My Name is Markham

by Jodi Taylor

  And then we sidled back the other way and I sat on Chief Farrell’s lap. I was aiming for Psycho Psykes, because she’s always up for a laugh, but not being able to see, I missed. Everyone thought it was hilarious. I could hear Max and Kalinda Black shrieking like washerwomen.

  Something told me it wouldn’t be a good idea to linger long on that lap, so we got up. We did a lot of creeping up behind Peterson, who was amazing. The kids would shout, ‘Look out – he’s behind you,’ and he would whirl around at just the right moment to miss us. Pure gold, as we in the acting profession say.

  Evans flashed his nose like something out of the Blackpool Illuminations and – the big moment – I activated the poo pouch. A hundred olives delivered with pin-point precision.

  ‘Daddy, he’s done a giant poo. Look.’

  ‘Hush dear. Look at the pretty lights again.’

  I don’t want to boast, but our big finish was a huge success. Everyone clapped and cheered.

  I poked Evans. ‘Let’s get out of here.’Because you should always leave them wanting more.

  We’d planned a cracking exit – because appearing as a pantomime reindeer is a bit like robbing a bank – you should always have your exit planned. We moonwalked backwards out of the Hall into the Library. Evan’s nose went into overdrive and there were olives skidding everywhere. The kids were cheering, trauma forgotten. We were the heroes of the afternoon.

  Lingoss closed the door behind us and everything suddenly went quiet. Evans pulled off his head and gasped for breath,and I straightened my creaking back, breathing in the welcome smell of dust, damp and books.

  Evans stiffened. ‘Look out. He’s behind you.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Dr Bairstow.

  Oh yes he was.

  We pulled ourselves together – a phrase which, when you’re the two halves of a reindeer, has a whole new meaning.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  I did feel we were on firmish ground here, because he hadn’t actually forbidden us to do the reindeer thing. And we had just saved the afternoon. If it wasn’t for us, every social worker in Rushfordshire would be converging on St Mary’s at this very moment, accusing us of God knows what. As it was, the guests had had a bit of a giggle, pressies were being distributed, and soon they’d all sit down and stuff themselves stupid. Where was the problem?

  It turned out I might have misread the situation slightly. It wasn’t Rudolph he wanted to discuss.

  ‘It would appear,’ he said, ‘that the legend of Alfred burning the cakes is not completely accurate, after all.’

  I suddenly remembered. The cakes. I’d completely forgotten about Alfred and the cakes. Had Peterson and Maxwell grassed me up? That’s historians for you.

  I remained calm, in the best traditions of St Mary’s. ‘Not quite sir, no. It was bread – not cakes. As I shall say in my report. Which I shall go and write now.’ I made for the door.

  I swear he never moved, but somehow my feet lost momentum and I trailed to a halt. On the other side of the door, everyone was having a lovely time, singing Christmas carols and distributing the presents, while in here, King Herod was gearing up for the Slaughter of the Innocents.

  He waited.

  I felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Not really my fault, sir. And the people were pretty desperate. It was getting dark, and everything was so wet, and they just couldn’t get the fire re-lit, and even though it wasn’t my fault the fire went out, I did feel we should do something. Obviously, I was very discreet about the whole thing.’

  ‘Discretion is not a word I normally associate with your modus operandi, Mr Markham.’

  ‘Well, no sir, I take your point, but it was only the one fizzer as a distraction, and then a quick blast while everyone was looking the other way. Job done, sir.’

  He said nothing.

  I sighed. ‘I’m sorry about the cakes, sir. I only had a few seconds to get the thing re-lit and I’m afraid the cakes were a victim of friendly fire.’ I beamed at him because that was rather clever. ‘Get it, sir?’

  Apparently he didn’t, staring bleakly at me from across the Library. Evans was demonstrating true Security Section loyalty and melting back into the woodwork.

  ‘Not so fast, Mr Evans,’Dr Bairstow said, without turning his head, and Evans melted back again.

