The Book of the Dead (25 page)

“Glasgow today, then on to the Far Systems. John Balliol is to see his homelands one last time, apparently.”

“Glasgow.” I smiled. “You know, if my request is accepted – that’s where I’ll get off. It’ll be nice,” I add. “I can catch up with Leanne and Ngozi, and then maybe –”

“Will you miss me?”

My smile faltered. “You know I will.”

He stepped towards me, put an open hand on the back of my head. He didn’t stroke my hair or caress my neck. He just held it there, and he stared at me. “Say it, Seth. Will you miss me?”

“Yes. I’ll miss you.”

He pulled my head towards his and kissed me, hard and tight and suffocating.

“Let me speak to the father,” he said. “Let me see if I can find a way for you to stay here.”

I zipped up the bag. “I really don’t think that’ll make any difference.”

“Let me try.”

“If the Lady Dervorguilla lays eyes on me once more, I think she might eviscerate me.”

“I have to try.” He gripped my forearm.

“Then you try.”

You wouldn’t have called it a smooth ride, but New Abbey’s maiden voyage was a success. We spent a few hours docked at New Glasgow later that day, and shortly after arriving, I returned to my room to check my messages, collect my bag and prepare for my final goodbyes.

As I nudged open the wooden door, I saw Father General Nineveh waiting inside, seated on my bed. He looked up as I entered, his eyes shining beneath his scrappy mop of grey hair.

“Father.” I bowed. “This is a surprise. I had just been expecting an email.”

He smiled broadly, warmly, and the skin around his eyes fell into a pattern of familiar wrinkles. He patted the bed next to him. “Come. Join me. We have a lot to discuss.”

“My transfer request?” I sat next to him, eager to hear what he had in store for me.

“Not exactly.” Thinking back, I was surprised his smile didn’t falter at this point, or that I didn’t straight away see the coldness in it. “I have discussed your request with SeeNet.” And then he paused a pause so long. “And with our Lady. We all feel your talents would be better spent elsewhere.”

“I don’t understand…”

“And, of course, Brother Ares’ impassioned plea did not fall on deaf ears. What kind of man would I be to ignore a bond so strong?” Something in my stomach tugged at me, like a rope, trying to drag me away, trying to pull me somewhere safer. Father General Nineveh’s hand fell upon my thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I remember my first coupling,” he said, his voice little more than a sigh. “How strong it was. How I thought it would never end.”

“It is sad that I can no longer be with Brother Ares,” I said, “but as I explained in my letter, a transfer away from the Abbey seems sensible.”

He was silent for a moment. “Oh, hang sensible.” He laughed. “Damn sensible to Hell. Our Lady wants to offer you a
promotion
.”

Something about that sentence made the hair on the back of my neck stand up so quickly I thought I heard it hiss. “I beg your pardon?”

The father stood up and stepped over to the stone arch surrounding the door. He touched the communication panel set into the arch and there was an answering bleep. A tinny voice crackled out of the speaker: “Is Brother Seth ready, Father General?” It was Brother-Medician Bradley, the surgeon in charge of the operation I watched over at the start of this terrible day.

“He will be in a moment, darling.” Closing the channel, Father Nineveh winked at me. “The first coupling always seem the strongest, yes, but have you seen Brother Bradley in the showers?” He made a little “o” shape with his mouth and puffed out a salacious breath.

“What’s happening? What do I need to be ready for?”

Father General Nineveh grinned. “Your promotion, silly.” He slipped a hand inside his robe and pulled out a small injector filled with a pale orange liquid. “Coupling’s one thing, but our Lady has something much better in mind for you. She sees all, remember. Nothing happens in this Abbey that she doesn’t know about.” The father lost his smile for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of that other emotion I always saw in Brother Ares’ eyes whenever he pushed me around or shoved me down or pulled me along or put me in my place. “A coupling’s not good enough for you and Ares. No, no. Our Lady wants you to know what it’s like to be
bonded
with the man you love so much.”

And it was the way he said those last words, as he leaned over me and stabbed the injector into my neck, that made me wish I was suddenly somewhere else, somewhere I could see the love in Ares’ eyes.

I woke up on the bridge of New Abbey. I was sat in the First Lieutenant’s chair, just to the right of my Lady’s throne. It was not a comfortable chair – but no, that wasn’t it.

I blinked the grogginess away, leaning forward awkwardly. I was naked and uncomfortable. My Lady turned her head to look at me as I groaned sleepily. “Thank you for joining us, Commander Seth.”

Commander?

Her black eyes, and John Balliol’s, bored into me. They were all I could really see for a moment, in the gloom of the bridge. I looked about me. Dark stone arches loomed above, their curves outlined by flickering light. For a moment, I thought it was the soft gold of candlelight, but I quickly realised the light came from the opto-psalmic relays piping energy from the chantry to the bridge’s altar and back again. In the shadowy transepts all around, my brothers whispered prayers to keep the Abbey in motion.

