The Soul Scarab

by C J Turner

  A while later, she limped back to her hotel room and surveyed the damage. Could have been worse, she shrugged, causing an involuntary wince of pain, luckily her face had hardly been touched. As much as she longed to crawl into bed, she patched herself up as best she could and then packed everything back into her suitcase, including her passport, credit card and anything else that could identify her. A few essentials including English currency, she put into a shoulder bag. Hameeda’s hurriedly written note of the Professor’s address and telephone number, she slipped into her jacket pocket. She had put the small box that contained the scarab necklace into the suitcase as well, but at the last minute decided that she would wear it instead. It would act as proof of her bona fides, if proof was required.

  Aching in every limb, she donned tinted glasses and wrapped a voluminous silk scarf round her head, before carrying her suitcase downstairs, where she explained to the disinterested receptionist that she had a very early start in the morning and needed to pay her account. Taking a taxi to the nearest railway station, she deposited the case in a left luggage locker and then returned to the hotel to spend what was left of the night. As a final precaution, she tucked the locker key under the lining of her trainer.

  Now she had only to contact the Professor in the morning and explain why she had sent him the dagger, and warn him about the Rassims, but she did not think they would pose a threat to the English Authorities.

  Her stomach clenched at the thought of the coming interview, but she put the thought sternly away. She had to concentrate; she had made a mistake tonight and had only got away with it because she had taken the men by surprise. Amunet did not think that she had killed either of the two men she had shot at, which was a shame. The real threat came from the third man who had played the decoy, and indeed, if he had only concentrated on putting her out of action, he might well have succeeded. But his arrogance did not allow him to recognise a solitary young female as a serious threat, and he had wanted to play - to make her afraid so he could feed on her fear. This was the man she had recognized as Mustaf Rassim himself.

  Which meant that the older man was probably Ahmed Rassim, the man who had tortured her Uncle and had been responsible for the death of her cousin. Every time she closed her eyes to sleep, the memory of Ghalida’s poor abused body came back to haunt her dreams.

  There was no way her would be abductors could have followed her tonight, not in the condition they were in by the time she had finally made her escape. Tomorrow would be a different story.

  That was when it had all gone wrong. She winced as she heard again the scream of tyres and felt again the hard shove in the small of her back, which had pitched her into the path of the speeding motorbike. She had managed to turn the fall into a roll, which had probably saved her life, as she missed the full impact by inches. She remembered rough hands searching through her pockets and finding the piece of paper with Blake’s address on it; desperately she had tried to grab it back, tearing it partly out of her assailant’s hand.

  Impossibly, she remembered thinking that she had seen Blake kneeling by her side and had tried to speak to him, but then everything had gone black and she had woken up in hospital to find that she had no recollection of who she was.

  Now, everything had slipped into place and at least her last link with Ghalida was still safe. Instinctively, her hand went to her breast but the comforting weight of the surprisingly heavy little scarab was no longer there. In horrified disbelief, she ran to the mirror and dragged down the neck of her sweater. The amulet was gone!

  Utterly appalled, she stared vacantly at her bewildered reflection as she slowly came to the realisation that she had not seen the necklace since the accident. When she had left the hospital with Blake, they had mentioned something about valuables and given her a brown envelope, which she had thrust into her jacket pocket, too nervous and overwrought to give it another thought, until now.

  Alice had hung the jacket up in the wardrobe, along with her trainers and the rest of the clothes she had been wearing that day. Hardly daring to breath, Amunet opened the wardrobe door and slipped her fingers in the pocket of her jacket.

  Nothing. Fighting down her increasing panic, she tore the jacket off its hanger and felt the weight on the other side. Pulling out the envelope, she tore it across with shaking hands and tipped the contents on to the bed. Her watch and ear studs spilled onto the eiderdown, along with a rich blur of gold and turquoise. As relief washed over her, the implications did not hit her immediately. When they did, she sat down limply on the edge of the bed, the little scarab clutched tightly in her hand.

  It had been here all the time, she had not been wearing it yesterday evening. How then had Alex Bentley been able to describe it so accurately?

  What had so terrified Mustaf and his men that they had run away in such blind panic?

  Chapter 7

  Amunet decided that she was not ready to tell Blake yet that she had remembered who she really was. The fall-out from that confrontation would be monumental and she had no intention of provoking it until the situation clarified. Nevertheless, she hated keeping Alice in the dark.

  She finally went to bed to toss and turn in restless exhaustion. When Alice tapped softly on the door later that evening before cautiously putting her head round the door, she had pretended to be asleep, but sleep was the last thing on Amunet’s mind as she agonised on what to do for the best.

  Knowing that Hameeda had trusted the Professor, even now Amunet considered whether she should confide in him with the whole story, but was stubbornly reluctant to do so until she knew what he was up to.

  The telephone conversation she had overheard the other day between Blake and Max came back to haunt her and took on a more ominous meaning in the light of her new knowledge. She decided that it would not be prudent to trust Blake until he came clean and admitted that he had the dagger, and what he intended to do with it.

