Dead Romantic (3 page)

“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 artificial 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.

Luckily the head peeking round the door isn’t Simon’s golden one but belongs to Dawn, the department’s assistant and all-round dogsbody, who has the unenviable task of conducting school tours around the department dressed as an Egyptian. Today she’s in full Cleopatra mode, complete with a jet-black wig and white robes that almost conceal the billowing body underneath.

“Sorry to interrupt, Cleo. I did try calling but your phone isn’t working again.”

I glance across the office to the black Bakelite phone which, according to rumour, once belonged to our museum’s founder himself, Henry Wellby the renowned Egyptologist. The phone is certainly old, like most of the furniture and fittings in the Wellby, but I don’t believe this story for a second. Henry Wellby, famous for his archaeological work in the 1920s when he discovered the famous lost city of Nephet, surveys us all from the portrait hanging in the museum’s entrance concourse. A portly gentleman with a bushy ginger moustache and shrewd blue eyes, he looks to me like the type who’d have the good sense to bin a phone with a receiver that continually falls off the hook.

“The phone must be on the blink again.” Leaving my desk I replace the receiver in the cradle. “I don’t know why it always does that.”

Dawn’s eyes flicker nervously. “It’s the cursed phone, isn’t it? The one Mr Wellby used? Is it true it’s cursed because of Tutankhamun?”

Oh Lord. Here we go again. What I should mention about Dawn is that she’s utterly credulous, falling hook, line and sinker for all the museum myths about moving exhibits and pharaohs’ curses, which I once overheard her repeating to a group of open-mouthed visitors. I had to have a sharp word with her about that. The Wellby might be smaller than the British Museum or the Ashmolean, but it is a highly respected place of learning and discovery, not the latest setting of
Totally Spooked
.

“Dawn,” I say patiently. “Henry Wellby was nothing to do with Tutankhamun. He found a lost city, not a lost tomb.”

“I knew he’d found something lost,” says Dawn as though two of the greatest archaeological discoveries of the last century are interchangeable. Above the rumbling traffic outside I swear I can hear Henry Wellby spinning in his grave. Then she frowns. “But you must admit it’s a bit weird that the phone is always off the hook.”

God give me strength. “I’ve knocked it off the hook, that’s all. It’s nothing sinister.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “It’s really cold in here though, isn’t it?”

Is it cold? I suppose so, but it is November after all and – unlike Dawn, who usually sports short-sleeved crop tops from beneath which her pallid midriff ripples like Viennetta – I’m wearing a polo neck.

“We’re in a building that’s over two hundred years old,” I point out. “When Henry Wellby’s family purchased it to house his private collection they weren’t really thinking about whether or not it was centrally heated.”

Dawn rubs her arms. “But your office is way colder than all the others.” She huffs a great lungful of air at me. “I can see my breath!”

“Dawn, was there a reason you’re here? Or do you just want to chat about the lack of central heating?”

“I do witter on, don’t I?” Dawn giggles. “Natter, natter, natter! That’s me!”

I fix her with my sternest stare, the one that usually makes Susie confess to eating my chocolate/using up the milk/borrowing my perfume. It’s never failed yet and Dawn instantly pulls herself together.

“Anyway… Look, I’m really sorry, Cleo, but I’ve just had a call from my Gary. He’s caught in a big traffic jam on the Westway and there’s no way he’ll be on time to pick our Ellie up from school. I’ll have to leave now or I’ll never make it.”

I glance at the clock. It’s one fifty. “But aren’t you supposed to be doing a school tour at two?”

She nods. “There’s thirty Year Eights downstairs and they’re really excited.”

“You’ll just have to let them down gently,” I tell her.

Dawn looks shocked. “We can’t do that; they’ll be gutted! And anyway we’ve got that reporter joining us, remember? He’s waiting too.”

I do remember because I was the genius who organised this. It seemed like a good idea at the time, in the abstract way that these things always do. It would raise our profile, tick all the right boxes for funding initiatives and hopefully generate lots more educational visits. There’s no way we can put today’s tour off. I need to find another sucker, I mean volunteer, to dress up as an Egyptian and do battle with stroppy teenagers.

“We’ll have to find somebody else then,” I say. “But who?”

Dawn starts to unwind her costume. “You’ll have to do it.”

“Me?”

I’m an academic. There’s no way I’m dressing up and parading around the museum. No way at all. Nobody will ever take me seriously again. But by the time I open my mouth to protest Dawn is down to her knickers, tugging off her wig and pulling on her leggings.

“You’ll be brilliant, Cleo!” she insists, two-thirds dressed now and on her way to the door while I stare at her, appalled. “Nobody knows more about ancient Egypt than you do. You’ve even got the right name!”

The robes are shoved into my arms, followed by the wig and a bag of grotty make-up. I’m beyond horrified.

“Dawn, I can’t!”

“Of course you can,” says Dawn cheerfully. Of course she’s looking cheerful; she’s halfway out of the door isn’t she? “Just remember to stay in role and have fun! Bye!”

Stay in role and have fun? I stare after her, lost for words. Fun? I hated drama at school and, as I recall, I didn’t much like the other kids either. I can’t imagine anything has changed significantly since then. There’s nothing else for it: I’ll have to cancel the journalist and the tour.

I pick up the phone, which is somehow off the hook yet again, and dial down to reception.

“Dr Carpenter! Thank goodness!” The receptionist sounds stressed. “We’ve been trying to ring up for ages! There’s a journalist here who says he’s supposed to be having a tour of the department.” She lowers her voice. “He’s really irate.”