Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings (5 page)

We fought our way through the crowds, never taking our eyes off the boy. Fortunately for us, he was wearing a scrappy tunic of a particularly disgusting ochre colour. I guessed it had once been white but been badly stained and someone, probably his mum, had attempted to dye it to cover the damage. She'd have done better to have left the stain. The poor kid looked like the unpleasant aftermath of a bout of amoebic dysentery. Anyway, bad choice of wardrobe or not, he was easy to track. We drew closer and closer until we were right behind him.

He knew exactly where he was going. He headed straight for one particular stall near the end.

No. No, no, no. This was not good. Once money changed hands, the gun would acquire value and be so much more difficult to retrieve. To say nothing of being bought by someone else. I cursed. We should have overpowered him when we could and taken our chances.

No money changed hands. The stallholder acquired the gun from the boy in exactly the same manner as he had acquired it from his younger brother. He clumped him round the side of the head and took it.

The lad said something rude, got a clip around the other ear, melted back into the crowd, and was gone.

‘Now,' I said.

‘But there are people everywhere.'

‘There's never going to be a right moment. Let's get out there and make our own opportunities.'

We strolled casually towards the stall. Peterson in the lead. Me, one pace behind and (I hoped) the epitome of matronly respectability with my parasol, and Markham, looking every inch the abused and diseased slave brought along to carry the shopping.

The place was a real dump. This was not a bright, shining Egyptian metropolis with stele and monuments to the gods, beautiful temples, and imposing public buildings. This place was full of mud-brick houses, many of them reverting to their natural state; a public well surrounded by gossiping women; the ever-present clouds of dust; a very funny smell; and more goats than were attractive – unless you were another goat, of course. The streets were narrow, unpaved, and deep in rubbish. The smell was robust and livestock based, with top notes of spices, cooking, and people. If this settlement had grown up to service the boatyard then it was failing. The boatyard was thriving – this place was not.

Deprived of the cooling breezes from the river, the narrow streets were hot and airless. Flies buzzed everywhere. I could feel them crawling on my arms and shoulders. They kept settling in my eyes, which was incredibly irritating. And painful. I could see how infection spread so easily here.

Speaking of which, I turned to check out Markham who gave me a feeble grin and a wave. He looked dreadful. I decided if we hadn't retrieved the bloody gun in the next thirty minutes then we were out of here. He needed medical treatment.

Peterson had paused at the stall. Assuming his ‘Let's hope I don't catch anything unpleasant' expression, he began to rummage through the bric-a-brac on the stall, ignoring the gun displayed on an old wooden tray, half concealed under a string of badly matched amber beads and worth more than everything on the stall put together, and probably even the stallholder himself.

I leaned forwards and fingered the shabby jewellery. No hurry. No rush. We were just a couple of browsing shoppers who might possibly buy something today …

Peterson picked up the gun by the barrel and turned it over curiously. He did it beautifully. He passed it to me. I took it, carefully held it upside down, and said, ‘Laugh.'

We all laughed merrily at the funny metal object with no clearly discernible function.

I itched to remove the clip and break it open, but the last thing we needed was anyone seeing how it worked.

Peterson took it back off me, held it up, and made a gesture to the stallholder. How much?

He shrugged. I suspected he had no idea how much to ask. He'd never seen anything like it before. He'd assessed us, our clothing, our clearly sub-standard slave and was waiting to see how much we would offer.

I briefly considered just grabbing the bloody thing and running away. If the pod was closer then we might have got away with it. But not today. The market was crowded and, with our luck, they would all be his friends and relations. Just for once, we needed to be legitimate.

While I was dithering, the stallholder suddenly grabbed it back off Peterson and embarked on his sales pitch. Holding it by the barrel, he began to bang the handle on the table. I suspected he was demonstrating its nut-cracking capabilities.

