“You do fancy him!”
I sigh. Right. I admit defeat. Of course I fancy our new Egyptologist – not that there’s much mileage in it, given that every female with a pulse in the Henry Wellby Museum fancies Simon Welsh.
“Come on, babes, ask him out!” Susie urges. “He sounds perfect. After all, what are the chances of you ever meeting a fit guy who’s as obsessed with dead Egyptians as you are?”
She has a point. The odds of my winning the EuroMillions are probably higher – and I don’t even buy tickets. But ask Simon out? No way! Never! Imagine if he said no? Just thinking about how humiliating this would be makes my skin prickle with horror.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Chicken,” says Susie.
She’s right. I’m such a chicken it’s a miracle Colonel Sanders hasn’t coated me in eleven secret herbs and spices and served me up in a KFC Bargain Bucket. When it comes to guys I’m useless. Unlike Susie, who can flirt for England, I just get quieter and quieter. Men probably think I’m aloof, when the truth is I’m just shy.
Dr Simon Welsh is the newest addition to our department. I don’t think anyone’s arrival has ever caused such a stir at the Wellby. Not only does he have very recent field experience and an impressive list of published papers behind him, but he’s also exceptionally good-looking, in a dishevelled, stubbly sort of way. When Simon was introduced at his first department meeting, our Departmental Assistant, Dawn, was practically drooling all over the minutes and her eyelids were batting so much she looked deranged. Even our secretary looked flustered and gave him all the custard creams. I’d kept my face impassive and listened intently to Dr Welsh’s presentation – but I hadn’t heard a word because I’d been far too busy sneaking glimpses at those sleepy denim-blue eyes and that slow, sexy smile. When a lock of corn-coloured hair flopped across his face I’d had to practically sit on my hands to stop myself leaping forward to brush it away.
So for the past few weeks I’ve been a nervous wreck. I’ve done my best to avoid Simon, but on the few occasions we have met, my tongue’s turned itself into a pretzel and I’ve hardly been able to say a word. Which is ridiculous. I’m twenty-nine! Surely I’ll be back to normal soon?
“Anyway, never mind Simon,” continues Susie, who knows me well enough not to push the issue. “I’m your oldest friend and deserve some quality time. You even blew me out on my birthday last week, so you have some serious grovelling to do.”
“I was working!”
“That’s a crap excuse, but because I love you I’m going to let you off. On one condition.”
Susie’s conditions are not for the faint-hearted. The last one involved me tackling a pile of ironing so high that NASA could have used it for the Mars mission.
“Which is?”
My best friend reaches into her bag and pulls out two tickets. Passing one to me, she says quickly, “Annie from work got them for my birthday but she’s going away and I really don’t want to go on my own. Please come with me, Cleo! Please!”
“Lilac Delaney: An evening of clairvoyance and mediumship,” I read. “You have got to be joking.”
“Come on, Cleo, please! You’re always letting me down.”
“Just because I don’t always want to join in your social whirl doesn’t mean I’m letting you down. I pay all my bills and the rent on time, don’t I? And who bailed you out last month when you’d forgotten to pay the council tax and spent the money on some ridiculous new bag?”
“It was really funky,” mutters Susie sulkily.
“So you get a brand new bag and I get to pay the council tax? I think that makes me the world’s best flatmate.”
“You’d be an even better one if you came to see Lilac Delaney with me. What have you got to lose? It’s not as though you actually believe in any of it.” Susie narrows her blue eyes thoughtfully. “Unless you’re scared that something’ll happen and you’ll be proved wrong, Mrs I’m-Such-a-Sceptic.”
“Hardly,” I snort. “I just don’t want to see you get ripped off, that’s all. And before you say it, I know you believe this woman’s genuine, you poor deluded girl.”
“So prove me wrong? If we go and it’s total bollocks I promise I’ll agree with you, forever. I’ll never ever mention paranormal stuff again!”
