. These were the guests who had been invited to travel down the previous evening and who were probably now lounging around in one of the ma
ny downstairs rooms, replete after one of the Mayfields’ delicious fried breakfasts.

  Taking the small, gift-wrapped present from the back seat of the car, he got out of his second-hand Morris Oxford and went up to the front door. As he pressed the ceramic bell-push, he stared at the small parcel in his hands – a silver-plated toast rack, bought hurriedly from Gamages in town the day before, and wrapped, almost as an afterthought, upon rising this morning.

  It was a meagre present, and would pale into insignificance next to the lavish offerings brought by some of the other guests, but it was a gesture, nothing more. He’d had to bring something with him, and he knew it would be received graciously, especially by Estelle Mayfield, who didn’t have it in her heart to be anything other than courteous, but he knew equally that he would be judged by some of the others there by that gift. It would stand as a token, a symbol of his reduced circumstances and his persistent impecunity.

  After a few moments, the door was opened by Estelle, looking radiant in a floor-length gown of cream satin, her silver blonde hair Marcel-waved to perfection.

  'William,' she said. 'So lovely of you to come. Welcome to Christmas 1933 at the Mayfields’.' She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and his nostrils were filled with the delicious aroma of Chanel No.5, a fragrance he knew so well and always associated with her. 'We’re in the morning room. Come through.'

  Burton followed her into the house. The huge hallway had almost been taken over by a massive Christmas tree whose branches reached up to within a foot of the ceiling. Richly decorated in red and gold baubles, with a smattering of tartan, a nod to Mayfield’s supposed Scottish heritage, the tree spoke of opulence and wealth befitting a family of the Mayfields’ social standing, but Burton remembered times when Laurence Mayfield’s wealth had been far less than his own, the times when Estelle was his own true love, his intended, his wife to be. But that was before the Great Depression.