Vampire

by Kevin Ashman

The doll was about eight inches tall and formed the typical mummy shape so familiar to millions of people throughout the world. It was formed from fired clay, and though the once vibrant colours had faded, the detail was still clear.

  ‘If only you could speak,’ said Becky quietly as she held the doll up to the light, ‘what tales you could tell.’ Carefully, she placed the doll back in the box and picked up the cardboard lid to read the inscription.

  ‘Ushabti from tomb, X3-163/1. Unknown minor royal of Ptolemaic period, circa 127 BC. Discovered 13/June/2009.’

  ‘Oooh, Cleopatra’s era,’ said Becky to herself. ‘How fascinating.’ She replaced the lid and placed the box back in line with the rest. Despite wanting to unwrap and examine them all, she resisted the temptation and forced herself to leave the vault, locking the doors behind her. The rest could wait until morning.

  ----

  Becky closed her apartment door behind her and picked up the mail from the floor, sorting it into order of importance as she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Bill, bill, bill,’ she muttered as she read the windows of the envelopes, ‘junk mail and another bill. Nothing special,’ she said to Smokey, the grey Persian cat waiting patiently on the worktop for her daily treat. ‘How did your day go?’

  The cat replied with a silent meow, staring at the woman as if understanding every word.

  ‘That good, huh?’ said Becky, opening the fridge to get the milk.

  Ten minutes later she was sitting on her settee with a microwave lasagne on a tray and the TV remote control at her side. A glass of wine stood on the side table and through the door she could see Smokey getting stuck into a bowl of tinned Tuna in the kitchen.

  ‘Same old, same old,’ Becky sighed. She was about to turn on the TV when a knock came on the door.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ said Becky and putting the unappetizing meal to one side, she walked out into the hall, peering through the spy hole and was surprised to see two police officers outside.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked opening the door.

  ‘Hello there,’ said a policewoman. ‘We are looking for Rebecca Ryan.’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Miss Ryan. I am Sergeant Wentlock and this is police constable Varnier. Could we come in for a moment please?’

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ asked Becky.

  ‘We have some bad news, Miss Ryan; it would be better to do this inside.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Becky. ‘Yes, of course, please come in.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to sit down, Miss Ryan,’ said Sergeant Wentlock.

  ‘Look,’ said Becky, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but whatever you have come to tell me, please just spit it out.’

  The police woman glanced at her colleague, before clearing her throat.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘there’s no easy way to say this, Miss Ryan. I am afraid I have bad news about your father.’

  ‘What about him? Is he okay?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s not, Miss Ryan. I am awfully sorry, but your father is dead.’

  Becky stared at each of the police officers several times before speaking.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, simply.

  ‘We are. His body was identified a few hours ago. We were contacted by the British Embassy in Cairo.’

  Becky sat down on one of the two chairs at her tiny dining table.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ she said. ‘Just this afternoon, he called me. Surely he couldn’t just die in that short time?’

  ‘Miss Ryan,’ said the officer, ‘there is more. I have to tell you that it wasn’t due to natural causes. At least, we don’t think so. The fact is your father was found hanging from a tree in the hotel grounds where he was staying. At this time, there doesn’t seem to be any suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘Suicide,’ gasped Becky, ‘that’s ridiculous. Why would he do that? He had everything to live for.’

  ‘We don’t know at this time,’ said the police officer. ‘Obviously there will be an investigation by the Egyptian police and a post mortem, but I have to be honest, it does look like he took his own life.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Becky quietly, ‘he would never do something like that.’

  An awkward silence followed before PC Varnier spoke up.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea or something?’ he said. ‘Or maybe call someone for you?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ said Becky, wiping the unwelcome tears from her eyes. ‘Do you have the details?’

  ‘Details?’ asked Sergeant Wentlock.

  ‘Yes; location of the body, circumstances, that sort of thing…’

  ‘Of course,’ said the officer, ‘do you have a pen?’

  The next few minutes were taken up with Becky scribbling down the information before she finally stood up.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, ‘but if you don’t mind, I have to make arrangements.’

  ‘What sort of arrangements,’ asked the police woman.

  ‘Flights, hotel room, taxis, et cetera.’ answered Becky.

  ‘Are you going over there?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Becky, ‘I’m not letting anyone else bring him home.’

  ‘Miss Ryan, are you sure there’s nobody that we can call? You really shouldn’t be on your own at a time like this.’

  ‘I will be fine, honestly. I just need to keep busy.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, we will be on our way.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Becky and showed them to the door.

  ‘You know where we are if you need us,’ said Sergeant Wentlock. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Becky and closed the door behind them.

  The two police officers got back into their car and fastened their seatbelts.

  ‘Wow, she took that well,’ said PC Varnier.

  ‘Yeah, she did,’ said Sergeant Wentlock. ‘Seemed like a cold hearted bitch to me.’

  ‘Takes all sorts,’ her colleague sighed and released the handbrake to drive off down the street.

