by A. L. Knorr
The last words caught in my throat, but I forced them out, a bright promise I’d do anything to keep.
Uncle Iry’s brilliant smile was worth it. “I can’t wait for that day, Ibby. Tell me, how is the internship going?”
Chapter Two
The alarm buzzed angrily near my ear. I swatted clumsily at my phone, knocking it onto the floor, where the buzz became a rattle.
Half-groaning, half-snarling I threw myself over the edge of my mattress to snag the nasty thing. Sleep-numbed fingers fumbled at the snooze button as one bleary eye glared at the screen. The alarm quit as the display kicked my sluggish brain into action.
7:30am
I was late. Very late.
I didn’t notice what time I’d logged off after talking to Uncle Iry, but it had been much longer than usual. His new job with Greater Nile had made him confident enough to splurge, and how could I say no? When we finally logged off, I’d barely managed to remove the headset before collapsing onto my mattress.
I sat up, rubbing at my face and willing my sleep-deprived brain to work. Was there any way to get to work on time?
On a good day, I’d be out the door by 6:40am to reach Mile End by 7am, where I could take the Central line to Tottenham Court Road. That put me inside the museum by 7:40am. Early enough even for a miserable busybody like Shelton.
On a desperate day, I’d scramble to Stepney Green, ride the Hammersmith & City line to Liverpool Street, take Central to Holborn and then run like mad. That would give me a chance of coming in the back doors, where Eddy, the porter, would let me in on the sly. I could swipe in and get down to Collections before Shelton came to berate me. When he’d stick his beaky nose into the sorting room, I’d greet him with a cheery “good morning!” and he’d slink away to criticise someone else.
I was well past that point.
My hands slid from my face to my temples where I squeezed an ache that ran from my scalp to somewhere behind my eyes.
I was going to be late. Shelton was going to tell me off, that glimmer of hideous joy in his eyes the whole time. There was no way around it.
With one more groan, I set to getting ready, thankful my hair was already up in braids from the night before. I set the kettle to boil and took a shower that was too fast to be either warm or relaxing, before setting my coffee to percolate. The good thing about working in Collections is that my wardrobe choices are simple. Dark slacks, an understated top and a drab uniform jacket with an ID badge hanging from the lapel.
I nabbed my bag and coffee in one fell swoop and didn’t bother to check myself in the mirror. Shelton would have to have it out with me as I was.
Walking at a brisk stride to Mile End, I descended into the incessantly loud and busy world of the London Underground. The soundtrack of east London’s poorer district was a mishmash of centuries-old cockney drawls among Hindi dialects and a host of other tongues. It was the background music of my entire life. My parents had never gotten used to it, but I was a born Londoner. The hum of the underground was like an old wool blanket. Scratchy in places, but oh so familiar.
I let myself fall into that blanket as I took a textbook out of my bag. Commuters around me texted, read, listened to music. London’s underground even had wi-fi these days for those who bought service from the bigger telecom companies. I thumbed through my books while the Central line rolled on. I examined an explanation of how metal artefacts can tell an observant archaeologist not only ‘when’ something was made, but ‘where,’ right down to the hill or crag it was mined from. This in turn revealed much about the people who made it, their technology, their place in human history. A few trace elements here, a few surveys there and a single item could reshape what we understood about people alive hundreds or thousands of years ago.
It was like magic, and I loved it.
It was why I was interning at the museum but also why I was frustrated to be shunted into Collections instead of Cataloguing. I wanted to examine artefacts, assess their traits, check their provenance, even put something under an electron microscope. Rocks, metals, stones — they’d fascinated me since I was a child, and the older, the better. As I’d matured, my interests honed. Detective work, almost forensic intersection of archaeology and geology, had fascinated me since the beginning of grammar school.
In Collections, I organised boxes and punched numbers into a computer. Dry as dust. The museum’s selection of antiquities was vast, and they constantly rotated exhibits from their archives to the floor and back again. It was the job of my department to handle the paperwork, ensuring nothing was misfiled or lost. It wasn’t that the work didn’t have significance. After all, misplacing a box full of ancient artefacts was tragic, but it was the sort of work a trained monkey could do. Check the number on your screen, check the number on the box, check the seal, stamp it. Repeat.
I was nearing a year of this drudgery without ever getting to actually handle the artefacts. If it weren’t for some of my classes, I might not have experience with them at all.
I looked up from my book, pushing away gloomy thoughts, to see my stop was next. I checked my phone for the time.
8:22am
I packed up, squared my shoulders and hopped off at Tottenham Court Road. I was going to face Adrian Shelton with my head held high.
That attitude lasted until I reached the security desk at the front staff entrance. Tariq, one of the two porters stationed there, gave a pitying glance as I swiped in.
“Careful, Miss Ibby. Dr Shelton is on the prowl, and he is hungry.”
My shoulders sagged. I didn’t think of myself as a pushover. After all, I grew up in the East End, but exhaustion paired with latent anxiety over Uncle Iry was taking its toll. Shelton suddenly seemed like Goliath, and I was no David.
A rat of anxiety scampered through my mid-section as I glanced around the lobby and leaned towards Tariq. He caught my eye and rocked forwards to share in a brief conspiracy.
“Any chance you know where he’s prowling right now?” I murmured.
Tariq looked sideways at his fellow porter, a man we knew only as McPhee, who shrugged and returned to staring at his monitor. Tariq inched a little closer.
I wondered randomly — is my coffee breath as bad as the porter’s?
“He asked us to inform him the second you showed up, then he made for the administrative offices.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Probably sharpening his canines. You know how much he loves blood, fresh from the jugular.”
I fought the urge to stare towards the left-hand corridor in dread anticipation. My voice went up an octave. “When was that?”
Tariq looked over at McPhee, who didn’t look away from his screen but helpfully held up four fingers. Tariq nodded, understanding the taciturn porter’s shorthand.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
I winced. He could be anywhere by now. About to come around the corner, lying in wait next to the elevator, crouching in my corner, ready to pounce. I began to better appreciate the paranoia of citizens from dictatorial countries. In moments like these, my life was full of terror and uncertainty. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for the axe to fall.
McPhee gave a warning grunt. “Incoming.”
Tariq swivelled in his chair as we stared at McPhee. A vibration came from my pocket, but I ignored my phone, palms sweating.
A sharp tongue with a Scottish accent sounded at my back, and I jumped.
“Ms Bashir, how nice of you to join us this morning,” Shelton oozed. “I had to check my watch to make sure it was still morning.”
My heart took off aimlessly like a startled hare as Tariq and I made eye contact. So much white showed in his eyes, it was almost comical. Even Tariq, who’d worked here for years, was still afraid of Adrian Shelton.
Plastering on my best contrite look, I turned around to face my doom, head low and hands behind my back.
Tall, freckled and as stiff as his starched suit coat was Dr Adrian Shelton. If ever a man exuded self-importance, it was he
, glaring down at me through wire-rimmed spectacles. His thin lips pressed into something that was neither smile nor sneer but something in between.
Assurances to never be late again would only meet with sneers, and an excuse or justification was like putting blood in the water.
“Good morning, sir. I apologise for my tardiness.”
Dr Shelton brushed aside my words with a disdainful lift of his chin. “I see you are not satisfied with simply shirking your responsibilities, but you have seen fit to enlist these men into an attempted cover-up.” His accusatory eye now included the porters.
In my periphery, I watched as McPhee and Tariq shared a stricken look. It seemed Shelton had more than enough grief to go around this morning. Tariq’s mouth opened to refute the accusation, but I got there first.
“You have nothing to worry about, Dr Shelton. These men remain as incorruptible as ever.”
I used my hidden hand to give both men a secret thumbs up, as a little fighting spirit stirred in my chest. If Shelton wanted to rake me over the coals, that was fine. Uncle or no, I was late for work, and I’d take whatever he had for me. But going after two who were little more than bystanders was bullying, plain and simple. I had as much tolerance for bullying in the workplace as I did when I saw it in the schoolyard, and if Ian Cooper’s nose was any evidence, that tolerance was zero.
“That remains to be seen.” Shelton glared at the men. “For now, I still have your irresponsible behaviour to deal with.”
At least Shelton seemed intent on wearing himself out on me first. That small victory gave me a dangerous boost in confidence.
“The best thing would be to send me straight downstairs, sir.” I pointed to the elevator, in case he worried I’d forgotten how to get to the basement. “With any luck, I can be caught up by noon.”
Shelton’s watery-blue eyes glinted dangerously at my tone. I’d overstepped. It felt good momentarily, but the nasty grin spreading across his face made me queasy.
“As your supervisor, I will determine what is best, but by all means, please head to your station. I’ll make sure you have no lack of opportunity to catch up, but first I’ll need to return to the administrative offices and make a note in your file.”
I refused to let him see how much that actually hurt. A demerit in my file could come back to haunt me, especially when I needed to find real work in the field. I nodded diffidently. “Will that be all, Dr Shelton?”
Shelton flapped a dismissive hand. “Run along, Ms Bashir, you’re appallingly behind in your duties. Perhaps, the work will give you time to clear your head for the conversation you will undoubtedly have with your Proctor.”
I’d begun to go, one foot back and shoulders turning, but his words spun me around like a slap across the face. Proctor? He was really going to go to the university over this? A bad note in my file was one thing, but a call to the academic discipline was another. The museum and the uni worked in close concert, and that meant such a call could have far-reaching consequences. Depending on how grossly I was mischaracterised, I could see sanction or even expulsion from the programme.
I met Shelton’s glare, daring me to say something, anything he could use against me. Only thinking of Uncle Iry kept me from giving him what he wanted and more besides.
“Very good, sir. I should get going then.”
He almost seemed disappointed by my response.
I felt Tariq and McPhee’s pitying eyes on me as I strode towards the elevators, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I was trying to hold everything together. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to break Shelton’s nose or burst into tears.
Uncle Iry, I reminded myself. For him. For being a family again.
I swiped for the elevator and was granted the small mercy of not having to wait more than a few seconds for the doors to slide open. A tall, silver-haired gentleman in wire-rimmed spectacles straight out of the thirties stepped off, giving me a curious look that I ignored.
Stepping inside, I refused to look at anything but the console. The doors shut. The elevator came to life with a little jump, and I slumped against the back of the compartment. My hands tightened around the handrail, squeezing until my fingers popped and my palms ached. I released the rail with a shuddering sigh and remembered my phone.
Reflexively, I drew it out and swiped the screen on.
Message: Jackie D.
Hey darling, u still up for a nite at the Hen w/ ur besty? Pls, I NEED to c u!
A string of pictures of various mammals with imploring eyes followed the text, and despite everything I’d just gone through, I found myself smiling, just a little. I punched out a response, thankful that the museum wi-fi was among the best available. The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open. Stepping out, I hit reply.
Sure. I need some fun.
By the time I reached my dark little corner, a trio of animated fireworks blitzed across my screen.
Luv, that’s what I’m all about!!! XOXO, C u at 8!
Jackie and I had been friends since starting uni together. If I’d learned anything about her, it was that — she’d spoken truly — fun was what she was all about. In all the best and worst ways. I wasn’t sure a night out with her was what I should do, but right then, it was what I needed.
Chapter Three
The floor that comprised Collections was called the dungeon, even though it was not the lowest level of the museum. It might have been because the whole floor was perpetually dark, only little islands of light pooled at each workstation. It could also have been because anyone who was unlucky enough to work down here had the same expectations as any prisoner; going nowhere fast.
I found the light switch for my station and gave a groan as my desk was flooded with light. I had thought Dr Shelton was just being mean when he’d said I was appallingly behind in my work. Turned out he knew something I didn’t.
True to form, Dr Shelton had shunted full exhibits from two departments to me. They sat in disorderly piles on stainless steel trollies, lined up like a fleet of bad news bombers. One was labelled French Revolution; Continental History, while the other stated Updates; Archives.
That was a dirty one on Shelton’s part — sending me bits from Archives. The pieces from Archives weren’t being considered for an exhibit and had done nothing but sit since the last time they were processed. It was a formality. It allowed the records department to feel satisfied that no one had run off with a potsherd or lead bearing. Besides being useless, they were also notorious for being hard to process. Most of the forgotten pieces in Archives had no entry in the computer system. They might even be labelled under a different classification than what was on their dusty storage containers. It meant I’d more than likely have to go through the laborious business of creating a whole new entry.
As I said, Shelton is a git.
I pulled up my stool and turned on the computer tower and monitor. The whirr of an ancient fan fought to keep the crotchety processor cool. The monitor blinked SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL for a moment, and the status light changed from orange to green as the system began to boot up.
That was a relief.
Sometimes, the decades-old computers we used would refuse to work at all, stalling like stubborn mules, quitting halfway up a mountain trail. If the computer’s connection to the museum's network was disturbed by one of its microchips giving a geriatric cough, you could lose the entire entry and have to start over.
In a word: tedious. I’d been doing this for months, and — if this morning was any indication — I would be doing it for many months more.
After the computer had finally primed, I pulled up the Collections menu and found the Updates directory. The window soon filled with row after row of items. A quick glance had me stifling a moan of despair. Many of them bore old designations from before the latest updates to the system. As I eyed the boxes, I wondered if I would have time to slip out for my afternoon lectures with this much work ahead of me.
My father’s mantra gave me the impetus
to quit moping and get to work: no job was ever finished by crying about it.
Walking over to the farthest trolley, I grabbed the first box and lugged it to my desk.
Even though he was a damn fine automotive mechanic, he spent almost every day since coming to the UK in the lowest paying, most menial jobs available. Every employer assumed because of Sudan’s poverty and troubled history my father’s credentials were either worthless or an outright lie. For all that though, he never complained in front of me, and he always said he was happy to work any job if it fed his family.
Family was all that mattered, and so for my family or what was left of it, I processed that stack. Then the next stack and the next. Soon they would need to be rolled down to Archives for filing. The thought of being able to escape from behind my computer screen, even for fifteen minutes, gave me a fresh burst of motivation.
I was so enthused by the thought of even a short break I failed to pay attention to how crowded my station was getting.
My elbow clipped one of the last three boxes. I watched — helpless — as it skidded across the desk to teeter at the very edge. I was already moving, but not fast enough. The box hit the floor with a heavy crunch. The seal broke, and black powder exploded outwards.
An instant later, the whole floor went dark. The lack of unhappy murmurs from the other stations meant I was working through lunch and hadn’t even noticed. As though to chastise me for this, my stomach gave a loud grumble.
The utter black was a shock, but a moment later, I dug my phone out of my pocket. Power fluctuations were as common down here as was the gossip in the admin office. Someone, somewhere had overtaxed the system. We were the first to feel the backlash. I sometimes wondered if the whole bloody thing was designed that way. After all, our work was the least important. On any other day, I might have sat there and waited, but I had too much to do, and now I also had a mess to clean up.
