Dark Terrors 6 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  The archaeologist blinked owlishly, as if not quite sure how to react. The captain spoke like an educated man, but looked like a ruffian. He looked him up and down, taking in his vaguely piratical air, single, incongruously blue eye, crumpled suit of unbleached cloth and collar-less shirt - Ruivo himself wore not only a neatly knotted tie but a coat and waistcoat as well, even if they were of lightweight fabric - and suggested, ‘The local beer is quite refreshing, especially after a dusty ride.’ Dusty, yes, that was one way of describing it.

  ‘Fine,’ said Da Silva, ignoring the other man’s scrutiny, though beer was not normally his first choice. He knew better than to ask for water. Ruivo, who did not seem overly affected by the blistering heat, gestured for him to take a seat under a canvas canopy and he ducked under the flap. The captain was not a tall man, but it was the sort of thing that you instinctively think is going to be too low. Having once met a doorway that smacked him on the forehead, he was prepared to err on the side of caution.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to my colleague,’ the archaeologist said from behind him as a dapper Egyptian in a suit almost as creased as Da Silva’s, but of infinitely better cut, half-rose to his feet and gave a small bow. ‘Senhor Doutor Hassan El-Aqman, of the University of Cairo. El-Aqman,’ he switched to English, ‘this is Captain Da Silva.’

  ‘Sabáhil khayr,’ Da Silva said, and shook hands, noticing as he did so that the Egyptian was missing the top of his middle finger. El-Aqman smiled broadly, showing a mouthful of extremely white teeth. He had delicate features, almost like a girl’s, but his voice, when he spoke, was exceptionally deep.

  ‘You speak Arabic, Captain; how pleasant to meet a European so cosmopolitan.’

  Da Silva, who spoke a number of languages, returned the smile — somewhat less expansively - and was endeavouring to think up some pleasantry when he was interrupted by Ruivo. The archaeologist had relinquished his hat, revealing a bald scalp fringed with white hair like a monk’s tonsure.

  ‘And here is my other colleague,’ he announced, adding to someone unseen, ‘do come and meet Captain Da Silva.’

  On the point of sitting down, Da Silva resumed the vertical as a dark-haired young woman bent her head to come under the awning, and he wished once more that he had bothered to shave earlier. He wiped his sweaty palm hastily on his trousers.

  ‘May I present Miss Phoebe Hardy,’ said Ruivo. Miss Hardy had straight black brows and a strong face, and was clad in a man’s shirt, waistcoat and trousers. The sight was sufficiently arresting for Da Silva to picture his wife similarly dressed, and enjoy the image. She held out a tanned hand, and proved to have a firm grip.

  ‘Hello, Captain,’ she said in a strong American accent.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he replied. ‘You’re from Boston, I think?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ she said, a little surprised. ‘You have a very good ear, Captain.’ Helped by a second mate from that city, he thought, but merely smiled.

  Miss Hardy sat down, thus giving everyone else leave to do the same, and Da Silva took off his jacket and bundled it under his chair. He rather wished he could take off the damp shirt as well, an idea that amused him. People were still remarkably straight-laced, though there had at least been some improvement in that since the turn of the century. Spending most of his life at sea gave a slightly different perspective on the purpose of clothing. He decided to roll up his sleeves instead, and unfastened his cuffs without looking down.

  The introductions complete, Ruivo called for refreshments and beamed round at everyone, clasping his bony hands around one knee. His air of bonhomie was not nearly sufficient to mask the tension under the canopy, and Da Silva wondered exactly what was going on. He decided to let them tell him in their own time, however, since the heat was like an oven now, and he contemplated what remained of his cheroot. There didn’t seem to be another drag left in it, so he ground it out on his boot-sole.

  ‘So,’ he said, raising an eyebrow at Ruivo, ‘what does everyone do here?’ And looked round at the others.

  ‘Miss Hardy is our resident artist,’ the archaeologist explained, still beaming, ‘and Dr El Aqman lends his expertise and makes sure that no artefacts find their ways into places they shouldn’t.’ His smile became rather forced as he said this, a fact which was not lost on Da Silva. Ah, he thought, so that’s it. I’m to be asked to do a spot of smuggling. Now he could sit back and enjoy the show. He rubbed at the scar on his cheekbone and crossed his legs, only to uncross them a moment later due to accumulated humidity.

