Sands of Time

by Barbara Erskine

  Yes! It’s done.

  He was going mad. The sudden conviction that the voice had come from the portrait was the craziest thing that he had come up with yet. Lord Carstairs, traveller, visionary, occultist, magician, speaking through a portrait painted by the man who had inherited his bloodline?

  Oh God! Toby could feel the fear crawling up his back. What had he done?

  He didn’t react for several seconds when the phone rang, echoing round the conservatory, the bell an eerie counterpoint to the drumming of the rain. When at last he picked it up he was still standing facing the portrait as though afraid to take his eyes off it for a single second.

  ‘Toby?’ It was Anna. ‘Toby, are you there?’

  Her voice was warm, friendly, the hesitant suspicion with which she had sent him away, gone. ‘Serena and I want your advice. About the bottle. Serena has brought it back. It made her uncomfortable.’ She didn’t have to explain the reason why to Toby. He had been there on the cruise. He had seen what happened.

  ‘Please, Toby. You couldn’t possibly come back, could you?’ Anna paused. ‘We –’ She hesitated. ‘I need you.’

  Behind Toby the rain drummed even more loudly. He was smiling. Part of him had been steeling itself against the fact that he might never see her again; that the warmth and affection – he didn’t dare call it love – which had begun to burgeon between them had shrivelled and died before it had had a chance to develop. And now here she was asking, begging him to go back.

  ‘Of course I’ll come.’ He turned back to the portrait with a broad grin. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Don’t do anything until I get there.’

  As he put down the phone he was aware of a strange overwhelming sense of triumph.

  5

  ‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’ Anna looked at Serena with a shrug.

  ‘I bet he was glad to hear from you.’ Serena smiled.

  ‘I think he was. Yes.’ Anna gave a deep sigh. ‘But what do we do in the meantime?’ She was staring at the small bubble-wrapped package on the table. I don’t want it here overnight any more than you do. Not if I’m here on my own.’

  Serena grimaced. ‘You’ve got a garden, haven’t you? Why don’t we put it out there. A London garden in March. That should cool the ardour of any passing ghosts!’

  ‘And you could bless it. To keep it safe overnight.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘And stay here with me?’

  Serena laughed out loud. ‘I saw that coming.’

  ‘Please. I have such faith in you, Serena. You know what to do. You’ve studied all these esoteric subjects. You know how to deal with the paranormal.’

  ‘So why have I brought it back to you, Anna?’ Serena spoke very softly. ‘Because I was afraid I didn’t know what to do any more.’

  The two women sat for a moment staring at the package. Then Anna stood up again. ‘Come on. I know where we’ll put it. Just till Toby comes.’

  Outside the back door the cold hit them. Pulling on coats as they went they walked out into the walled garden and stood on the path. Serena gazed round in delight. ‘It’s beautiful! Did you do all this?’

  Anna nodded. ‘My pride and joy. That’s why I started taking photographs – to keep a record of it all. And that’s why my ex let me keep the house.’

  ‘Bloody hell! That’s generous!’

  ‘No. It was the price of guilt.’ Anna led the way down the path through a rustic arch and into a small hidden area walled with budding clematis and roses. In the corner was a little pond. At its centre an ornate iron confection which in summer was obviously a fountain sat on a small island of sparkling granite. ‘I’ll put it there. Surrounded by water.’ She was holding the parcel gingerly with her fingertips. Kneeling on the rim of the pond she leaned forward and dropped it onto the island. ‘There. Will that contain it, do you think?’

  There was a pause as both women looked round. A stray breeze rustled through the weeping cherry near them, stirring the hanging branches into a moving curtain of delicate pink flowers. A cat’s paw of ripples sped across the water’s surface and was gone.

  Serena nodded with more certainty than she felt. ‘They say witches can’t cross water. I’m not sure about Egyptian ghosts. Or djinn. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Weave a spell for me. Just to make sure.’

  Serena gave her deep throaty laugh. ‘I can’t imagine what you really think of my so-called powers, Anna. I don’t do spells. I’m not a magician. I have studied Egyptian spirituality, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s enough.’ Anna caught her arm and squeezed it. ‘Go on. It’s only got to last the night.’

