The Lost Army of Cambyses (4 page)

vicinity, as though he had not been alone when

the accident happened. The body was so badly dis-

figured it could only be conclusively identified

after dental records had been sent over from the

United States.

27

3

L O N D O N , FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER

Dr Tara Mullray brushed a strand of coppery hair

from her eyes and continued along the gantry. It

was warm up there under the lamps and a sheen

of sweat glowed on her smooth, pale forehead.

Beneath, through the ventilation holes in the tops

of their tanks, she caught brief glimpses of the

snakes, but she paid them no more attention than

they did her. She'd worked in the reptile house for

over four years and the novelty of its inhabitants

had long since worn off.

She passed the rock python, the puff adder, the

carpet viper and the Gabon viper, eventually coming

to a halt above the black-necked cobra. It was curled

in the corner of its tank, but as soon as she arrived

it raised its head, tongue flickering, its thick, olive-

brown body moving from side to side like a

metronome.

'Hi, Joey,' she said, putting down the bin and

snake hook she was carrying and squatting on the

gantry. 'How are you feeling today?'

28

The snake probed the underside of the tank's

lid, inquisitive. She put on a pair of thick leather

gloves and also protective goggles, for the cobra

could, and did, spit venom.

'OK, lover boy,' she said, grasping the snake

hook. 'Medication time.'

She bent forward and eased the top off the tank,

leaning backwards as the snake's head rose to

meet her, its hood slightly distended. In one clean,

choreographed movement she grasped the handle

of the bin lid, scooped the snake up with the hook

and, keeping her eyes on it all the time, dropped it

into the bin and slammed the lid down on top.

From inside came a soft slithering sound as the

cobra explored its new surroundings.

'It's for your own good, Joey,' she said. 'Don't

be getting angry now.'

The black-necked cobra was the one snake in

the collection she didn't like. With the others, even

the taipan, she was perfectly at ease. The cobra,

however, always made her feel nervous. It was

crafty and aggressive, and had a bad temper. It had

bitten her once, a year ago, as she removed it from

its tank for cleaning. She'd hooked it too far down

the body and it had managed to swing round and

lunge at the back of her bare hand. Fortunately it

was just a dry bite with no venom injected, but it

had shaken her. In almost ten years of working

with snakes she'd never before been bitten. Since

then she had treated it with the utmost caution

and always wore gloves when she had to handle it,

something she didn't do with the other snakes. She

checked the lid to make sure it was secure and,

lifting the bin, set off back down the gantry,

29

manoeuvring her way carefully down a set of steps

at the end and walking along a corridor to her

office. She could feel the snake moving inside the

container and slowed her step, trying not to jolt it

too much. No point in disturbing it more than was

necessary.

Inside the office Alexandra, her assistant, was

waiting. Together they removed the cobra from

the bin and laid it out on a bench, Alexandra hold-

ing it flat while Tara squatted down to examine it.

'It should have healed by now,' she sighed,

probing an area midway along the snake's back

where the scales were swollen and sore. 'He's been

rubbing it against his rock again. I think we

should leave his tank bare for a while to give it

time to mend.'

She removed some antiseptic from a cupboard

and began gently cleaning the wound. The snake's

tongue flicked in and out, its black eyes staring up

at her menacingly.

'What time's your flight?' asked Alexandra.

'Six,' replied Tara, glancing up at the clock on

the wall. 'I'm going to have to go as soon as I've

finished here.'

'I wish my dad lived abroad. It makes the

relationship seem so much more exotic.'

Tara smiled. 'There are many ways you could

describe my relationship with my father, Alex, but

exotic isn't one of them. Careful of his head there.'

She finished cleaning the affected area and,

squeezing a blob of cream onto her finger, smeared

it along the snake's flank.

'While I'm away he needs to be cleaned every

couple of days, OK? And keep up with the

30

antibiotics until Friday. I don't want the cellulitis

spreading.'

'Just go and have a good time,' said Alexandra.

'I'll call at the end of the week to make sure

there aren't any complications.'

'Will you stop worrying? Everything'll be fine.

Believe it or not the zoo can survive without you

for two weeks.'

Tara smiled. Alexandra was right. She got too

intense about her work. It was a trait she'd in-

herited from her father. This would be the first

proper holiday she'd had for two years and she

knew she ought to make the most of it. She

squeezed her assistant's arm.

'Sorry. Over-reacting.'

'I mean it's not like the snakes are going to miss

you, is it? They don't have feelings.'

Tara assumed a mock-insulted face. 'How dare

you talk about my babies like that! They'll cry for

me every night I'm away.'

They both laughed. Tara took the snake hook

and, working together, they returned the cobra to

its bin.

'You OK to put him back?'

'Sure,' said Alexandra. 'Just go.'

Tara grabbed her coat and crash helmet and

headed for the door.

'Antibiotics till Friday, remember.'

'Go, for Christ's sake!'

'And don't forget to take out his stone.'

'Jesus, Tara!'

Alexandra snatched up a cloth and threw it.

Tara ducked and, laughing, ran away down the

corridor.

31

'And make sure you wear the goggles when you

put him back,' she called over her shoulder.

'You know what a bastard he is after he's had his

medication!'