Because this sounds too good to resist, I find myself agreeing to accompany her to see the famous psychic. All in the name of research, obviously. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind whatsoever that I’ll be proven right.
In twenty-nine years, the only thing that hasn’t let me down is my research.
Chapter 2
“Are you still here?” the security guard scolds. “It’s gone half eight. Haven’t you got a home to go to, Dr Carpenter?”
Ripping my attention away from my computer I’m amazed to discover the hours since three o’clock have melted away. The day has bled from the sky and now buttery lamplight spills from the Anglepoise, pooling across my notes and casting long shadows against the walls. The voices and footfalls of visitors faded away hours ago and quietness seeped into their absence, but absorbed in my work I hadn’t noticed.
“I’m so sorry, Tom. I didn’t realise it was so late.” I pull off my reading glasses and grind my knuckles into my eyes. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be out of here.”
“I don’t know why you don’t just move in,” the guard grumbles as he shuffles back into the corridor.
“It’s official. I have no life,” I say to a photograph of Aamon’s sarcophagus. “Maybe Susie has a point? I should get out more.”
Aamon doesn’t reply, of course, but the cheeky sloe-black painted eyes in the photo seem to follow me as I scoot around my office putting my books away and powering down my laptop.
“And what about this?” I wonder aloud, looking at the unfilled application for the Assistant Director’s job. “Shall I apply?”
The silence is heavy around me. Somewhere in the depths of the museum a door bangs and a draught sighs through the empty spaces; it breathes its way towards me, lifting the application forms from the desk and scattering them at my feet.
“If I was Susie I’d take that as a yes,” I laugh. Susie loves to imagine signs and spiritual interventions at every turn. Nothing so mundane as a draught driven by a slamming door for her: it would have been the spirit of a long-dead Egyptian telling me I should apply for the post.
How ridiculous!
I pick up the application forms and place them back on the desk. I’m ready for this promotion. I know I am. My research into Aamon is ground-breaking, and out of everyone in the department I’m by far the most qualified for the role. Or at least I was until Simon arrived. He’s the only member of the team who’s my equal, and even then I know my paper on Aamon, the Boy Pharaoh, gives me the edge. I wonder if Simon will apply too? And if he does, how will he feel about having some competition? We’ve hardly spoken – mostly because my vocal cords tend to do macramé whenever he’s about – but he strikes me as being ambitious and fiercely intelligent.
As well as drop-dead gorgeous, of course…
I need to get over this. And soon. Time to leave the building and have a few drinks with my best friend. Swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I cast a quick glance around the room and check everything’s in order. The mummified cat and Aamon are side by side on the examination bench. My microscope and reference books are returned neatly to the shelf and my collection of papyri is locked inside a special case. I find this little routine very satisfying because I do like to keep everything neat and in order. That’s not being anal, it’s being organised.
That’s odd. How come my wheelie chair is on the far side of the room rather than tucked neatly under my desk? I must have been scooting about on it at some stage and forgotten. It sounds crazy but I seem to do that a lot, move things around to bizarre locations without being conscious of it. That’s what happens when I get immersed in my research. Only yesterday I came to work and found all my pens stuck into a lump of Blu
Tack like a hedgehog. And the day before that, my ball of elastic bands was on top of the cupboard. I must have bounced it up there and forgotten.
Oh dear. Maybe Susie’s right and I am working too hard. Just as well I’m off clubbing to relieve the old intellectual stresses, then.
Shaking my head, I click off the lamp; inky fingers of darkness wrap themselves around the office. I lock the door, check it twice before pocketing the key, then slip into the Ancient World Gallery to make a handy shortcut to the stairs. The mummies slumber behind the polished glass and as I pass by I mentally tick each one off until I’m happy that they’re all present and correct in their carefully controlled environment. The stillness in the vaulted rooms and the dust falling silently through the air always soothes me after a busy day: the ancient peace is like a balm to my busy scuttling mind.
