A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride
would be the one from the car boot. Maybe lying about in the tip for God knew how long masked Mummy Number One’s natural smell?
The APT went back to her trolley and pushed it next to the cutting table. Clunked on some sort of footbrake, then fiddled about with pins and levers until a big C-shaped arm swung out from the main unit. It had a box on either end, each about the size of small microwave.
‘Right.’ She handed him a heavy blue apron. ‘Stick that on and we’ll get some X-rays done.’
‘X-rays?’
She looked at him as if he was a very thick little boy. ‘Well we’re not going to actually post mortem them, are we? They’re mummies. Priceless relics of a long-dead civilisation. Cause of death isn’t going to do you a hell of a lot of good, is it? Or are you planning on climbing into your DeLorean and travelling back to ancient Egypt with an arrest warrant?’
Yeah, she had a point.
‘Now,’ the APT pointed at Mummy Number Two, ‘help me get it sitting up and we’ll see what we can see …’
‘I know it’s not nice, but you need to eat it. It’s good for you.’
The spoon is cold against his cracked lips, its contents hard and gritty.
He’d raise his hands and bat the spoon away, but his arms don’t work any more. They don’t even float in the water, just sink into its filthy depths to lie against the steel tank. Nothing works.
Can’t even hold his own head up.
So the Priest holds it up for him, a warm hand on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll help.’
The other hand forces his mouth open, then pours the grit inside.
It sits there, in his mouth, like tiny stones. Sticking to his tongue and cheeks. Making him gag and cough. But there’s not enough breath left to shift anything.
The walls are louder now, singing at the top of their splintered lungs: ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
Their voices send a tremor rattling through him, shaking his teeth, making his ribs ache.
‘Shhh …’ A hand strokes his forehead. ‘Shhh …’
Then a kiss.
‘I think it’s time, don’t you?’
Oh God please let it be time to die. Time for the pain to go away. Please.
‘They’ll worship you, They’ll worship you …’
‘Come on.’
The water falls away and he’s being carried, arms and legs swinging in the cool air, rivulets of brackish water falling to the floor. There’s almost nothing left of him now. Nothing but skin and bone.
‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
The singing walls swim and pulse around him, worshipping. And finally he makes the transition into the other room. The one where the fish hang in silent prayer.
Even the walls are quiet in here. Reverential. Waiting for the blessed relief.
Soon he’ll be dead and all this will be over.
‘Here we go.’ Gentle hands lay him on the stone floor.
High up above, a sliver of grey sunlight dances with dust motes. Spiralling and swirling.
There’s a pressure on his ankles, but not much more than that.
Then the squeal of wood on wood and his legs raise themselves off the ground, then his hips, his back, and finally his head leaves the earth. He sways gently, ascending to heaven with his arms dangling either side of his ears.
Swaying and rising.
Up and up into the darkness.
Up and up into death’s comforting embrace.
He opens his mouth to say thank you, but all that comes out is a cascade of little gritty pellets.
The Priest smiles up at him, a thick rope held in one hand. ‘You’ll be a god …’
A god of skin and bone.
‘And one more …’ Lucy stepped back and the machinery buzzed again. Then clunked. ‘OK, all done.’ The muscles in her arm rippled as she pushed the portable X-ray machine’s arm out of the way, making the tattoos dance. ‘Now all we have to do is download the data, format it, and you’ll get your glimpse into the ancient past. Might take a while, though.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Thanks.’
A grin. ‘Who did you piss off?’
‘Hmm?’
‘To get lumbered with this. No one asks for a PM on a thousand-year-old mummy unless they’re being punished for something.’ She flipped off the footbrake. ‘So who did you piss off?’
Callum forced a smile. ‘Pretty much everyone.’
‘Thought so.’ Lucy took hold of the handles and shoved, setting the X-ray kit rolling. ‘You can wait here, in the smell, or you can come through to the IT lab. It’ll be warmer. With seats.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wise choice. Oh, and on the way? There’s a drinks machine in the APTs’ lounge, I’ll have a hot chocolate.’
Cheeky sod.
A dull buzzing thrum ran through the lab, mingling with the soft whirr of desktop computers, and the ping-click-ping-click of a small electric heater.
Callum took the last slurp from what the machine claimed was a white tea.
It had lied.
He stuck the empty plastic cup on the desk and shifted in his seat. Closed his book and put it down.
‘Any good?’
He looked up. ‘Hmm?’
‘The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting.’ Lucy pointed. ‘Any good?’
‘It was OK.’
‘I had a mate who was great at shoplifting. You name it, she could swipe it: food, booze, electric toasters. Made off with a bass guitar once.’
‘Yeah, it’s more a collection of short stories than a how-to guide.’ He stood and stretched, little knots cracking across his spine. ‘Pff …’ Sagged. Checked his watch. ‘Which way to the toilet?’
‘Use the disabled: down the hall, on the left. I’m guessing another fifteen minutes? Servers are running like treacle today.’
‘What happened to your mate, the shoplifter, she get caught?’
‘Married a Glaswegian and emigrated to Newcastle.’
Callum wandered over to the door. ‘Might make some calls too.’
Lucy went back to her computers. ‘Wouldn’t mind another hot chocolate if you’re passing …?’
‘See what I can do.’
Sodding hand dryers never worked.
He wiped his hands on his trousers as he made his way down the corridor to the far end. A window looked out over the mortuary car park – the reception area just visible in the middle distance.
Callum