  ‘Was it Maxwell who told you about the cakes, sir?’

  ‘Why no, Mr Markham. You did. Just now.’

  Dammit. I’d just fallen for the oldest trick in the book. This is what happens when you spend the afternoon with your head up Evans’s bum. Brain-cell failure on a massive scale.

  ‘Well, never mind, sir. Thanks to me, the world has a legend that is both colourful and heart-warming. A story of courage, modesty and tenacity. Rather like me when you think about it.’

  He said nothing.

  I thought it would be a good idea to change the subject. Move the conversation on a bit.

  ‘Did you enjoy the show, sir?’

  ‘I did indeed Mr Markham. Most enjoyable.’

  I breathed a quick sigh of relief. Whenever I find myself on the wrong end of one of his beaky stares, I always find its best to accentuate the positive and here he was, accentuating away all by himself and without any help from me. Crisis averted.

  Oh no it wasn’t.

  ‘I do believe the little kiddies are clamouring for Rudolph’s return and I know, given your close links with the acting profession, you will not wish to disappoint your audience.’ He paused. ‘Or me, of course. I must, therefore, beg you to remain in costume for, let us say the remainder of the day, bringing festive cheer and jollification to us all.’

  Bloody hell. He couldn’t do that. There’s a whole section of the Geneva Convention dedicated to preventing this sort of cruel and unusual punishment. To say nothing of Employment Law. Or even the Rights of Man.

  They’d all be out there, eating and drinking, having a great time, and we’d be stuck here inside this foetid reindeer darkness, with nothing to eat, and worse, nothing to drink. I had a sudden vision of Hunter in her Tinkerbell costume, using her wand for the benefit of someone else …

  ‘But sir …’

  ‘The show, Mr Markham, must go on. And on. And on.’

  And it did. We were in that bloody costume until midnight. Everyone else thought it was hilarious and I suppose it was – for them.

  For us, it was a hot, sweaty, blanket-enclosed, alcohol-free, back-breaking hell. To say nothing of the perpetual presence of Evans’s enormous backside, of which I’d already seen more than enough.

  And, because I just know there’s bound to be some sadistic soul out there who will want to know – no, he wasn’t kidding about the egg sandwiches.

  A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from everyone at St Mary’s.

  THE END

  An excerpt from…

  TUESDAY 4TH SEPTEMBER 2012

  Abrasive dust filled the rough-hewn tunnel. Dr Ruby Towers called for a vacuum hose and held a protective mask to her mouth. Now she knew why her team members had complained so vehemently about cutting into limestone in that confined space. After each ten minute shift they would come out of the passage shaking and coughing. So she had taken her turn, enduring the same deafening roar, the same choking heat as the rest of them. And she had been the one to break through.

  She dropped the drill and wiped the grit from her goggles. Her pulse raced. After months of planning and overcoming bureaucratic hurdles, after weeks of scanning, measuring and arguing, and after days of gruelling tunnelling, this was her moment.

  She poked her scuffed aluminium Maglite into the opening. Her eyes struggled to focus beyond the whirling particles picked out by the torch. It was frustrating, but the mere presence of airborne dust thrilled her. It signified an end to the section of rock. She ripped off the mask and goggles and waited for the cloud to dissipate. Now she could see her prize.

  A chamber.

  The space was c
ramped, smaller in dimension than some of the individual blocks used on the nearby pyramids. Objects were stacked in the centre of this timeless cavity. She counted them. Ten. They were clay tubes, just a few inches in diameter and no more than two feet in length. All were greyed by immense antiquity.

  Was this the fabled Hall of Records? Was this the repository of the knowledge of a lost civilisation? Would this discovery finally unravel the mystery of the age and purpose of the Great Sphinx of Giza?

  ‘Can we get the camera in here?’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  The documentary cameraman and the presenter squeezed alongside her in the narrow shaft. The cameraman pointed the lens at the presenter, former soldier Matt Mountebank.

  ‘So tell us what you’ve found,’ he said, with calm authority in his Manhattan accent.

