Shadows on the Nile

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Georgie, you’re not listening to me.’

  You are pacing up and down along the centre of the tent where the roof is highest. Even so, it touches your blond curls. I search for the right words to say to you but none of the sentences I have learned seems to fit, and then I recall what you say to me.

  ‘What is the matter? Why are you upset?’ I ask.

  You stop pacing and look at me. I recognise your expression. It is surprise. You kneel down in front of me and speak quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Georgie. I don’t mean to scare you.’

  You look at what I’m wearing. A shirt, two sweaters, a jacket and scarf, and a blanket. It’s not the cold. I pile on clothes when I am upset. The weight of them comforts me.

  ‘Georgie, we’re leaving today. The man I told you about who wants to take our tomb objects from us, Fareed, is too close now. So we’re packing everything on camels to carry down to the truck. We have to work fast.’

  ‘Is that why you are upset?’

  You clench your hands together. I have never seen you like this.

  ‘Don’t, Georgie.’

  I realise I am wailing. I wrap the blanket over my mouth.

  ‘I need your help,’ you say, but now your voice is calm and steady. ‘I have to go up to the tomb one last time …’

  ‘Take me with you.’

  ‘No, Georgie, I have to be fast and anyway I need you to work here while I’m gone.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be gone.’

  ‘I know. But it won’t be for long. There are still the canopic jars and the jewellery for you to pack up. I’ll do the gold chair myself when I get back.’

  ‘Is that why you’re upset?’

  Instead of replying, you thrust your fingers into your hair and jam the heels of your hands hard against your eyes. An odd low grunt comes out of your mouth.

  I want to go back. To tiptoe back to before we started this conversation, to before pieces of you seemed to fall apart. I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t have any words. So I take off my blanket and wrap it around your shoulders. Then I wait. I count in my head to stop myself screaming. When I reach one hundred and sixty-nine you lift your hands away from your face.

  ‘Thank you, Georgie.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  You smile but it is lopsided.

  ‘I’ll tell you why I am upset,’ you say.

  I say nothing. I don’t want to know. It is going to be bad.

  ‘I’m upset because …’s; you draw in a deep breath, ‘the gunshot you heard yesterday was Dr Scott killing one of Fareed’s men. I saw it, Georgie. It was terrible. A bullet in the head. Cold murder. I had no idea that …’ You stop. Your lip is trembling. For a moment you shut your eyes, and when you open them, you are you again.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  You give an odd kind of laugh and rise to your feet. You throw the blanket on to my camp-bed. ‘Now, you must go to that awning of yours and get on with your work.’

  I nod.

  ‘I will be back soon,’ you say and walk over to the tent flap.

  As you lift it up, I ask, because I know I get things wrong sometimes, ‘Do you hate Dr Scott now?’

  You look at the sand and the dirt outside, and you utter that odd low grunt again. Then you leave.

  Is that a yes? Or a no?

  I particularly don’t like the sky today. It is too big and too bright. It has crumbled the desert into dust and I fear it will do the same to me. I work under the awning with my back to it and I wear your corduroy jacket even though it is hot. It gives me unexpected pleasure to wear a piece of your clothing.

  Your episode this morning has frightened me and I am careful to do exactly as you asked. I work fast. Sorting, wrapping, packing. No one comes near me – no one ever does – despite the fact there are many more men today with camels to carry the wooden packing crates. Only the Fat Man, the one you call Dr Scott, stands just outside the awning and watches me every now and again. His skin is so smooth and shiny, it looks as if he oils and polishes it every morning and trims his horrible little beard with nail-scissors. I don’t look at him.

  ‘Has your brother told you?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘That we are clearing out of this dust-bowl today,’ he continues.

  If I say nothing, he will go away. I separate a beautiful heavy gold pendant from its matching bracelet, jot down a description and measurements in my notebook, and fold it in a sheet of wrapping.

  ‘We could leave you behind.’

  My hand shakes.

  ‘For Fareed to find.’

  I almost drop the pendant.

  He laughs.

  I turn to face him. ‘Dr Scott, why do you hate me?’