  Back in the flat Smokey was sitting on the rug in front of the artificial fire, studiously cleaning one paw. For a second the cat paused and looked at the human across the room. Becky was sitting on the settee, clutching a cushion tightly to her chest as she rocked back and forth, her shoulders shaking violently in time with her uncontrollable sobs.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ she cried out emotionally at the ceiling, ‘what have you done?’

  ----

  Ten days later Becky Ryan stood at the side of her father’s grave in a small church on the outskirts of London. The funeral had been the previous day, attended by all their family and friends. As was the way of most funerals, it had been a very emotional day, and Becky found herself taking more time caring for her elderly relatives than spending time grieving. The wake was held at her brother’s home and the guests had included many of her father’s colleagues from the world of Egyptology. To redress the feeling of unfinished business, Becky had returned to the cemetery on her own with a single white rose that she had picked up from the florist on the way. She was alone with her thoughts and shed a few tears as she recalled many of the good times spent with her father as a girl.

  The times shared in the vaults of Cairo Museum were particularly memorable. He would studiously write up his reports, while she explored the fascinating artefacts that were not on show to the public. He was very meticulous in his work, but she could always tear him away to explain some fact or another, and when he was in instruction mode, there was no stopping him. Within months she had a fantastic grounding in the history of the country, and within two years, had gained a basic understanding of hieroglyphics. Her mind had been like a sponge, soaking up the information, and she had known immediately this was how she wanted to spend her life. For years she had spent every holiday she could with her father, and had only come home when her mother had fallen ill.

  When her mother finally passed away, Becky took the temporary job at the
museum, thinking it would only be for a few months, but she had loved it so much, when a permanent role came up, she had accepted immediately and hadn’t returned to Egypt since.

  A few more tears fell before she said goodbye to her father for the last time, and after kissing the rose, she laid it on the raw earth before standing up to leave. As she turned her heart missed a beat as she saw a tall man dressed in a long black coat, standing silently a few yards away.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you made me jump.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt your privacy. It is a very sad time.’

  Becky’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the man beneath the floppy black hat. His face sported a full beard and he had deep, walnut brown eyes. He looked strangely familiar.

  ‘Do I know you?’ asked Becky.

  The man stepped forward and removed a glove.

  ‘We have met before, albeit very briefly. My name is John Deacon. I worked with your father for a few years. We met at your mother’s funeral.’

  ‘Mr Deacon,’ said Becky, ‘nice to meet you properly at last. My father spoke very highly of you. I seem to recall you didn’t have the, um…’ Her hand subconsciously touched her own chin.

  ‘Oh, yes, the beard,’ he said. ‘I’ve been back in the UK for twelve months and it is a luxury I allow myself now and again.’

  ‘I suspect it would be a bit uncomfortable in Egypt’s heat,’ she said. There was a silence before Becky continued. ‘I didn’t see you at the funeral, Mr Deacon.’

  ‘No, I only found out yesterday. By the time I found out, it was too late to make the service.’

  ‘So you came down today,’ smiled Becky, ‘that’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Well, I wanted to pay my respects, because he was a great friend, but there is also another reason I am here, Miss Ryan.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I need to speak with you in private. Is there somewhere we could go?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Becky, ‘I think there’s a café not far from here, fancy a coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be great,’ said the man. ‘Perhaps we could meet in ten minutes or so. I’d like to say my goodbyes to your father.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Becky, I’ll go and get the coffees.’

  ----

  Half an hour later they both sat at a table in the cafe. Finally, an awkward silence was broken by the bearded man.

  ‘Miss Ryan,’ he started…’

  ‘Please, call me Becky,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man, ‘and you must call me John. I will come straight to the point. There’s something you should know about your father.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Becky.

  ‘The thing is, for the past year he didn’t work for the Cairo Museum. In fact, he didn’t work for anyone.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Becky. ‘I have talked to him dozens of times over the past twelve months, he would have said something.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said John, ‘he didn’t want you to be concerned.’

  ‘Why would I be concerned? He took sabbaticals quite often. I suspect he was working for some smaller organisation on some obscure project, knowing him.’

  ‘Becky,’ interrupted John, ‘he wasn’t working for anyone, because nobody would employ him. He was sacked.’

  ‘Sacked,’ gasped Becky. ‘Why on earth would he be sacked? He was one of the most respected men in his field.’

  ‘I know,’ said John, ‘but something happened that stripped him of any respectability that he had.’

  ‘What could he have possibly done that could cause him to be sacked?’ asked Becky. ‘You are making no sense.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said John, ‘let me start again.’ He took a sip of his coffee and took a deep sigh before sitting back in his seat and looking into her eyes.

  ‘Becky,’ he said, ‘your father and I worked closely for over two years. We met in a seminar in Cairo and over a conversation during a coffee break, we found out we shared a very special interest.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ groaned Becky, ‘Itjawi.’