  She stood and watched as Serena prayed and added her own fervent p.s. to the message then they turned and walked back towards the house. Neither woman looked back.

  The storm struck about midnight. Anna lay in bed staring up at the ceiling listening to the rain, wondering if Serena in the room across the landing was doing the same. Switching on the lamp by her bed she sat up, shivering. She climbed out of bed and padded across to the window. Pushing back the curtain she peered out. The garden lay in total darkness; rain streamed down the window panes and spattered the paving of the terrace below. Climbing back into bed she lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes with a shiver. The lamp was still on; she made no move to turn it off.

  * * *

  On the stone island the bubble-wrapped parcel lay glistening in the darkness. All around it the sound of water filled the silence. The rain on the stone pathways; the rain on the leaves; the rain in the pond, splashing the lilies, dripping from the small fountain head, filling the basin higher and higher. Slowly the rain was seeping into the wrapping. Inside it another plug of ancient sand began to dissolve. The guardian priests leaned closer. In the darkness the wraithlike shapes were all but invisible. Their anger was growing stronger.

  In her dream Anna could see the sun setting across the desert; she could smell the hot air wafting from vast distances; it was scented with kyphi; she could feel the heat of the desert beneath her feet. In her bedroom a drift of sand appeared on the carpet and blew gently to and fro as though shifted by the desert wind. Toby. She wanted Toby. In her dream she was searching for him, knowing only he could save her, knowing that somewhere he was waiting for her. Restlessly she turned over, her hair spreading across the pillow. Even in her sleep she was afraid.

  6

  Toby drove down overnight through the storm to his mother’s house in Battersea, had a couple of hours’ sleep, a quick shave, a cup of coffee and was at Anna’s door by ten. She opened it so quickly he guessed she had been watching for him through the curtains.

  They stood for a moment staring at one another, awkwardly, then Toby stepped forward. He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Hi. Good to see you again.’ He longed to take her in his arms.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘I’m glad you phoned. It felt very far away from the action, up there in Scotland. I was wondering how you were and what was happening.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get back to normality.’ She found she was staring into his eyes as though mesmerised by his gaze. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed his presence near her. ‘It seems I can’t quite manage it without your advice.’ She smiled at him and, reaching out, took his hand. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ There was a moment’s constrained silence and then it was over; they were both smiling and reaching out towards one another and Anna was blinking away tears of relief and happiness.

  As Toby hugged her he was overwhelmed with contentment. ‘Oh God, I’ve missed you so much. I was afraid – ’

  ‘So was I. I was a fool to let you go. I’ve thought about you every second.’ She clung to him. ‘Oh Toby, it’s been so awful without you, and it’s taken this to bring me to my senses. This terrible fear. I can’t tell you how dreadful it was last night after Serena brought the bottle back.’

  When they had convened over the coffee pot in the kitchen that morning, the two women had
both been exhausted; both had woken in the night; they did not have to compare notes to know that they had both suffered from nightmares.

  The bubble-wrapped parcel had been retrieved cautiously and fearfully from its island and superficially dried with a dish cloth. It was once more on the table when Toby followed Anna inside. Serena was already sitting in front of it and when the other two joined her all three sat looking down at the bottle in its wrapping in silence for a few seconds.

  Toby could feel a strange knot of excitement in his throat. He wanted to grab the small parcel. To make sure it was safe. He glanced up from one face to the other. ‘So? What has been happening and what are the options so far?’ His gaze returned to Anna and he smiled at her. But he could feel the fear in the room. It was like an electric tension in the air.

  ‘Serena has offered to take it back to Egypt – to Philae – and leave it there buried in the sand, or perhaps to try throwing it in the Nile again.’ Anna shivered. ‘Or perhaps one of us could throw it into the Thames. That might work. It might just disappear for ever in the mud. Or, I had another idea this morning. I could take it to the British Museum. This is twenty-first-century London; the age of reason and science. Let the experts decide what should happen to it. Maybe a glass case is the best place for it. Maybe they would even open it and see what is inside – ’

  Her suggestion was greeted by a moment of total silence as they considered what she had said. Toby gazed down at the parcel thoughtfully; rationally. The opposition when it came seemed to explode from inside his own head.

