[Give me the bloody mic.]
Hullo. Sadie here. My brotherโs a rubbish storyteller. Sorry about that.
But now youโve got me, so all is well.
Letโs see. The explosion. Rosetta Stone in a billion pieces. Fiery evil bloke. Dad boxed in a coffin. Creepy Frenchman and Arab girl with the knife. Us passing out. Right.
So when I woke up, the police were rushing about as you might expect. They separated me from my brother. I didnโt really mind that part. Heโs a pain anyway. But they locked me in the curatorโs office for ages. And yes, they used our bicycle chain to do it. Cretins.
I was shattered, of course. Iโd just been knocked out by a fiery whatever- it-was. Iโd watched my dad get packed in a sarcophagus and shot through the floor. I tried to tell the police about all that, but did they care? No.
Worst of all: I had a lingering chill, as if someone was pushing ice-cold needles into the back of my neck. It had started when I looked at those blue glowing words Dad had drawn on the Rosetta Stone and I knew what they meant. A family disease, perhaps? Can knowledge of boring Egyptian stuff be hereditary? With my luck.
Long after my gum had gone stale, a policewoman finally retrieved me from the curatorโs office. She asked me no questions. She just trundled me into a police car and took me home. Even then, I wasnโt allowed to explain to Gran and Gramps. The policewoman just tossed me into my room and I waited. And waited.
I donโt like waiting.
I paced the floor. My room was nothing posh, just an attic space with a window and a bed and a desk. There wasnโt much to do. Muffin sniffed my legs and her tail puffed up like a bottlebrush. I suppose she doesnโt fancy the smell of museums. She hissed and disappeared under the bed.
โThanks a lot,โ I muttered.
I opened the door, but the policewoman was standing guard.
โThe inspector will be with you in a moment,โ she told me. โPlease stay inside.โ
I could see downstairsโjust a glimpse of Gramps pacing the room,
wringing his hands, while Carter and a police inspector talked on the sofa. I couldnโt make out what they were saying.
โCould I just use the loo?โ I asked the nice officer.
โNo.โ She closed the door in my face. As if I might rig an explosion in the toilet. Honestly.
I dug out my iPod and scrolled through my playlist. Nothing struck me. I threw it on my bed in disgust. When Iโm too distracted for music, that is a very sad thing. I wondered why Carter got to talk to the police first. It wasnโt fair.
I fiddled with the necklace Dad had given me. Iโd never been sure what the symbol meant. Carterโs was obviously an eye, but mine looked a bit like an angel, or perhaps a killer alien robot.
Why on earth had Dad asked if I still had it? Of course I still had it. It was the only gift heโd ever given me. Well, apart from Muffin, and with the catโs attitude, Iโm not sure I would call her a proper gift.
Dad had practically abandoned me at age six, after all. The necklace was my one link to him. On good days I would stare at it and remember him fondly. On bad days (which were much more frequent) I would fling it across the room and stomp on it and curse him for not being around, which I found quite therapeutic. But in the end, I always put it back on.
At any rate, during the weirdness at the museumโand Iโm not making this upโthe necklace got hotter. I nearly took it off, but I couldnโt help wondering if it truly was protecting me somehow.
Iโll make things right, Dad had said, with that guilty look he often gives
me.
Well, colossal fail, Dad.
What had he been thinking? I wanted to believe it had all been a bad
dream: the glowing hieroglyphs, the snake staff, the coffin. Things like that simply donโt happen. But I knew better. I couldnโt dream anything as horrifying as that fiery manโs face when heโd turned on us. โSoon, boy,โ heโd told Carter, as if he intended to track us down. Just the idea made my hands tremble. I also couldnโt help wondering about our stop at Cleopatraโs Needle, how Dad had insisted on seeing it, as if he were steeling his courage, as if what he did at the British Museum had something to do with my mum.
My eyes wandered across my room and fixed on my desk. No, I thought. Not going to do it.
But I walked over and opened the drawer. I shoved aside a few old mags, my stash of sweets, a stack of maths homework Iโd forgotten to hand in, and a few pictures of me and my mates Liz and Emma trying on ridiculous hats in
Camden Market. And there at the bottom of it all was the picture of Mum.
Gran and Gramps have loads of pictures. They keep a shrine to Ruby in the hall cupboardโMumโs childhood artwork, her O-level results, her graduation picture from university, her favorite jewelry. Itโs quite mental. I was determined not to be like them, living in the past. I barely remembered Mum, after all, and nothing could change the fact she was dead.
But I did keep the one picture. It was of Mum and me at our house in Los Angeles, just after I was born. She stood out on the balcony, the Pacific Ocean behind her, holding a wrinkled pudgy lump of baby that would some day grow up to be yours truly. Baby me was not much to look at, but Mum was gorgeous, even in shorts and a tattered T-shirt. Her eyes were deep blue. Her blond hair was clipped back. Her skin was perfect. Quite depressing compared to mine. People always say I look like her, but I couldnโt even get the spot off my chin much less look so mature and beautiful.