  ‘Itjawi,’ confirmed John, ‘We found out that not only did we have the same passion for finding the city, we also had similar theories. Over a period of a few weeks, we shared our knowledge and agreed to combine our resources.’

  ‘What a waste of time that must have turned out to be,’ sighed Becky with a grim smile, ‘gone to his grave with a lifetime’s ambition unrealised.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you are wrong,’ said John. ‘Your father and I did find Itjawi. In fact, we found it three years ago.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Becky in astonishment. ‘How can that be? He never said anything. There’s nothing in any of the journals or on any website. If Itjawi had been found, surely it would have been on the front page of every paper from here to Cairo.’

  ‘You are right,’ said John. ‘If the news had become common knowledge, then it would have been one of the greatest stories since Tutankhamen. Nothing excites the imagination like a lost city of an ancient Pharaoh.’

  ‘But why not tell anyone? Surely, on a find like that, you would want the whole world to know.’

  ‘Ordinarily, yes,’ said John, ‘but we had to be sure. If we were right, and our findings could be verified, this find would be of such historical importance, that it would have the potential to alter the pages of history.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Becky. ‘Archaeologists find cities all of the time beneath the sands. It takes years, if not decades to get permission to excavate and even if you are right and it is Itjawi, nobody would accept it as proved until the Cairo museum verified any artefacts.’

  ‘I know, but that wasn’t the issue here, as it needed hardly any verification.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Becky, what I am about to tell you has to be kept between us. You can’t tell anyone, at least, not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there are organisations that would do anything to ensure our findings are kept secret.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Becky, ‘now you are being ridiculous. Any new find is worth a fortune to the Egyptian government. Just the dollar income would add up to millions in tourism alone.’

  John took a sip of his coffee before taking a deep breath and telling the young girl the most astonishing thing she had ever heard.

  ‘Becky, what your father and I found was what we thought was a series of catacombs. As you know, there are many catacombs throughout Egypt and, like those; they had suffered the attentions of tomb robbers. Anything of inherent value had obviously been stripped from the bodies and at first glance, we thought there was little left. However, as you know, the rubbish from millennia ago now has a different value and the number of pottery fragments and hieroglyphics alone had the potential to keep the experts busy for many years to come.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘Well, at first we did what you would expect and started to catalogue everything in the many different passageways.’

  ‘You didn’t report the find to the authorities?’

  ‘No, not at first. We wanted to make sure our suspicions were correct. So many false claims had been presented over the years; we didn’t want to be tarred with the same brush. That went on for a few months, but soon the dig season approached and the Cairo museum contacted us to take up attachments in the east.’

  ‘Wait a minute; you were working out of season?’

  ‘We were. It may not be ethical, but it was necessary. Anyway, so not to arouse suspicion, we closed the dig, intending to come back the following year, but not before we found something extraordinary.’

  ‘What did you find?’ asked Becky.

  ‘At the farthest end of the catacombs, your father found a shrine piled up with the remains of ancient offerings.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘Well, that was the strange thing,’ said John. ‘There were no markings or idols whatsoever.
Just a plain stone table set against a blank wall. It had obviously been used as recently as a few hundred years ago, but it had no indication as to who it was for. For days we searched for clues until eventually, we removed the shrine and looked behind.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘A false wall,’ said John. ‘We took it down and behind it found an original stone wall, covered with the most extraordinary hieroglyphics.’

  ‘It must have been wonderful,’ said Becky, absolutely entranced at the images he invoked.

  ‘I suppose it must have,’ said John, ‘but we hardly noticed them, because in the centre of the wall was something far, far more exciting; an unopened doorway.’

  ‘Unopened?’

  ‘Yes, the seal was still intact and the door untouched.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Becky. ‘Why would grave robbers leave a door unopened? They must have known it was there, those people found their way into the greatest pyramids. I’m sure a simple false wall wouldn’t have kept them out for long.’

  ‘Well, that is what was so intriguing. Even though it was hidden, the doorway was obviously well known and had lain untouched since the time it was sealed.’

  ‘Was the inscription intact?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Some of it was; the usual threats and curses aimed at any tomb robbers, but the main name had been chiselled out, as if somebody wanted to hide the identity of the occupant.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Becky, engrossed in the tale. ‘Goes someway to deter the curious, I suppose.’

  ‘Could be,’ said John, ‘But if that’s the case, they didn’t do a very good job.’

  ‘You could see the name?’ asked Becky.

  ‘No. But the dedication remained at the bottom and I almost had a heart attack when your father read it out aloud.’

  ‘What did it say?’ asked Becky, hardly able to contain herself.

  “Belonging to the justice of Re,’ said John, and Becky’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

  ----

  ‘I assume by your reaction that you are aware of that dedication?’ asked John.

  ‘Of course, I am,’ stuttered Becky, ‘it was the throne name of Amenemhat the third, a twelfth dynasty Pharaoh, thought to be the greatest king of the middle kingdom. He reigned for over forty years and gained vast amounts of wealth from dominating Nubia, leading several expeditions himself.’