Creepy and crawling with ghosts? Hardly.
It’s my favourite place in the world.
Calling goodnight to the security guard, who secures the heavy door behind me, I step into the drizzly darkness and switch on my mobile. Seconds later text alerts are buzzing like wasps and I scroll through everything, unsurprised to see three texts from Susie and several answerphone messages. Crossing the road, my head bowed against the rain and with my hood pulled up, I listen to the messages and my heart plops into my loafers when Susie’s cheerful voice is followed by my dad’s quieter tones.
“Hello, darling, just wondering if you wanted to pop over for Sunday lunch? I thought I’d do a chicken and all the trimmings. I expect you’re very busy but I’d love to see you.” This is followed by a long pause and I imagine my father tugging his beard as he wonders what to say next. Then there’s a sigh before he continues, “I know this time of year is hard but, well… I just thought it might be nice. Take care, Cleo Rose.”
Oh Lord. How bad do I feel now? It’s not as though I’m avoiding him; I’ve just got so much on at the moment. There’s the job application to think about and an exhibition to start arranging, not to mention all the research on Aamon, which is starting to fall behind schedule. I really don’t have time to trek all the way to Buckinghamshire just for a roast chicken.
Battling guilt, and losing as usual, I arrive at Museum underground station and make my way down to the Piccadilly Line. It’s eerily quiet on the platform today. It’s that odd time of the evening when everyone’s either at home or busy out and about. They’re certainly not down here on the westbound platform, anyway. There’s a rumble of a distant Tube train, but apart from that it’s silent and the blind eye of the tunnel gapes into nothingness. I peer up at the neon announcements board and then return to my reading – but my mind keeps slipping away from the words. I know it’s silly but I feel on edge being alone down here now, rather than it being me and hundreds of other people. If I were Susie I’d think it was a spooky place, which of course would be absurd. It’s only a Tube station, even if it is all deserted and echoey.
Fascinating as my reading is, I can’t help glancing up when I hear footsteps approaching. There’s a second passenger now: a man in a black coat who’s walking towards me from the far end of the platform, his scuffed Doc Martens boots crunching through the litter as he mutters to himself. A weirdo. Just my luck. Surely he isn’t going to sit on my bench when there are three others to choose from?
I’m not going to make eye contact (I’m a Londoner using the Underground system and we don’t communicate with one another here), but I can’t help noticing a livid scar on his left cheek. He’s younger than I first thought too, and even though he’s balding his hands are matted with black hair. Hairy hands. Eugh.
I look away hastily and bury my nose back in my book, but it’s too late. He’s caught me staring.
“Are you looking at me?” he demands. His voice is harsh and as cracked as ancient papyri.
I swallow nervously and pretend not to hear.
“I said are you looking at me?” Heavy footfalls move nearer. Unease crawls over my skin.
Come on train. Hurry up. I don’t want to be left here with a weirdo. You hear all sorts of stories about flashers and stuff on the Tube.
The man draws alongside my bench and pauses. A tangy, citrusy scent fills the air, which surprises me. He looks grubby and unkempt, not the type to wallow in aftershave – especially not a sexy sharp fragrance like this.
I’m stereotyping, aren’t I? All those equality lectures I’ve attended seem to have gone right over my head. He looks like a weirdo and every nerve I possess is telling me to run, because something about him feels very wrong. There’s no logic to this whatsoever, but I just know he’s dangerous. Is he going to mug me for the eight quid in my purse and my museum pass? Or something worse?
Come on train! I thought Boris had improved the service?
For a terrifying moment it looks as though the man’s going to seat himself next to me. He even stops and looks down at the bench. My heart’s beating so loudly it seems to echo in the emptiness and I’m paralysed with fear, no more able to move than the bolted-down bench.
“Oh! Sorry!” A surprised expression crosses the man’s face and he raises his eyebrows. For a second confusion pleats his brow, then as abruptly as he arrived, he passes by, picking up speed as though keen to leave me behind. He can’t go away quickly enough for me. I know it sounds crazy, but if I had to describe him the word that springs to mind is evil.