  Perhaps he thought that the fact that she had lost her memory was a God given chance to claim the artifact for himself. He was, after all, an archeologist and if the dagger were the key to finding a hitherto undiscovered and intact tomb, it would bring tremendous kudos to him. He had been out there at the time of the discovery and had been in her uncle’s confidence, he would know roughly where to start looking.

  Upset and confused, she fell at last into a hot, restless sleep haunted with shadowy figures in a shifting, nightmare world.

  When the Professor and Max finally came in after an enjoyable evening, Max claimed weariness on account of the long day (he had left his home in Cornwall very early that morning to travel to London to meet Blake) and judiciously refused one last night cap in favour of retiring directly to bed. He knew that Blake was quite capable of staying up all night to thrash out an intriguing problem and Max felt that he needed a little time to himself to sort out in his own mind certain aspects of this puzzling affair. Blake had certainly given him plenty to think about.

  The Professor, on the other hand, stimulated by the possibilities postulated in their various conversations that evening, was wide-awake and returned to his study to shift through some old snapshots he had recently routed out. The photographs related to the dig he had been on some twelve years ago, and he reread his old notes with growing intentness. He became engrossed, until an errant sound, intermittent and only just audible in the quietness of the house, forced him back to the present moment.

  Cautiously, he followed the sound upstairs until he came to Meredith’s room. He hesitated, but unable to leave her in such distress, quietly opened the door and went in.

  Although her eyes were shut, her head moved restlessly on the pillow and her breath came in short laboured gasps. She was muttering in her sleep, her voice rising and falling in passionate entreaty, and the language that she spoke was the same as the one he had heard that first night in the hospital.

  He vaguely remembered reading that you should not wake anybody who was having a nightmares too abruptly, but nor could he ignor
e her obvious suffering. Very gently, he smoothed the hair back from her hot face, and quietly comforted her as he had done once before, gradually getting through behind the fear so that her frantic pleas slowly faltered and finally stopped all together.

  With a small sigh, she opened her eyes, ‘You!’ she murmured in relief and he saw her body relax. Then anxiously, ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘No.’ he replied softly. ‘I’m not going to.’

  Picking her up, he carried her back to the study. Still with her in his arms, he sat down in his comfortable leather armchair and they sat there for a while, at peace and oddly content.

  Only the flickering flames of the dying fire and a single muted table lamp lit the warm, quiet room.

  Blake heard her sigh deeply and felt her body’s heat and softness mould against his own hard frame. He reached for his barely touched drink and coaxed her to take a sip, noting with relief how the cognac restored some of the dusky colour back into her ashen cheeks, still wet with tears.

  ‘Better?’ he set the glass down and she nodded solemnly, not a little uncomfortable now that she was fully awake to find herself in such intimate proximity with this disturbing man.

  She was embarrassed, by the situation and not least, by the thin translucent cotton of her scanty nightdress, and she was very aware of Blake as he gazed thoughtfully down at her. He smelled nice, she thought inconsequentially as she caught the slight, clean tang of his after-shave. His dark hair looked ruffled and invitingly thick and shiny, she wondered what it would be like to reach up and run her fingers through it. Her eyes, huge with unshed tears, shone like stars with a lambent light of their own and drew in the intent gaze of the man, whose own features softened in response to the expression he saw reflected in their dreamy grey depths. Blake felt the accelerated rise and fall of her soft breasts crushed against his shirt, and noticing the colour deepening in her cheeks, shifted in the chair so that now his body was ranged over hers, as he bent his head closer.

  The door opened.

  ‘Don’t mind me, dear fellow, ah, just came down to get a night-cap after all – couldn’t sleep, too much excitement in one day for me, I dare say!’ Max, caught on the spot, burbled on, his eyes bright and speculative as he watched Blake slowly shake his head as if awakening from a dream.

  Resignedly he stood up and depositing Meredith back on her feet. Reaching for his old cardigan, which had been carelessly flung over the back of a chair, he slipped it around Meredith’s shoulders. There was a curious expression on Blake’s face, which Max could not quite fathom, as he watched her wrap the soft wool protectively around herself.

  ‘You two obviously felt the same … couldn’t sleep, I mean. Now I come to think about it, that’s what probably woke me up, I thought I heard something…’

  ‘Meredith was having a nightmare, Max, that’s all,’ said the Professor firmly. ‘I brought her down here to give her a medicinal brandy. It’s on the table over there, help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, I will take a glass and take myself off. I am so sorry, Meredith, you must be wishing me to the devil.’ Max turned kindly to the silent girl, noting her discomfiture, and also, with appreciation, the long slim brown legs which the bunched up old sweater did little to conceal.

  He turned back to Blake, and raised his glass in a discreet, encouraging gesture, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Not interested, eh, the twinkle suggested. Not much, and jolly good luck to you!

  Irritated, Blake scowled blackly at the infuriatingly knowing grin on his friend’s good-natured countenance.

  ‘Oh no, now that you are here, we might just as well get some work done,’ he shot Max a warning glance over Meredith’s head. ‘I would be very interested to hear your views on the phonetics, as you’re now so wide awake!’ The Professor frowned discouragingly at Max, who raised his eyebrows enquiringly and then inclined his head ever so slightly.