  Drinks arrived on a tray carried by an urchin with one arm in a grubby plaster cast, some species of fruit juice or sherbet for El-Aqman and beer for the other three. The glasses were all cold enough to come beaded with moisture, Da Silva noticed. Not quite all the comforts of home, he observed, but a few of them, all the same. He took a long drink of the beer, which proved a little watery but thirst-quenching, perhaps because of that. After this the Egyptian doctor pulled out a gold cigarette-case and offered it round. Miss Hardy took one, but Ruivo declined, as did Da Silva, preferring his own smokes. Cigarettes, even Egyptian ones, were pretty tasteless in comparison. He accepted a light from El-Aqman, though.

  He would quite happily have sat there for the rest of the day, but apparently was not to be allowed to do this. The company, having consumed its refreshments and made small talk, broke up, leaving only Ruivo sitting with him.

  The archaeologist, showing the first sign of being affected by the furnace heat, took out a limp handkerchief and wiped his face, which reminded Da Silva of his own discomfort. As if I need reminding, he thought damply, sticking a finger under his eyepatch to try and let some air in.

  ‘Why am I here, Senhor Ruivo?’ he asked.

  Ruivo laughed nervously, the humourless reflex of embarrassment, and fixed his gaze on Da Silva’s eyepatch. ‘Because you can see ghosts.’

  Well, that’s the last thing I expected, the Captain thought in surprise. ‘I suppose you got that from Jorge Coelho?’ he asked, scratching his eyebrow. Who I will definitely strangle now.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruivo. ‘Is it true?’ He looked at Da Silva curiously, perhaps looking for some sign of feyness. The captain laughed shortly.

  ‘If that’s what you want, I’d look a damn fool coming all this way if it weren’t,’ he retorted. ‘Though if you have some idea of getting me to locate tombs for you, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. It doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘Oh, er, no,’ the older man said, looking thunderstruck, as if he wished he had thought of that. He dropped his gaze to his hands, twining and untwining in his lap. ‘It’s just that a … colleague of mine, ah, borrowed some artefacts we unearthed, and then had a heart attack before he could return them.’

  Borrowed. And there was I thinking you wanted me to do some smuggling, thought Da Silva, taking hold of a handful of damp shirt from over his ribs and flapping it ineffectually. I do apologise. ‘And what do you want me to do?’ he asked aloud, simply for the rather malicious enjoyment of watching Ruivo squirm.

  ‘Well, we, er, I, wondered if there was any way you could, you know, ask him what he did with them.’

  Da Silva had known it was coming, and liked the idea no better for that. Seeing the dead was one thing. He did it all the time. Summoning them to ask them questions, however, he found distasteful. It meant not only commanding them, but literally binding them to his will. And that smacked too much of slavery for him to be comfortable with it. He had had too much first-hand experience of slavery for that. Nineteen years of it. And though the man was five years dead now, it was a legacy he couldn’t easily shake off.

  ‘You do realise I would have to be at your colleague’s grave to do that?’ he asked, half-hoping to hear that the deceased had been shipped home for burial.

  But the archaeologist gave another of his nervous laughs and said, ‘Actually I have his ashes here, will that do?’

  Good God, thought Da Silva, raising his eyebrows; these peopl
e aren’t just grave-robbers, they’re ghouls. ‘Yes, that would do,’ he said, trying for nonchalance, but unsure how far he succeeded. ‘How is it you happen to have his ashes?’

  ‘He was my brother,’ Ruivo explained hastily, a little intimidated by the captain’s expression. ‘He wanted them scattered out here, so I, er, postponed the scattering for a while.’

  ‘Pragmatic,’ remarked Da Silva, amused, taking out another cheroot and contemplating it. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Well, I’d also like you to supervise our small shipment to Lisbon, of course, after all, we did charter your vessel. I want it packed properly for the voyage - I don’t trust these river pirates to do that.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed the captain gravely. Why else would I trek all this way down the damned Nile, if not for that? Unable, for the moment, to find a light, he snapped his fingers at the hovering boy and said, ‘Kabrít.’ The urchin grinned hugely, and instead of matches produced an enormous American cigarette lighter. He flipped it open with a flourish and produced a flame big enough to roast an ox. Da Silva smiled back, allowed the lad to light his cheroot, and handed him another in return.