  ‘Because you’re an imbecile.’

  ‘No, I am not. I am highly intelligent.’

  He laughs again and I see spittle come from his mouth, tiny darts of poison. He is wearing a panama hat and a pale linen suit, sweaty under the sun, but he doesn’t step forward under the shade of the awning. That would be too close. For him. And for me. Behind him lie the rocky slopes of the hills and I see movement there.

  ‘You are an imbecile,’ Scott tells me, and all his laughter has dripped into the sand, leaving an expression I cannot place but which makes me look away quickly. ‘That is why you were locked away. Don’t look surprised. I know your father. He’s a fine chap and deserves a better son than you. And Timothy deserves a better brother.’

  I cannot stop the tears. They drip on to the gold bracelet with its engraving of Hathor wearing the sun-disk.

  I cannot stop my tongue. ‘Is he ashamed of me?’ it asks.

  ‘Of course he is. Wouldn’t you be?’

  I nod.

  Satisfied, he walks away.

  ‘Tim!’

  The word hisses across the sand.

  ‘Tim! It’s me.’

  The desert distorts sound. I cannot tell from which direction it comes. I keep my head down as I hold a gold ring forged in the shape of a ram’s head. I stroke its exquisite workmanship and it helps calm the juddering in my chest.

  ‘Tim!’

  A figure steps out of the bright sun and under my canvas shelter so quickly that I jump back, alarmed. He is wearing a grey Egyptian robe and scarf around the head, but when I turn to face him he freezes, hand half outstretched.

  ‘You’re not Tim!’

  I look at the face. Not a man’s, despite the clothes. It is fine-boned with strong cheekbones and startled blue eyes that I never thought to see again. I know it instantly.

  ‘Jessie.’

  Her face unfreezes. She shakes her head back and forth. Her eyes are huge. ‘No,’ she whispers. ‘It can’t be you.’

  I nod. I smile. I cannot speak.

  ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She yanks the scarf from around her head, as though she cannot breathe, and comes forward to embrace me, but something in my face makes her hold back. Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears.

  ‘How?’ she asks. ‘How are you here?’

  ‘Tim brought me.’

  ‘Tim?’

  I break my rule. I look at her face, at her eyes and her mouth, at her beautiful straight nose and the curl of her golden lashes, at the movement of her thick blonde hair. Something is choking inside me, hurting in the middle of my breastbone. I try to cough it up but it won’t budge. She is speaking but I cannot hear her because my blood is pounding against my eardrums, and I cry out her name.

  ‘Jessie!’

  She stops speaking. She understands. Her gaze dances all over my face and my hair and my clothes, and back to my eyes. She is smiling so hard I fear her lovely face will split, and I do not hide from her scrutiny. We have twenty years of staring at each other to catch up on.

  I touch her. Her hand. It is bandaged.

  ‘Georgie,’ she whispers and holds out her fingers tentatively.

  I let her touch my face.

  A shadow falls acro
ss the entrance. ‘Well, well, what do we have here?’

  It is the Fat Man and I open my mouth to tell Jessie to beware, but he sticks a gun in her face and seizes her arm and drags her out into the harsh light of the sun. I pick up one of the tall ancient canopic jars made of heavy alabaster and swing it at his head. The jar shatters into pieces, but so does his face.

  49

  Monty heard the crash and the scream. Instantly, he was on the move. He had been standing guard in the shadow of the largest tent, keeping a sharp eye on the sentries – four of them now – who were patrolling the outskirts of the camp, Lee-Enfields at the ready, while Jessie entered the shelter where they had spotted Tim working.

  They had shuffled into camp by attaching themselves to the tail-end of one of the camel-trains, unheeded in their enveloping Egyptian garb. Everyone was rushing and shouting, the camp seething with the frantic activity of packing. But Monty was well aware that they had only minutes. That was all. Before they would be spotted. So he tracked each guard’s position with sharp eyes while Jessie was speaking with Tim.

  Everything depended on what her brother had to say.