The afternoon traffic was heavy, but she wove

skilfully through it on her moped, crossing

the Thames at Vauxhall Bridge and opening the

throttle for the last couple of miles down to

Brixton. Every now and then she checked her

watch. Her flight left in just over three hours and

she hadn't even packed yet.

'Bollocks,' she muttered beneath her helmet.

She lived alone, in a cavernous basement flat

backing onto Brockwell Park. She'd bought it five

years ago, with money her mother left her, and her

best friend Jenny had moved into the spare room

as a lodger.

For a couple of years they'd lived a life of care-

free bohemianism, throwing parties, drifting in

and out of relationships, not taking anything too

seriously. Then Jenny had met Nick and within a

few months they'd moved in together, leaving Tara

to manage the flat alone. The mortgage repay-

ments were ruinous, but she didn't take in another

lodger. She enjoyed having her own space. She

sometimes wondered if she could ever settle down

with a man in the way Jenny had. Once, years ago,

there had been someone, but that was long since

over. On the whole she was happy with her own

company.

The flat was a mess when she came in. She

poured herself a glass of wine, stuck on a Lou

Reed CD and walked through to the study,

32

jabbing the 'Play' button on the answerphone. A

metallic female voice announced, 'You have six

messages.'

Two were from Nigel, an old university friend,

the first inviting her to dinner on Saturday, the

second cancelling the invitation because he'd

remembered she was going away. One was from

Jenny warning her not to go on any camel rides

because all the handlers were perverts, one from a

school confirming a talk she was to give on snakes

and one from Harry, a stockbroker who'd been

pursuing her for two months and whose calls she

never returned. The final message was from her

father.

'Tara, I was wondering if you could bring me

some Scotch. And
The Times.
If there are any

problems call me, otherwise I'll meet you at the

airport. I'm, uh . . . looking forward to seeing you.

Yes, um, really looking forward to it. Bye then.'

She smiled. He always sounded so awkward

when he tried to say something affectionate. Like

most academics Professor Michael Mullray was

only really at home in the world of ideas.

Emotions got in the way of clear thinking. That

was why he and her mother had split up. Because

he couldn't cope with her need for feeling. Even

when she'd died six years ago he'd struggled to

show any emotion. At her funeral he'd sat at the

back, alone, expressionless, lost in his own

thoughts, and left immediately afterwards to give

a lecture in Oxford.

She finished her wine and went into the kitchen

to refill her glass. She knew she ought to tidy the

flat, but time was pressing, so she contented

33

herself with taking out the rubbish and doing the

washing up before going into the bedroom to

pack.

She hadn't seen her father for almost a year, not

since he was last in England. They spoke on the

telephone occasionally, but the conversations were

functional rather than warm. He would tell her

about some new object he'd unearthed, or a class he

was teaching; she'd dredge up some gossip about

friends and work. The calls rarely lasted longer than

a few minutes. Each year he sent her a birthday card

and each year it arrived a week late.

She'd thus been surprised when last month, out

of the blue, he'd called and invited her to stay. He

had lived abroad for five years and this was the

first time he had suggested she come out.

'The season's all but over,' he'd said. 'Why not

get yourself a flight? You can stay in the dig house

and I can show you some of the sights.'

Her immediate reaction had been one of

concern. He was old, well into his seventies, and

had a weak heart, for which he was on constant

medication. Perhaps this was his way of saying his

health was failing and he wanted to make his

peace before the end. When she'd asked, however,

he'd insisted he was perfectly well and merely

thought it would be nice for father and daughter

to spend a bit of time together. It was unlike him

and she'd been suspicious, but in the end she'd

thought what the hell and booked a flight. When

she'd called to let him know when she'd be arriv-

ing he had seemed genuinely pleased.

'Splendid!' he had said. 'We'll have a fine old

time.'

34

She sifted through the clothes on her bed, pick-

ing out the items she wanted and throwing them

into a large holdall. She felt like a cigarette, but

resisted the temptation. She hadn't smoked for

almost a year and didn't want to start again, not

least because if she could make the full twelve

months she stood to win a hundred pounds from

Jenny. As she always did when the urge came upon

her, she fetched an ice cube from the freezer and

sucked that instead.

She wondered whether she should have bought

her father a present, but there wasn't time now

and, anyway, even if she had got him something he

almost certainly wouldn't like it. She remembered

the acute disappointment of Christmases as a child

when she would plan for weeks what to give him,

only for him to open her carefully chosen gift,

mumble a half-hearted 'Lovely, dear. Just what I

wanted,' and then disappear into his paper again.

She'd get him some duty-free whisky and a
Times,

and perhaps some aftershave, and that would have

to do.

Throwing a few last odds and ends into the bag,

she went into the bathroom and took a shower.

Part of her was dreading the trip. She knew they'd

end up arguing, however hard they tried to avoid

it. At the same time she couldn't help feeling

excited. It was a while since she'd last been abroad

and if things got really bad she could always

take off on her own for a few days. She wasn't a

kid any more, dependent on her father. She could

do whatever she wanted. She increased the heat

of the shower and threw her head back so that

the water slashed against her breasts and stomach.

35

She began humming to herself.

Afterwards, having locked all the windows, she

stepped outside with her holdall and slammed the

door behind her. It was dark now and a light

drizzle had begun to fall, making the pavements

glow under the streetlights. Normally this sort of

weather depressed her, but not this evening.