  No!

  He put his hand to his forehead uncertainly.

  Keep it, you fool!

  Use it!

  His lips hadn’t moved; he was sure he hadn’t spoken and yet both women were staring at him incredulously.

  ‘Toby?’ Anna’s face was white.

  His mouth had gone dry. For a moment he didn’t dare speak. The voice, which had boomed out so suddenly, had come from him and yet for a moment he had not even been aware of what had happened. He put his hands out in front of him as though to reassure himself that the table was still there. ‘Did you hear someone say to keep it?’ he whispered.

  Anna frowned uncertainly. It was Serena who nodded.

  ‘So, who was it?’

  Serena raised an eyebrow. ‘It was a voice, Toby. A voice from the past.’ Sometimes she wished she didn’t hear these things so clearly. She had spent so long training, so much time reading, learning the old prayers which people mocked as pastiche, so many hours meditating to develop her skills, but sometimes, more and more often lately, she had found herself wishing she hadn’t. Wishing she didn’t hear, didn’t see, things that most people never even suspected were there.

  ‘Toby?’ Anna reached out towards him and put her hand over his. ‘Are you all right?’ The room was suddenly very cold.

  He nodded. He swallowed hard, clutching at her fingers. ‘Sorry. I’m not sure where that came from. Put it down to the sleepless night. And take no notice. I think all your options are good ones. Have we decided the bottle shouldn’t be destroyed?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Serena frowned. ‘According to the diary the hieroglyphic inscription which came with it was clear about its power. If it was released something awful would happen. We don’t know what, but surely it is not worth taking a risk. The people who made this bottle, the priests who put the tears of Isis inside it, have thought it worth fighting over for thousands of years. Lord Carstairs thought it was worth killing for. It isn’t just a skin lotion!’

  ‘No.’ Toby frowned. He was watching the bottle as if any moment he expected it to move. Abruptly he stood up and strode over to the window, seeking fresh air. Lifting the curtain he peered out into the street, deep in thought, then, taking a breath, he swung back to face them. He had to get a grip on himself. ‘Are we still being sucked in by all this? I know in Egypt it was hard not to be – we were part of it all there: Louisa’s story; the ghosts; the curses. It all went with the landscape. But not here. Not now, not in London.’

  ‘Last night,’ Anna said softly, ‘I dreamed about Egypt. I thought I could smell the incense again, feel the heat of the desert. But it was here in this house. There was sand drifting across my bedroom floor. I could see it all so clearly. And I knew, in my dream, that when you came back it would all be normal again.’

  ‘Nothing is going to be normal as long as this thing is in the house!’ Toby came and sat down again. He reached out towards the bottle then he withdrew his hand, suddenly afraid to touch it. He glanced up and met Serena’s steady gaze. Had she too realised that the voice in his head had had nothing to do with the ghosts of ancient Egypt? It had rung with the patrician tones of Victorian England.

  Which was crazy. He had known for only a matter of weeks that he was descended from Carstairs and yet he was allowing it to play on his mind so much – to influence him to such an extent – that he was vocalising the man’s thoughts; a man who had been dead for at least a century! An image of the Carstairs Castle guidebook swam suddenly into his head. The paragraph which had caught his attention in the castle ruins, the paragraph which had, if he was honest, terrified him to such an extent that he couldn’t get it out of his head: ‘Maybe the ninth earl did not in fact die at all. As you look around the ruins of the castle which was once his home, be aware that the eyes which scrutinise you from the shadows may not be those of a ghost. They may be those of a man in hell.’ He put his head in his hands for a moment then he looked up. He took a deep breath. ‘So, Anna, which suggestion do you prefer?’

  She looked suddenly defeated and unhappy again. Her expressive large eyes were blank. For a moment she didn’t react to his question; when she did it was to shrug helplessly. ‘I think on average I like Serena’s idea. I think it should go back to Egypt, if she is willing to take it.’

  No!

  The voice in Toby’s head exploded with rage once more.