  The camera swung round to Ruby’s face, almost pressing against her nose.

  ‘We’re directly beneath the flank of the Sphinx,’ she announced, her voice excited and high pitched. ‘This tunnel was begun a century ago by tomb robbers using explosives. Our scanners revealed a chamber just ahead, so we applied for permission to extend the tunnel to join up with that chamber. That way there will be no external damage to the monument. And now –’

  She paused. Matt was pulling faces at her from behind the camera. As usual. She kicked him in the leg with her heavy Altberg boot.

  He stopped.

  ‘And now we’re through,’ she continued. ‘This peephole is enough to prove that the Sphinx houses an archaeological treasure. The clay tubes will almost certainly contain scrolls. If they are intact and readable, the ancient riddle of the Sphinx could be solved. We might be about to find out who built it, when they did so, and why.’

  ‘Turn off the camera. Everyone out.’

  Ruby turned around. The Head of Antiquities was silhouetted in the tunnel entrance, flanked by two police officers. Dr Shepsit Ibrahim did not appear to share Ruby’s enthusiasm for the discovery.

  ‘Keep rolling,’ whispered Matt. ‘This could be good.’

  ‘Your licence has been revoked,’ shouted Dr Ibrahim. ‘This dig is finished.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Shepsit!’ protested Ruby. ‘We’ve been working towards this for months. I’ve found the chamber. I can see there are clay tubes in there. I can probably pull them out without even widening the hole. We can’t stop now!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruby,’ Ibrahim replied, her tone softening.

  ‘But you’re in charge, Shepsit. You can overrule this and get our licence back.’

  ‘I’m the one stopping it, Ruby. It’s over.’

  Ruby felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.

  ‘What about Cambridge? All those nights we stayed up, solving the problems of the world, dreaming of making discoveries like this. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  Passionate tears began carving their way through the dust on Ruby’s cheeks. Ibrahim’s head bowed and she said nothing.

  Ruby resisted the overpowering urge to slap her former college roommate as she stepped outside, police escort or not. In the unforgiving daylight, the two policemen seemed odd. Their uniforms didn’t fit, and neither did their features: more Central American than Middle Eastern. She grudgingly acknowledged them in her limited Arabic and received no response. They remained curiously clamped to Ibrahim’s side.

  ‘What’s got into you, Shepsit?’ Ruby pleaded. ‘And why are the police involved? This doesn’t make any sense.’

  Dr Ibrahim rolled her eyes sideways, left and right. Ruby followed her gaze and looked at the police officers again. They seemed edgy. As they turned she noticed one of them was pressing something firmly into Ibrahim’s back beneath a small rag.

  A pistol.

  Ruby glanced at Matt, fearing that his special forces training might tempt him to play the hero. His Gulf War memoirs were legendary. He was not a man to mess with.

  ‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ she grunted. ‘I don’t want Shepsit hurt.’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, surprising her with his willingness to concede defeat. The ex-warrior began to walk away from the site with the rest of her despondent team.

  ‘Is that it, Matt? You’re not going to do anything?’

  ‘You just told me not to.’

  ‘I know, but you must have some trick you can use to overpower them?’

  ‘Rubes, those guys have guns. I got a damn microphone.’

  Ruby stomped after him. More blatantly fake policemen had gathered at the perimeter, ushering people from the scene and clearing the way for their forthcoming escape. She stopped and glanced back at the Sphinx. It had survived Napoleon’s soldiers using it for target practice. It had foiled tomb robbers for millennia. Now, dwarfed by the grandeur of the Pyramid of Khafre behind it, the Sphinx stared forward with serene nobility while thieves dressed in police uniforms plundered priceless secrets from its heart.

  Jodi Taylor

  The Chronicles of St Mary’s

  Also by

  Jodi Taylor

  The Nothing Girl

  A Bachelor Establishment

  For more information about Jodi Taylor

  and other Accent Press titles

  please visit

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2016

  ISBN 9781682994740

  Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2016

  The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN