Worried and Jittery answers.
‘Enough with the hard-luck stories,’ Cold and Sneery says. ‘What have you got to report?’
‘We think we’ve found him,’ Worried and Jittery answers, talking fast. ‘He’s staying nearby. Bek’s description matches: big, ugly, moon-faced, scary bloke. Keeps himself to himself.’
‘What did I say about names? Oh, never mind. Where exactly is he staying?’
I’ve got a pain starting in the arm that’s trapped under my body and I think the baby rats have found the hand that’s blocking the hole in the mummy’s side because I can feel their warm noses and itchy whiskers against it. But when I hear the answer, I forget all discomfort.
‘An inn. This side of town. Got an old shrine round the back.’
‘And you’ve checked this out?’
‘I did,’ says Slow and Stupid. ‘He came into town by the north road and I followed him. Had a drink at the inn and took a room.’
‘You did?’
‘No, he did. Think I’m stupid?’
‘Yes. Did he recognise you?’
‘No. I saw him on a job years ago. He never noticed me then and he didn’t notice me now.’
I remember where I heard the voice before. He was one of the men at the inn yesterday. Without a doubt, the Quiet Gentleman is the ugly, moon-faced, scary bloke.
The man with the cold voice is talking again, sounding excited. ‘That double-crossing rat. The first thing we have to do is search his room. He won’t have got rid of it. Trust me. And if he’s hidden it we can make him talk. No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll wait and see whether he’s moving on or staying put, and then we’ll . . .’
At last they start walking away and their voices grow fainter before they fade to nothing.
I push the mummy off me and stand up. It’s darker outside now and almost pitch-black inside. I can’t see the shelf Imi’s on and whichever way I turn it’s just going to be mummies everywhere.
‘Imi,’ I whisper. ‘Imi.’
No answer. I force myself to think. The door must be ahead of me so Imi’s to my left. I feel for the shelf I left her on, scattering mummified cats and birds and not caring how many rat families I’m disturbing. My fingers touch something warm.
‘Imi?’ I whisper again.
‘Yes?’
‘You all right?’
‘I was asleep. The cats were trying to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying because they were talking cat language.’ I feel her sit up. ‘Can we go home now?’
That’s Imi – instead of being frightened by cat ghosts, she talks to them. I almost hug her.
Outside, the pyramids bite black-toothed chunks from a bright field of stars.
The wheel turns, the wheel burns . . . The old woman told me the rhyme was all about the gods as they go wheeling across the sky. I can see the sphinx up there, and the ram, and think about the great boat below the horizon that carries the sun across the underworld sea so it rises fresh and new in the morning.
Fresh and new.
It would be good to feel fresh and new and hopeful and not scared, but I’m not stupid. I know who those men were: tomb robbers, the worst criminals in the world. Ruthless, violent and secretive. They’ll kill anyone who knows who they are, and from what they were saying, it sounds like the Quiet Gentleman is one too. And if that’s not enough to worry about . . .
. . . I’m in trouble.
How much? Quick answer: a heap. Long answer: trouble, trouble with more trouble piled on top and then doubled. Double, double, double trouble. And my mother doesn’t care who knows about it.
She shouts at me so loudly as I walk into the courtyard, with Imi holding tightly on to my hand, that it’s a wonder the walls don’t fall down. We’re late. It’s dark. Anything could have happened. We could have been attacked by robbers, by wild dogs, by lions. And look at the state of Imi: what did I do? Did I try to kill her out of black-hearted jealousy?
It’s a rare busy night and all the drinkers at the inn are nudging each other and shaking their heads, and in case you’re wondering why I don’t run off and hide, my father is gripping my arm so tightly he leaves a bracelet of bruises around it.
And there’s nothing I can say. We got lost in the City of the Dead, the one place I was forbidden to enter? We were trapped there by tomb robbers? That just means more danger for Imi and more trouble for me.
A couple of my father’s cronies start to mutter about bad blood and how I need a good thrashing, when the Quiet Gentleman, who’s been sitting on his own on his usual bench, stands up.
‘You’ve said enough,’ he tells my mother, who shuts up like she’s lost the power of speech.
‘And why don’t you let go of the boy’s arm?’ This to my father, who obeys.
‘And why don’t you step back?’ This to my father’s cronies.
‘There,’ the Quiet Gentleman says, ‘that’s better for everyone. And now we ask the little girl what happened.’ His smile reminds me of a split in an overripe melon.
This is where we get to the bit where you understand why I actually like my sister.
‘I ran away from him,’ Imi says, looking up at the Quiet Gentleman. ‘And I got lost and then I was scared, but he came looking for me and found me and he rescued me from the ghosts and brought me home.’
Perfect answer.
The Quiet Gentleman looks around. As well as the drinkers, a small crowd has gathered at the gate, attracted by my mother’s screeching. He says: ‘All these people want to buy a drink. You’d better get busy, boy.’
I get busy and my parents sell more beer and wine than they have since the shrine became illegal, and I get more tips than I’ve had in my life and a few slaps on the back for being a good boy.
But I don’t tell the Quiet Gentleman about the men who were talking about him in the City of the Dead. I don’t try to warn him. Why? Because if I tell him what I overheard it’ll be like pointing a finger at him and saying tomb robber.
And then he’ll have to kill me.
Next morning I get up early, fetch water, sweep the courtyard, then buy fresh bread and goat’s milk for breakfast.
By the time I’m back, the Quiet Gentleman is sitting in his usual place on the bench. The morning sun’s not too hot and he’s closed his eyes and tilted up his head towards it. He’s found one of my mud animals – a sphinx – and he’s holding it up to the sun as well.
As soon as he hears me, his eyes open sleepily. Whatever I do, wherever I go, he watches me like a dog watches an ant.
When I pass close to him, carrying a heavy leather bucket of water to sluice the kitchen floor, he says: ‘Stop right there, boy.’
I freeze.
‘Look at me.’
Very deliberately I stare past him.
He says: ‘Three questions. You call the innkeeper and his wife mother and father, but you look different. What’s your story?’
‘They found me in the river,’ I say with a shrug.
‘How?’
‘My