“My Lady.” It was all I could say. My throat was dry, my voice a painful scrape.

Her dark eyes were focused on the holographic chart hanging in the apse, this entire region of space mapped out in seventeen dimensions. She had one wiry finger extended and she was using it to track a path from star to star to star.

“Onward,” she whispered to herself.

With the same claw-like finger, she pressed a button hidden in the golden filigree of her throne, activating the Abbey-wide communication system. Her voice, a croaking crow’s call, echoed through the sandstone chamber of the bridge and the corridors beyond.

“Onward we go!” she screamed. Her eyes were still fixed on the starmap. “My brothers, you have worked tirelessly on the upgrade to this Abbey – and for that I thank you. But now, it is time to reap the reward for your toil. Now, we take our good work out into the galaxy, to convert and teach and bring to the light all those who might hide in darkness. It is my wish, and it was that of my late husband, John Balliol.

“And so it is that, from this day forward, this Abbey will be known by a new name, in honour of John Balliol. My sweetheart. For what we do, we do for
him
.”

She reached up with her other hand and stroked her dead husband’s cheek. Brother Ares was cold at my back, his fingers clamped forever on my upper arms.

Then, with a grin – no, it was more like a determined grimace – my Lady spoke again.

“Sweetheart Abbey shall fly forever in his memory. Onward we go, into the darkness. Onward!”

“I always thought the DLR was hateful,” she says. From anyone else I’d call this pretentious, but one does not describe Amunet Kebechet in those terms. At least, not if you’ve been trying to get into her pants for the past decade. It’s fair to say I practically worship her, despite all the differences between us.

The DLR, or Docklands Light Railway, is a train service that runs through the east part of London, through districts poor, rich, and insanely wealthy, including the small banking empire of Canary Wharf. The trains themselves always run on time, even when the rest of London’s underground trains have gone tits up.

“Why’s it so hateful, Moon?” That’s what we call her.
Moon
. She despises her real name, but she’ll always be Amunet Kebechet to me. I used to sit in the row behind her in physics class, whispering her name like a mantra.

“It doesn’t have a fucking driver.” She turns the unlit cigarette over in her petite hands. “A dead train going to dead parts of London.”

She smokes as much as she swears, wears eyeliner as if it might suddenly go out of fashion, and dresses in a style that’s neither Goth nor punk. Bangles in a riot of colours add a light touch to clothes that start at slate grey and get progressively darker. She has been, is currently, and quite possibly will always be, an art student. You can afford those sorts of life choices when your dad is the Egyptian Ambassador in London.

My own background is far more modest.

Throw a stone in Erith, Kent and you’ll likely hit someone called Darren. That’s the name I got lumbered with. She breezes through life on a cloud of Marlboro smoke, rejoicing under “Amunet”. I get Darren, or the inevitable shortening, “Daz”. Which is a fucking washing powder.

“I said there’s no driver,” she’s leaning forward now, and I find myself blinking, as I take in the sight of her. Olive skin and green eyes, hair falling in wisps of bleach blonde and purple and green. She is a firework of a woman.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” She purses her lips. “That we’re just being carried through the city by a machine.”

“Never really thought about it,” I hear myself say. A second later I curse myself. The blokes Amunet dates have opinions about everything. They have opinions about their opinions. I have no idea why she still meets me.

Which is not strictly true.

We are a gang of four, separated by the twelve years it has been since we were thick as thieves. A more unlikely band of friends you’d struggle to find in any sixth form college. And yet that’s how we met. Amunet and I meet every few months or so, when I take her to the cinema or the Hayward Gallery. She is perpetually skint.

Member number three of our happy band is waiting for us on the platform when we step off the DLR at Greenwich. Yvonne is the matter to Amunet’s antimatter. Tall, blonde, gym-hardened body with obligatory breast enhancement, dressed to the nines in a pinstripe pencil skirt and heels. She looks like the sort of replicant the Tyrell Corporation would make if it were based in Sweden. She is pretty and generic in the way of TV presenters the world over. Yvonne grins, yet there is no humour in her eyes.

“How’s the Met, Daz? Shot any ethnic minorities lately?”

“I’m not armed response, I’m regular police. I don’t shoot anyone.”

Amunet lights her cigarette and presses ahead of me.

“You still snorting cocaine off your boss’ cock every weekend?” She pitches this question at Yvonne as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Yvonne shivers, her smile has weakened somewhat.

“I don’t do that anymore,” she says quietly.

“The coke or the married men?” Amunet smiles like a scalpel.

“You still fucking unsigned musicians and complaining about ‘the establishment’.” Yvonne actually makes the quote signs on the air as she says it.