We all winced and stepped back. This was not a weapon ever designed for bludgeoning nuts. Of course, he was the one in the most danger. I imagined the scene, heard the bang, saw him drop to the ground, blood pooling around him … Or suppose the bullet ricocheted into the crowds of people around us …

We had to do something. I bet he had friends all around the place. Sooner or later, someone would show up and pretend to be interested. That might attract the attention of other bona fide buyers. A bidding war. Anything to force the price up. We had to act now.

I smiled at Peterson and indicated, through the medium of mime, that I just had to have it. My life would be ruined if I didn't.

Now we came to the sticking point because none of us had any money. Or anything of value. Even our slave was the equivalent of an old banger that had had its clock wound back twice. Now what did we do?

As it turned out, we didn't have to do anything. He'd seen my wedding ring.

We're not actually allowed to wear jewellery on assignment. I shouldn't be wearing it now, but in the rush to get away, I'd forgotten to take it off. In gold-rich Egypt it couldn't be worth that much but he'd seen it, assessed its worth and small though it might be, it was definitely worth more than this bizarre metal object, purpose unknown, that probably wasn't very good at crushing nuts.

We're not allowed to leave anything behind, although in the scheme of things, a small golden ring was considerably less hazardous than a 9 mm Glock. I was prepared to accept the lesser of two evils. That wasn't what was making me pause.

I stared at my ring. Half of me thought,
it's just a small piece of gold. It's just a thing.

The other half said,
this is the ring that Leon gave you. You wear it because it's a symbol of his love. He gave you a ring. You gave him a ring. But you give each other more than that – and this ring is a symbol of that.

I looked at Markham who'd unhesitatingly sabotaged the Security Section's monitors – an offence probably punishable by death under Major Guthrie's jurisdiction.

I looked at Peterson, who'd insisted on coming. Yes, he'd spouted a lot of claptrap about Christmas traditions but if things went wrong, he had more to lose than any of us.

I thought of Elspeth Grey who was almost certainly finished at St Mary's but for whom a successful outcome today would mean the difference between leaving with dignity or in disgrace. Or with a possible prison sentence.

They were both looking at me. I knew neither of them would say anything. This was a personal decision.

I don't know why I hesitated. There really was no choice. It was the least I could do. I wriggled it off my finger and handed it to Markham to hand to the stallholder.

Peterson said quietly, ‘Max, are you sure?'

‘Yes,' I said, wondering what on earth I was going to say to Leon.

I saw it glint briefly, and then the stallholder magicked it away into some mysterious hiding place. Smiling hugely – I suspected we'd really been ripped off here – he handed Peterson the gun and, in a probably very unfamiliar fit of generosity, handed over the hideous amber beads as well. Peterson nodded his thanks, Markham shoved the gun down the front of his bed sheet – and it would be a brave as well as a foolish thief who followed it down there – and we left the market before anything else could go wrong.

Once out of the crowded streets, the air was a little fresher. I dropped the beads in the dust and we each took one of Markham's elbows and piloted him along the path back to the pod. Now that we had the bloody gun back, I just wanted to get him back to the pod as quickly as possible.

‘I can see a rainbow,' he said at one point.

‘Jolly good,' said Peterson.

He turned to look at me. ‘So beautiful.'

‘Thank you,' I said, touched.

‘No, not you.'

I'm not sure why I didn't drop him there and then and just leave him to fester by the path.

‘What's the matter with him?' said Peterson, trying to shoulder more of his uncoordinated weight.

‘Not sure, but I think one or more of his stings may have become infected. He's certainly running a temperature. I can feel the heat coming off him.'

Our burden began to sing a song about throwing snowballs at the moon.

‘I'm not so sure,' said Peterson. ‘Put him down a minute.'

We dropped him in the dust and bent over him for a quick examination. The only thing more inflamed than his eyes were his nostrils. In addition to his fading insect bites, none of which looked particularly infected, his skin was red and raw. In some places, it appeared to be splitting open.

Peterson stared at him thoughtfully. ‘If I didn't know better I'd say he'd been poisoned.'

‘How? You and I are fine.'

‘No idea. Maybe he's allergic to papyrus or something.'

‘How likely is that?'

‘Well, not very, but I can't think of anything else. Everything we've done, he's done. And vice versa.'