  Ruivo watched disapprovingly as the boy stowed it in his robes. ‘You really shouldn’t encourage these children to smoke,’ he said sternly. Da Silva shrugged.

  ‘I don’t think he needs any encouragement from me.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Ruivo agreed, adding in a surprisingly tolerant tone, ‘Different ways, that’s all.’ He fell silent, staring out at the shimmering desert. It was the hottest part of the day, and nothing was stirring. The heat was a nearly tangible thing: it even had its own scent, the smell of roasted dust. It was almost difficult to breathe. Da Silva, looking out as well, found now that he really couldn’t tell the difference between ghosts and heat-haze, shuddering over the sand. The desert stretched away into the distance, clean as a bleached skeleton, inhospitable and totally alien.

  ‘Nothing at all from here clear to the Atlantic,’ he remarked, clearing sweat out of his eyebrows with a finger, ‘except sand.’

  ‘It’s not your first visit to Egypt, I presume?’ the archaeologist enquired lazily. Even he looked hot now, and seemed content to sit in the sweltering airless shade.

  ‘My first down this far,’ Da Silva replied. And my last, I hope. ‘Put into Alexandria and Port Said a few times. Visited the Pyramids, of course, years ago now, gawked like a tourist.’

  ‘Well, they are, of course, eminently gawkable,’ Ruivo agreed. ‘Soldats, songez que, du haut de ces pyramides, quarante siècles vous contemplent.”‘

  ‘Forty centuries look down on you,’ repeated Da Silva, the words running cold down his back despite the day’s heat. ‘Who are you quoting?’

  ‘Napoleon,’ said Ruivo. ‘A man who was actually so sensitive to history that he had his soldiers use the Sphinx for target practice.’

  Da Silva laughed, amused. ‘And our own countrymen have shown consideration and sensitivity in the colonies, I suppose?’ He exhaled deeply, and, to his surprise, achieved a spontaneous smoke-ring. This feat was sufficiently startling to engage his attention for a minute.

  ‘About talking to Valentim—’ the archaeologist ventured, running a finger inside his collar. His face glistened moistly.

  ‘Valentim being your brother?’

  ‘Just so. When - what would be a good time?’

  ‘Any time you like,’ said Da Silva, and laughed at the other’s expression. ‘Truly. I’m not a spiritualist, Senhor Ruivo. I don’t need any props; it doesn’t even need to be dark. All I need to know is, did your brother dabble in magic at all, as far as you know?’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, I’m not actually sure,’ Ruivo said at last. ‘I would have said yes. It’s the sort of thing he would try, although he was very much the sceptic in many ways. Why do you ask?’

  Because in that case I’ll need some of your blood, thought Da Silva, reluctant to spring that information on the other man out of the blue. He could have used his own, of course, but the damned ghost was Ruivo’s brother. And blood calls to blood. That never changes.

  His mouth was dry from smoking, and tasted of dust. ‘Is there any more of that beer?’ he asked, and Ruivo waved the boy to fetch some. He wasn’t accustomed to drinking much during the day, but it wasn’t as if the beer was very high in alcohol. Tasted like cat’s piss anyway. A nice Portuguese red, though … would have sent him straight to sleep, he knew.

  The urchin hurried off with alacrity, probably hoping to be rewarded with another cheroot - he had, Da Silva observed, already smoked the one he’d given him earlier.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Ruivo suddenly, and got to his feet. And where would I go? the captain thought, rubbing his unshaven chin, which felt decidedly grubby. The archaeologist clapped his battered straw hat back on his head and stooped to go out into the scorching, sun. Da Silva fidgeted in the canvas chair, trying to shift his damp clothes from his sweaty skin, and watched his progress, struck again by his oddly avian gait, remembering pictures he had seen of bird-headed ancient Egyptian gods. He lifted his eyepatch and tried to blow air upwards. Nothing seemed to work. Everything was sticky, sandy, slick with perspiration. The dusty wind stirred the sand in little whorls without cooling the air.

  No flies, he thought suddenly. Not even mosquitoes. Too damned hot for them, I suppose. He frowned at the idea of mosquitoes. In all his years of voyaging to tropical coasts he had somehow managed to avoid malaria, and at forty-four he did not want to start now. Oh well. There wasn’t much he could do if he did get bitten when evening came, and he scratched pensively at his right ankle in reflex.