  ‘Of course, dear boy – why not.’ Max walked over to the desk and opened a notepad with some odd looking symbols written on the first page.

  Curiosity replacing embarrassment, Amunet followed him. Leaning over his shoulder as Max sat down and pulled the notepad towards him, she stared in puzzlement at the peculiar groups of letters. Blake watched her with intent interest of his own.

  ‘Do they seem familiar to you, Meredith?’ he asked quietly from behind her. ‘These are words written as they are pronounced, and this is the translation written in hieratic, that’s an early form of ancient Egyptian writing.’

  ‘No, I do not recognise them,’ she replied wonderingly, ‘What language is this?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘How could I know, I have never seen anything like that before - or at least,’ she caught herself up quickly, ‘I don’t think I have.’

  The Professor and Max were both looking at her with identical grave expressions on their faces and something else, some other element, which she could not define, but suddenly fear had crept back into the peaceful room and she was on her guard again.

  ‘What is it? Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?’ she demanded, her voice rising angrily as she backed away from them.

  Max rose hastily, and taking her hand in a reassuring gesture, gently led her over to the sofa, where he sat down beside her.

  ‘No, no my dear, nothing at all for you to get worked up about! But you know, something rather odd happened when you were in hospital and Blake thought that I might be able to shed some light on it – that’s why I am here,’ he paused and looked up questioningly to Blake but the other man merely nodded and walked over to take up his favourite position in front of the fireplace.

  ‘You see, when you were first in hospital and still delirious, you talked a language that no one could recognise. That is when they sent for Blake. As you know, at the time of the accident you were holding a piece of paper that had his name on it, and they thought that there might be a connection. But he could not translate what you were saying, even though he has spent a lot of time in the East and has some working knowledge of a host of obscure dialects. However, some of the words, one name in particular, seemed familiar to him.’

  Her hand jerked under his, she did not want him to go on, did not want him to put into words the fears she had only just managed to keep at bay, so far.

  But, if Max spoke the word, said the name ... she tried to twist away, but Max took her hand again and retained it firmly in his own, as if to prepare her in some way for what he was about to say.

  ‘Meredith, these are your own words that you spoke when you first came round in the hospital, the words that Blake wrote down phonetically so that I might be able to trace what language you were talking.’

  Her eyes were riveted on his face. He looked away, groping hard for a way of breaking it to her gently. There was no way and he continued with difficulty.

  ‘We cannot be sure of course, but I have some knowledge in extinct languages and I believe that you were speaking in ancient Egyptian, the living tongue of the Pharaohs, that has not been heard for over a thousand years.’

  She was shocked into silence. The disquieting memories of another girl, in another time, came flooding back. Subsequent events had pushed these disturbing imagesto the back of her mind, but now she wondered again where they had come from, how could she feel the pain and grief of people who had died so long ago? With an effort, she closed her mind to the past and let common sense assert itself. They were just dreams, nightmares brought on by her injuries.

  As soon as he had finished talking, she had turned so white that Max had thought she was going to pass out. He turned to Blake in concern, but the other man was watching her like a hawk, and paid him no heed.

  The girl stared at Max fixedly for a long moment as if willing him to explain his extraordinary words, but when he was silent, she saw that they were waiting for her to throw some light on this astonishing statement.

  She was not prepared to discuss her private thoughts, they were too painful, and finally
she grew angry as they tried to explain to her how they could determine that a language that no one had actually ever heard spoken and which had passed from use many aeons ago, could still be identified. She would not listen, and did not try to understand. The implications, if they were right, were too appalling to be contemplated.

  ‘It cannot be true, it can’t! It is impossible, preposterous – I was delirious then, I was ill and confused and I do not believe you!’ Her voice was shrill and Max guessed that she was on the edge of hysteria. He was about to intervene, when she turned away from the two men, making a curious sweeping gesture of finality with the flat of her hand.

  Max’s argument was arrested in mid flow. He felt he had seen that profile and that gesture, frozen in time, on many different occasions in the course of his career.

  Usually depicted in tomb paintings, thousands of years old.

  Or was he letting his imagination get the better of him?

  Blake however did not seem to notice; he was intrigued, and fancied that the lady was protesting a tad too much. There were secret places in her mind that she was still not prepared to share with them.

  By now, all three protagonists had collapsed back into chairs in various attitudes of exhaustion, worn out by the strain of heated debate.

  There was a deep, drained silence, and then Blake raised his head.

  ‘Why were those men so frightened of your scarab necklace the other night?’ he asked casually with no emphasis in his voice, but he had spoken in fluent Arabic, and he saw with satisfaction her hand fly immediately to her throat.

  Her reaction was instinctive. Max was disarmed and dismayed at Amunet’s stricken expression, but not so the Professor, who leaped up with a triumphant roar and grabbing her shoulders, roughly pulled her to her feet.

  ‘I knew it! Now will you please come clean and tell us what all this is about, because you know, don’t you?’ he looked at her keenly, his eyes daring her to look away. ‘It was you at Alex’s place the other night, wasn’t it? No? Don’t want to talk? Well, I can assure you that I will get to the bottom of this with, or without your help!’ he promised her fiercely.