“Not nearly enough of the first,” Amunet winks at the taller woman, “and always too much of the latter.” She blows out a plume of cigarette smoke. “What else is there?”

“Did you forget the way to Jeremy’s house?” I ask innocently, but Yvonne bristles all the same.

“I was waiting for you two. I didn’t want to walk there alone. What with the jackals.”

Amunet and I stare at each other and then burst out laughing for what feels like five minutes.

“I think I need a TENA Lady,” gasps Amunet, struggling to contain her giggles.

“The what?” I manage, trying to compose myself.

“The jackals.” Yvonne speaks, as if to very young, profoundly deaf children. “Three of them escaped from London Zoo.
Egyptian
ones.” She gives Amunet a piecing look, as if the art student is responsible for the missing beasts.

“Ah, I was wondering how long I’d have to wait for the casual racism.”

“Fine, but you won’t be laughing so much if they cross the Thames. Jackals in south London –” Anything else Yvonne says is drowned out by the hooting and howling of, not jackals, but one Amunet Kebechet and PC Darren Butler (off duty).

We walk in uncompanionable silence, although I try and chip away at the frosty facade Yvonne has put up. She is not an easy conversationalist these days. Gone is her carefree demeanour and self-deprecating humour. Her company strips the assets from failing businesses. Her favourite band is Coldplay. She reads the
Mail
and holidays in Spain so she doesn’t have to eat “any of that foreign shit”. One of the reasons I like Yvonne is because, even as a member of the much maligned Metropolitan Police Force, she makes me look good.

We reach the apartment without Amunet or Yvonne exchanging anything more deadly than looks. I rap on the door and drag in an anxious breath. Maybe this will be the yearly get together to end them all. There’s a sort of masochistic streak that compels you to keep measuring yourself against old school friends. Especially old school friends who are no longer friends. And I say this as an expert on masochism. I am, after all, police.

Jeremy opens the door to his apartment and is haloed with the light in the hall. He is everything I am not. Over six feet of Oxbridge educated, sandy blonde, tanned, suave motherfucker. I’m not being unkind. He did actually bed Jack Durant’s mum after the Sixth Form Prom one year.

Ergo: motherfucker.

My parents split up when I was fifteen. I never invited Jeremy over to my place after that. I just couldn’t take the chance.

Jeremy is a Risk Manager for a large bank that couldn’t afford a name after the bail out and settled for initials instead.

“Darren, you little fucker!” he bellows at something approaching stadium rock band volume. He has traces of white powder in the stubble on his top lip. His pupils are dilated and I’m willing to bet money that there is a ring of lipstick around his cock. Left there by the prostitute who has spent most of the afternoon in his apartment.

“Hey, Jeremy, long time no –”

But I get no further than that as he bear hugs me, sloshing what feels like half a pint of red wine over my shirt. My white shirt. The one I bought because I thought Amunet might like it. Which is clearly bollocks, as she wears nothing but black.

“Terribly sorry,” says Jeremy. And he means it. “Come in and I’ll lend you one of mine.” He knocks back the remainder of the glass. He drinks not like the proverbial fish but rather the entire shoal.

“Shirts are in there,” he gestures blindly to the bedroom. I change into a shirt I could never afford and will likely end up keeping because Jeremy will be too wasted to remember I’ve borrowed it. I emerge from his room, buttoning on his Jermyn Street shirt, just in time to see him sweep Amunet up in his arms, squeezing her close. She shrieks and giggles and just for a second I wish I had access to a Taser.

“Get off me, you filthy Tory pig!” giggles Amunet. Jeremy lowers her to the ground tenderly.

“Moon, you fantastic rebel,” he slurs, “shouldn’t you have been sold off for fifty camels by now?”

“All the camels got foot and mouth,” she deadpans, “so we burnt them all.”

“Really? What, every camel in Egypt? How will anyone get married?”

“No, of course not. Where is the booze, you sexist fuck?”

Jeremy leads us into the lounge. I assume he has greeted Yvonne, who is glowering at Amunet. Her face only softens when Jeremy flashes a look in her direction.

The lounge is outfitted in oversized mahogany and jet-black appliances with a single remote to rule them all. Jeremy once famously said, and I quote, “IKEA is what happens to people in lower tax brackets”. Yvonne found this hilarious, I laughed despite myself, and Amunet raised an eyebrow, telling him she slept on a mattress on the floor, because furniture was lifestyle propaganda and fuck the dictates of consumerism, etc. etc.

The coffee table looks like the sort of thing that escaped from the set of
Tron: Legacy
, all obsidian black glass in an abstract design. A design that has been lost due to large amounts of coke now smeared across the surface like fresh snow.

“I sometimes wonder if me being the fuzz means anything to you at all,” I mutter. Jeremy actually hears me to my surprise.