But I’m getting carried away. I’ve watched too many episodes of CSI while up late working, that’s all. I’m being ridiculous. Still, ridiculous or not, I stare after him as he continues along the platform and I will him to keep going. He pauses momentarily, glancing over his shoulder at me and staring hard before turning sharp left and vanishing into the exit.
Thank God he’s gone. And brrr! I must have been worried because I feel chilled to the bone. Actually it’s really cold down here, so cold I can see my breath making puffy clouds, which is odd; it’s normally warmer down in the Underground than it is on the surface. Even more peculiar, my left shoulder feels especially icy. Maybe I have a cramp from being hunched up, or perhaps it’s a result of feeling so on edge.
Breathe, Cleo, breathe. It’s OK now. He’s gone and the platform is starting to fill with other passengers. What a silly overreaction. First of all Christmas rage in a coffee shop, and now this. Maybe I do need a holiday; I must be way more stressed than I’d realised. For a moment there I’d really thought…
Actually, I don’t know what I’d thought. It was more a feeling of creeping unease. Just a daft illogical feeling. Susie would call it a sixth sense, whereas I would say I read too many newspapers and have seen too many episodes of Crimewatch. There’s always a logical explanation if you look for it.
A rush of stale air announces the imminent arrival of my train and, sure enough, moments later it rumbles out of the tunnel, all yellow lights and crowds of commuters. The doors hiss open and I’m relieved to abandon my lonely bench for the fug of the carriage. Finding a seat and settling into it, I shake my head at my unusual reaction. So a man walked past and looked at me. Big deal.
I return to my reading. I may as well use the journey to get some more work done. With any luck, concentrating on ancient history will make me feel much more like my usual self.
My plan works. By the time my train arrives at Ealing Common the stranger on the platform couldn’t be further from my mind; the only evidence I ever saw him are the eight red crescent moons my nails scored into my palms.
Chapter 3
It’s a Monday afternoon and I’m sitting at my desk studying a CT scan of Aamon. Lunchtime’s been and gone but the cheese roll I picked up from the café remains uneaten in its wrapper. The greasy stain on the brown paper puts me off and, anyway, I’m way too busy to eat. I can’t remember ever feeling so absorbed by a subject. Aamon’s mummified body has never been removed from the cartonnage and it’s awesome to be one of the first people to see what’s within, after thousands of years. So far the scan’s revealed the presence of amulets and art
ificial eyes within the wrappings, and has enabled me to estimate Aamon’s age at between eight and thirteen. But there’s so much more to discover and I can’t think about stopping yet. My grandmother led the team that discovered the tomb; it’s always been my dream to finish her work, and my mother’s research on this too.
I’m just returning my attention to the scan when a sheaf of papers drifts off my desk and onto the floor. That draught is so annoying. I must get something done about it before my notes get well and truly muddled. It keeps catching the chair and making it spin too, which is very distracting. Making a mental note to speak to maintenance, I get back to work, alternately jotting notes onto my pad and chewing thoughtfully on the end of my pencil. Every now and then the chair squeaks or a biro rolls onto the floor, making me jump. It would be worth getting the promotion just to secure a draught-free office.
A loud knock on my door makes me start. All the creaks and noises here are putting me off my work.
“Come in,” I say. I hope it isn’t Simon coming to have a chat. He tried to do this earlier and I had to make a swift excuse about being needed in the Ancient World Gallery. I dread making a fool of myself in front of him; Simon looks at me with such intensity that when he’s near the articulate Dr Cleo vanishes and I’m right back to my gawky teenage alter ego. Until I figure out a way of banishing her, my only tactic is to avoid him. Unfortunately this is proving to be pretty tricky because he’s constantly seeking me out on the strangest pretexts. It’s a nightmare.
Dead Romantic Page 2