‘It must be a sting gone bad. He was covered in them. Maybe it's the cumulative effect. Maybe I should have sprayed him twice a day but the can was only half full so I had to be careful with it.'

‘What spray?'

‘The insect repellent. In the blue and yellow can in the locker by the door.'

He sat back on his heels and stared at me. ‘Blue and yellow can?'

‘That's the one.'

‘The insect repellent is in the orange and white can. Max, you're not colour blind, are you?'

‘No. Definitely not. Not according to my eye test last year.'

I try to keep quiet about eye tests. Sometimes, I can't always quite make out the small print. I usually nip into Sick Bay a couple of days beforehand and memorise the chart. It's not that I can't see – my eyesight is fine – it's just that they make the print on these stupid cans so small these days.

He stared thoughtfully at me for a moment and then said, ‘Max, I think you might have been spraying him with WD40 by mistake.'

I stared at him. ‘Is that a problem? Leon swears by the stuff. That and duct tape are always his
tools du jour.
'

‘I daresay, but not in this context. Did you spray him all over?'

I nodded.

‘Help me get his clothes off. And for God's sake hang on to that bloody gun. There's no way I'm ever doing this again.'

We stripped off Markham and lugged him down to the river. The mud felt warm and squishy between my toes. We sat him down up to his neck in the water and gently washed his face and hair. I know, leptospirosis, leeches and all that, to say nothing of the Nile crocodiles, but as Peterson remarked, he smelled like an old engine and they probably weren't that desperate for a meal.

I left him with Peterson, went back for his bed sheet and rinsed that thoroughly as well, wondering how much it was going to cost me to keep Peterson quiet about his. I suspected his price would be high.

Still, we had the gun. Focus on the positive.

Markham lay happily on his back in the Nile, hands laced behind his head, feet waving in the gentle current, still singing away to himself. I wrung out his bed sheet; we heaved him out and endeavoured to make him decent again. Wet sheets aren't easy to handle. Wrapping a wet bed sheet around a damp and naked Markham was well nigh impossible. Especially since I had my eyes closed a lot of the time.

‘You stand still, Max,' said Peterson eventually, exasperated. ‘I'll just walk it around him. Like cling-film.'

There was a very minor argument as to whose fault it was that we forgot to leave his arms free, but we couldn't be bothered to do it again and, as Peterson said, it stopped him scratching.

‘And he looks so clean, too,' I said, endeavouring to smooth down his spiky hair.

He smiled happily at the pair of us and threw up again.

Fortunately, the sun was setting as we made our way back to the pod. There's not much twilight at these latitudes. One minute it's light – the next minute it's nearly dark. Bashford's team had already returned to their pod. We snuck through the boatyard. Everyone seemed to be at the feast centred on the space where the barge had been. I stood for a moment, watching sparks from the fires flying up towards the stars, listening to the happy voices, smelling the savoury smells and then turned away into the night that now seemed even darker in comparison.

We whiled away the last hundred yards or so by making a list of things to do.

‘Things to do,' said Peterson.

‘Buy Markham a beer,' said a voice.

‘Put the gun back,' I said. ‘I'll do that since the young master can't even remember his own name at the moment. You get him up to Sick Bay, use your manly wiles on Helen, and impress upon her the need for complete secrecy. After I've been cleared, I'll go and talk to Dr Bairstow about what's happened. With luck he'll be so full of the Christmas spirit he'll forgive us everything.'

We both paused to contemplate this unlikely scenario.

‘It'll be fine,' I said. ‘I'll talk to him, emphasise the lack of Time Police in the whole affair, and try to persuade him to let us all live.'

‘And Leon?'

I sighed. ‘I won't lie to him. I would have told him anyway. And there'll be his pod to clean up – so guess how I'll be spending Christmas morning. It's Ian who's going to be the problem. He's head of the Security Section, and somehow Grey got the gun out of his Armoury. He's her boyfriend and she's obviously never discussed her problem with him. He's not going to be a happy man on either count.'