“It’s only a little bit.” He shrugs an apology.

“Jeremy, that’s half of Bolivia on your fucking coffee table.”

He shrugs again.

Wine glasses wait for us. And some olives from Waitrose, which are likely out of date, knowing Jeremy. The television sheds a wavering blue light, the people on the screen are silent as ghosts, muted by Jeremy’s remote.

“The magic wand,” he says gleefully.

For a second we all stare at the screen. Armed police are escorting three handcuffed men from a house.

“Probably terrorists,” mutters Yvonne. The scrolling graphics at the bottom of the screen say something about a museum, but I fail to read the whole thing as Amunet is placing a glass of wine in my hand and flashing a rare smile at me.

“Sure you don’t want a line of the good stuff, Daz?” presses Jeremy.

“The minute I touch that is the minute they decide to do a random drug test next time I clock on.” I look into my wine glass, blood red in the dim light of Jeremy’s lounge. “That’s a conversation I could do without.”

Jeremy is not deterred by my refusal and he changes tack.

“Come on, Moon. You’re an artist. It’s practically law you get fucked on any substance you can get your hands on.”

Amunet has taken a place on the couch. She looks small and birdlike next to Yvonne. The moment doesn’t last. Yvonne slides onto her knees over the coffee table, brandishing a banknote.

“I don’t know,” mutters Amunet, swirling her wine. “I’ve never done it before. You always say coke gives you abundance of confidence and arrogance. That it makes you want to talk about yourself.”

“Yes!” exclaim Yvonne and Jeremy like evangelists. Yvonne pinches her nose, blinks a few times, and then shakes her shoulders in a chemical shiver.

“How do you know when it’s worn off?” asks Amunet, but neither of them registers the barb as they stare at the television. They are talking over each other, gabbling about what they are seeing sliding across the vast panorama of Jeremy’s screen.

“Bloody terrorists,” mutters Yvonne again, like scratched vinyl.

“They’re not Islamic extremists,” grates Amunet. “They’re Egyptians.”

We all look at her. She never discusses race, or rather she discusses racism, but never being Egyptian.

“And that,” she flicks a finger toward the screen, “is the British Museum.”

Sure enough, the many columns of that huge edifice loom large on the screen. The camera cuts to the interior, where sections of an exhibit are sealed off with tape. Amunet reaches over and touches my knee lightly.

“Do you know anything?”

I shrug. “Somebody stole some jars?” Another shrug. “Not really my area.” I am, after all, a beat cop. It’s my job to give directions to tourists, apprehend pickpockets, and occasionally get spat on.

“Canopic jars,” says Amunet in a small voice. A second later they are flashed up on the television. Jeremy pauses the image with his black wand.

“Oh, they’re nice. Do you think they sell them in Habitat?” asks Yvonne, before hoovering up another line from the coffee table. I notice Jeremy is using this moment to get a good eyeful of her arse as she bends over.

“The one with the jackal head, that’s Duamutef. His consort is the goddess Neith.”

“Was she sexy, this goddess?” asks Jeremy, managing to pry his eyes from Yvonne’s behind.

“She was a war goddess.” Amunet turns to me. “They’d place the stomach in that jar. You know, before embalming and mummification.”

I nod, feeling like I’ve dragged up a seat in class with a favourite teacher.

“That one’s got a monkey face!” blurts Jeremy.

“It’s a baboon. That’s Hapi.”

“Feeling pretty happy myself, right now,” sighs Yvonne. She exchanges a look with Jeremy and they are both dissolve into giggles.

“They’d put the lungs in that jar.”

“And did Hapi have a consort?” I ask, keen for her to keep talking. Amunet smiles, clearly warming to the subject, and her captive audience. Of one at least.

“Yes. Nephthys. Some regard her as the mother of Anubis. The other jar is Imseti,” she says, before I can ask her who Anubis is. “I don’t know much about Imseti, but I think they put the liver in that jar.”

She plucks at her lip a moment before continuing.

“The last one is a falcon-headed God. But I’m fucked if I can ever pronounce his name. They put the intestines in that jar. Selket protected him, she was something to do with scorpions.” She bites her lip. “I don’t know.” She drinks from her glass and looks sad.

Jeremy has unpaused the television, and now the image is focused on the three Egyptian men. Jeremy has become very quiet; his face has taken on a haunted look. Yvonne, however, continues to yap on excitedly, any self-censorship she possessed has been stripped away by the coke. She is confessing and expounding all manner of mental debris I’d rather not listen to.

“Fuck it,” says Amunet, “you only live once.” She slides off the couch onto the floor and takes the note up from the table, pressing one finger to her opposite nostril in the time-honoured fashion.

“That’s the spirit!” Exclaims Yvonne.