  When the camp had first come to life at dawn, he and Jessie had been forced by the patrols to retreat deeper into the hills for a few hours, though it was the piles of wooden crates in the centre of the camp that kept drawing the attention of the guards, the way a golden flame draws moths. But now everyone was running to the screams.

  Monty yanked his scarf lower over his face as he raced to the front of the shelter but what he saw was not what he expected. Scott was writhing on the ground. His face and hands were a mask of blood. Over him stood Jessie’s brother, his face rigid in a rictus grin. In his hand he clutched the shattered base of a jar and Jessie was staring at him in horror.

  ‘You could have killed him,’ she gasped.

  ‘Tim,’ Monty snapped, ‘let’s get out of here while we—’

  ‘I’m not Tim. I’m Georgie.’

  Monty seized Jessie’s arm. ‘Out! Now!’

  She didn’t move. She didn’t take her eyes off her brother.

  ‘Jessie, we have to …’

  But it was too late. A line of Egyptian workmen stood in front of them and Monty knew his options had just shrunk to zero.

  He drew his gun.

  50

  Georgie

  Egypt 1932

  He’s not dead. That’s what I tell myself. The Fat Man is not dead. But his forehead is scoured by deep gashes, his nose is a bloody pulp and two of his front teeth have gone missing.

  He’s lucky he’s not dead.

  But even I know you’re not supposed to do that to someone, not wreck his face. The blood, thick and slimy, is the worst thing. I hate it even more than the screaming. But he let go of Jessie and the gun. I fixed that for her. But she’s acting oddly. She doesn’t walk right, she doesn’t talk right. Not even to the tall man holding the gun and scaring the life out of the Egyptians. She looks like a sleepwalker we had back at the clinic, seeing only what’s inside her head. Yet she doesn’t shift her gaze off me, not even for a second and I know I’m shaking. I don’t want her to see me shaking.

  ‘Here,’ the tall Englishman says sharply.

  He yanks off his headscarf and pushes it into the Fat Man’s face. The Fat Man bellows. I don’t know if it’s pain or rage, I can’t tell, but the Tall Man drags him to his feet.

  ‘Tell your men to get back to work, loading up the camels. We don’t want to be here when Fareed arrives.’

  The Fat Man shouts something. I don’t hear it. All I see is you. You come striding down from the hills into the camp and I call out your name. You look at me, your hair covered in limestone dust and your boots the colour of the desert, and then you look at Jessie. When you look at Jessie you smile like the great sun-god Ra and it pierces my throat so I cannot speak.

  She runs to you. Not like normal people run. She runs like I imagine a gazelle would run, with long bounding steps, leaping over the distance between you.

  ‘Tim!’

  ‘Jessie! How did you get here? I knew you’d find me, I knew it. You’re amazing to find me.’

  Brother and sister. You throw your arms around each other, wrapping tight, holding close.

  ‘Oh Tim, thank God you’re alive, I was so frightened that …’

  You hush her, more gently than you hush me when I am upset. You wipe tears from her cheek with your finger. I don’t know why she’s crying. Is it because the Fat Man is hurt?

  ‘Where did you find him, Tim? Where? Why is he here in Egypt?’ she asks quickly.

  ‘I couldn’t take the risk of leaving him in England. I didn’t know what might happen.’

  ‘He doesn’t look good,’ she says. Her face twists oddly.

  ‘I know, but give him time. He’s damaged.’

  Yes, it is the Fat Man they must mean. I damaged him.

  ‘You must make allowance, Jessie,’ you say. ‘Don’t judge him on this. He’s very upset at the moment.’

  I’d be upset too if my face was knocked in.

  ‘I’ll help him, Tim. As much as I can, I’ll help him.’

  ‘It would mean a lot to him.’

  ‘Are you sure? Does he want me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Why? I want to shout at her. Why should she help the Fat Man?

  ‘What’s going on here, Tim?’ she asks, indifferent to me. ‘Why all this secrecy?’

  You lean your head against hers and speak so low that I can’t hear your words, but I see your hair and her hair merge into one golden mesh. Despite the heat I suddenly feel cold. I’m shivering. I shut my eyes to block you out. When I open them you are still holding her but over her shoulder you are looking at the group of men, at the Fat Man covered in blood and at the Tall Man with the gun.