  Stupid, foolish women.

  They don’t understand. They will never understand!

  Don’t let them touch it!

  Take it! Take it back to Scotland! We can use it there!

  Pick it up!

  I will tell you what to do with it!

  ‘I must take it back to Scotland.’

  Toby heard himself repeat the words, zombie-like.

  ‘That is what I’ll do. Take it to Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland?’ Anna seemed puzzled. ‘Why Scotland?’

  ‘Toby –’ Serena reached out towards him and touched his hand. ‘Are you all right?’ She turned to Anna. ‘Listen, he’s exhausted. Why don’t you go and put on some coffee.’

  Anna hesitated. Then she nodded. Standing up she moved towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t see why it would help to take it to Scotland.’

  In Scotland I can use it. Pick it up, man. Waste no more time with these women!

  ‘Toby!’ Serena’s voice was filtering through into his consciousness. ‘Toby, listen to me. Don’t let him use you. Think about something else!’ She had pushed back her chair and reaching out she took Toby’s hands as they lay on the table. She grasped them tightly. ‘Repeat after me. Come on! Repeat after me: Mary had a little lamb! Its fleece was white as snow!’ Her voice was insistent, cutting through the other, drowning it out.

  The temperature in the room had plummeted.

  ‘Mary had a little lamb –’ Somehow he managed to frame the words.

  ‘Good. Again!’

  ‘Mary had a little lamb – ’

  He was forcing the phrase out, his lips stiff, his mouth dry.

  Anna had stopped in the kitchen doorway. She had turned and was watching, white faced. ‘What is happening? What is the matter with him?’ It was scarcely a whisper.

  ‘He’s being used, Anna. Someone is speaking through him.’ Serena was still holding Toby’s wrists, pinning them to the table.

  ‘Who?’ Her mouth had gone dry.

  ‘I think it is Lord Carstairs.’ Serena glanced up at her. ‘Who else woul
d be interested in what happened to the bottle?’

  Anna gasped. ‘No, that can’t be true. It can’t be. Why? How?’

  The man her great-great grandmother’s diaries had described as a nightmare, a visitor from hell, a tormented and tormenting soul, was speaking through the man whom she thought she loved. The man she had come to trust; the man who had saved her from her own personal demons, was now fighting some terrifying battle of his own.

  Running to his side she put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Toby? Speak to me! Please –’ Her voice slid up in panic. ‘Speak to me.’

  He turned towards her and it was then she saw it. The face that was not his, the eyes that for a fraction of a second were not his eyes. ‘Toby!’ Her cry cut through his anguished struggle. The nursery rhyme stuttered into silence as he saw her expression. He read it all in her eyes. Wrenching his hands away from Serena’s firm grip he stood up and, pushing Anna aside, he turned to look into the mirror which hung over the fireplace. The face he saw looking back at him was not his own. It was that of a stranger! A handsome, arrogant, dominating stranger! The stranger whose portrait he had painted with such skill and care in his conservatory in Scotland. With a cry of horror he stepped back, his hands tearing at his features, desperate for reassurance that they still belonged to him, then he turned blindly and made for the door, racing up the staircase. He headed for the bathroom. His reaction in a crisis had always been to stick his head under a cold tap.

  There was a mirror over the basin. For a moment he stood in front of it with his eyes shut, then, finally plucking up the courage, he opened them and leaned forward, scrutinising his face with care, searching fearfully for some sign of the intruder. The face of his ancestor. What he saw was reassuringly familiar again. Turning on the tap he scooped a handful of cold water over his face, then he studied his image carefully once more, noting the drops of water clinging to his sandy eyebrows, dripping from his nose, running down the planes of his cheeks. Same old face. Fortyish, handsome-ish, rugged-ish. Sandy hair. Nice smile. Or so he thought. Hoped. Up to now. With a sigh he reached for the towel. He was tired and he was stressed. He probably needed a caffeine fix, that was all. The illusion that there had been another man inside his head, the illusion that the eyes that had stared back at him from the mirror downstairs only moments before had not been his, had lasted only a few terrifying seconds, but that moment of vivid imagination had shaken him badly. He groaned.