  Ruivo reappeared, carrying a wooden box which presumably held his brother’s ashes, and Da Silva sighed at the idea of moving. On the other hand, though, perhaps he could get this over and done with and return to the comparative comfort of Luxor. Although even that, unfortunately, would involve getting on a camel again. Perhaps he could hire a horse instead, or even a mule.

  Exhaling explosively, he picked up his discarded headcloth and mopped his face and neck again, annoyed to think that he hadn’t taken advantage of the other man’s absence to remove his eyepatch entirely, even if temporarily. At that moment, the urchin materialised at his elbow with a fresh glass, and Da Silva passed him a cheroot.

  ‘Shokran,’ the boy said, and made to resume his squatting position in the shade just outside, but the captain chased him away. He did not want him to witness a ghost being raised. God knew what sort of a to-do that might cause. Then he picked up the glass and drank most of the beer in one long draught. That was a little better. Not much, but a little.

  ‘Here,’ Ruivo’s voice made him turn as the archaeologist ducked under the canvas - he actually needed to - and placed the box he was carrying carefully on the table. ‘Now, do I need to open it?’

  ‘No,’ said Da Silva, still reluctant, and ran his fingers through his damp hair. ‘You want to do this now, then?’

  ‘Why not? You said we didn’t need to wait until evening.’

  Da Silva nodded, fiddling with his eyepatch. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ As he got to his feet he realised he had never raised a ghost in front of witnesses before. It made him a little apprehensive. ‘Do you want your colleagues here?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Ruivo hastily. So he hadn’t told them, then. ‘Now, do you need anything else?’

  ‘A drop of your blood, I’m afraid,’ Da Silva answered, remembering occasions when he had had to slice into his own arm with his knife, and winced. ‘Do you think you can stab your finger, or something?’

  The archaeologist looked alarmed, and stared down at his hands. ‘I don’t know.’ He took out a pocket-knife and opened the blade, then shook his head. ‘Here, you’d better do it, if that’s what you need.’

  ‘Put your hand flat on the table.’ Ruivo complied. ‘What was your brother’s full name?’

  ‘His full name? Valentim Joao - ouch!’ The archaeologist jerked back as Da Si
lva stabbed his thumb with the small blade. Both men watched the blood welling out for a second, then Ruivo lifted his hand from the table and squeezed the small wound.

  A drop of blood fell on the box, and then another. ‘Valentim Joao Ruivo,’ said Da Silva softly, remembering other times, other ghosts, and something unidentifiable made him shiver. From the startled expression in the other man’s eyes, he felt it too.

  In front of the table, in the breathless desert heat, a shadowy figure began to form, at first indistinguishable from a heat-haze, but then taking shape rapidly and beginning to solidify - no, not exactly solidify, thought Da Silva, wiping a hand over his face, that was the wrong word. It steadied, wavered less, but failed to gain plasticity. It faded in and out of existence, now almost substantial, now spectral.

  ‘Valentim—’ began Ruivo. The ghost turned to him, reaching out a semi-transparent hand, and his brother held out his own, blood still oozing from the thumb. Ghosts and living people could not touch, but as phantom hand met real one and passed through it, through the blood of his brother, there was a sound like soft thunder, and Valentim Ruivo’s ghost took on the semblance of reality, like a photograph in a developing tray. He looked entirely real, except for an almost imperceptible haziness round the edges.

  ‘Manoel?’ he said. There was nothing spectral about his voice. It sounded remarkably like his brother’s.

  ‘Where’s the papyrus?’ Ruivo asked, before Da Silva could speak. The ghost shook his head, seeming distressed.

  ‘You cannot refuse to answer me, Valentim Joao Ruivo,’ Da Silva interrupted, and at the sound of the name, the ghost’s head snapped round to face him.

  ‘Don’t make me answer,’ he said. ‘It’s better you don’t find it again,’ and an expression of pain passed across the phantom face.

  ‘What do you mean?’ his brother demanded.

  ‘Disaster,’ whispered the ghost. ‘Disaster all round. I can’t say any more.’ A cold fist seemed to squeeze Da Silva’s heart.