  ‘Who are you?’ you ask.

  ‘My name’s Monty Chamford. A friend of Jessie. I presume you are Timothy Kenton.’

  You nod. ‘What happened to Scott?’

  ‘Georgie happened to Scott.’

  You release Jessie and inspect me. I am standing in the shadows, but I know you will see my hands clutching each other tight in distress. I try to smile at you but it doesn’t sit straight on my face and you draw your dusty eyebrows down in a frown.

  I glance across at my tent. My blanket is there. I need it. I take a step towards it.

  That is when the Fat Man starts screaming at you through his blood. ‘You betrayed me, Kenton! You betrayed me! And you betrayed your father!’

  Over and over.

  My blanket. I need it. To smother the noise.

  ‘Don’t bring my father into this,’ you shout.

  ‘You know he’s involved.’ He mops his face with the Tall Man’s scarf. ‘He knows what we’re doing to raise money for the Fascist cause.’

  ‘You may fool him but you don’t fool me.’ I have never seen your face like this. It frightens me. ‘You are stealing these treasures for your own pocket, you and your whole organisation out here.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I say. No one even looks at me.

  The heat is fierce. But not from the sun. It is their anger that is scorching the air as it enters my lungs, and I put a hand over my mouth to keep it out.

  Blood is dripping off the Fat Man’s chin, but still he screams at you. ‘You betrayed me. You were supposed to tell no one. No one! Yet look at them here.’ He points at Jessie and the Tall Man.

  It is the Tall Man who pulls Jessie aside, out of the way of the Fat Man’s fury. I like him for that. He is the kind of man I would listen to.

  He says, ‘Don’t be a fool, Scott. He has betrayed no one. We’re here because of Jessie’s guesswork and you are the—’

  ‘Shut up, Chamford! You helped get Kenton here, don’t you forget that. At that séance.’

  I think the Fat Man has gone mad. He is shaking. Worse than I shake. Did I wreck his brain as well as his face? He charges at one of the guards near him and snatches the rifle from his shoulder. The ai
r changes. I feel it. It turns thin and empty, as if there is no oxygen in it. Faces change. Eyes widen. No one breathes.

  ‘Scott, put it down,’ the Tall Man orders and points his own gun at him.

  ‘You won’t shoot me, Chamford. You need my loan on that mausoleum of yours.’

  ‘Put that rifle down or I will pull this trigger.’

  Before the words are finished, the Fat Man shouts again, ‘You betrayed me, Kenton!’ The rifle is moving towards you. ‘Don’t think that I don’t know you’ve got Chamford in the pocket of the police. We’ve seen him talking with them.’

  He is going to kill you.

  No one takes notice of me. I snatch from my waistband the revolver that Scott dropped on the sand when I hit him and I pull the trigger immediately. The strength of the explosion in my hands scares the life out of me and I fling the gun away, but I see the Fat Man crumple to his knees. He sways for a moment. There is so much blood on him already that I do not know whether I have hit him or not.

  My hands are dancing and my breath is escaping in a thin high noise that sounds like a bird’s alarm call. If he stands up, he will kill me. But he doesn’t stand up. He falls forward flat on his face and buries his bloody nose in the sand. That’s how I know he is dead.

  51

  Jessie and Tim sat either side of Georgie on the sand in the shade of the truck. They sipped water that was warm and ignored the fact that their brother was swaddled from head to toe in a dark brown blanket.

  ‘It’s hard for him, Jessie.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s better when everything is quiet.’

  ‘So why did you bring him out here to Egypt?’

  Tim looked away. ‘I was worried. I had to come out here, but I couldn’t leave him behind in the clinic.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of Pa.’

  Oh Pa, what have you done to my brothers?

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed how deeply he is now involved not only in Fascism, but in the Eugenics Society as well? He and Captain Pitt-Rivers, the anthropologist, are as thick as thieves with Oswald Mosley. They all feed off each other.’ He shook his head in dismay, scattering limestone dust. ‘They believe society can be improved through imposed birth control and selective breeding.’