[Stop smirking, Carter.]
The photo fascinated me because I hardly remembered our lives together at all. But the main reason Iโd kept the photo was because of the symbol on Mumโs T-shirt: one of those life symbolsโan ankh.
My dead mother wearing the symbol for life. Nothing couldโve been sadder. But she smiled at the camera as if she knew a secret. As if my dad and she were sharing a private joke.
Something tugged at the back of my mind. That stocky man in the trench coat whoโd been arguing with Dad across the streetโheโd said something about the Per Ankh.
Had he meant ankh as in the symbol for life, and if so, what was a per? I supposed he didnโt mean pear as in the fruit.
I had an eerie feeling that if I saw the words Per Ankh written in hieroglyphics, I would know what they meant.
I put down the picture of Mum. I picked up a pencil and turned over one of my old homework papers. I wondered what would happen if I tried to draw the words Per Ankh. Would the right design just occur to me?
As I touched pencil to paper, my bedroom door opened. โMiss Kane?โ I whirled and dropped the pencil.
A police inspector stood frowning in my doorway. โWhat are you doing?โ
โMaths,โ I said.
My ceiling was quite low, so the inspector had to stoop to come in. He wore a lint-colored suit that matched his gray hair and his ashen face. โNow
then, Sadie. Iโm Chief Inspector Williams. Letโs have a chat, shall we? Sit down.โ
I didnโt sit, and neither did he, which mustโve annoyed him. Itโs hard to look in charge when youโre hunched over like Quasimodo.
โTell me everything, please,โ he said, โfrom the time your father came round to get you.โ
โI already told the police at the museum.โ โAgain, if you donโt mind.โ
So I told him everything. Why not? His left eyebrow crept higher and higher as I told him the strange bits like the glowing letters and serpent staff.
โWell, Sadie,โ Inspector Williams said. โYouโve got quite an imagination.โ
โIโm not lying, Inspector. And I think your eyebrow is trying to escape.โ
He tried to look at his own eyebrows, then scowled. โNow, Sadie, Iโm sure this is very hard on you. I understand you want to protect your fatherโs reputation. But heโs gone nowโโ
โYou mean through the floor in a coffin,โ I insisted. โHeโs not dead.โ
Inspector Williams spread his hands. โSadie, Iโm very sorry. But we must find out why he did this act of…well…โ
โAct of what?โ
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. โYour father destroyed priceless artifacts and apparently killed himself in the process. Weโd very much like to know why.โ
I stared at him. โAre you saying my fatherโs a terrorist? Are you mad?โ โWeโve made calls to some of your fatherโs associates. I understand his
behavior had become erratic since your motherโs death. Heโd become withdrawn and obsessive in his studies, spending more and more time in Egyptโโ
โHeโs a bloody Egyptologist! You should be looking for him, not asking stupid questions!โ
โSadie,โ he said, and I could hear in his voice that he was resisting the urge to strangle me. Strangely, I get this a lot from adults. โThere are extremist groups in Egypt that object to Egyptian artifacts being kept in other countriesโ museums. These people might have approached your father. Perhaps in his state, your father became an easy target for them. If youโve heard him mention any namesโโ
I stormed past him to the window. I was so angry I could hardly think. I refused to believe Dad was dead. No, no, no. And a terrorist? Please. Why did adults have to be so thick? They always say โtell the truth,โ and when you do, they donโt believe you. Whatโs the point?
I stared down at the dark street. Suddenly that cold tingly feeling got worse than ever. I focused on the dead tree where Iโd met Dad earlier.
Standing there now, in the dim light of a streetlamp, looking up at me, was the pudgy bloke in the black trench coat and the round glasses and the fedoraโ the man Dad had called Amos.
I suppose I shouldโve felt threatened by an odd man staring up at me in the dark of night. But his expression was full of concern. And he looked so familiar. It was driving me mad that I couldnโt remember why.
Behind me, the inspector cleared his throat. โSadie, no one blames you for the attack on the museum. We understand you were dragged into this against your will.โ
I turned from the window. โAgainst my will? I chained the curator in his office.โ
The inspectorโs eyebrow started to creep up again. โBe that as it may, surely you didnโt understand what your father meant to do. Possibly your brother was involved?โ
I snorted. โCarter? Please.โ
โSo you are determined to protect him as well. You consider him a proper brother, do you?โ
I couldnโt believe it. I wanted to smack his face. โWhatโs that supposed to mean? Because he doesnโt look like me?โ
The inspector blinked. โI only meantโโ
โI know what you meant. Of course heโs my brother!โ
Inspector Williams held up his hands apologetically, but I was still seething. As much as Carter annoyed me, I hated it when people assumed we werenโt related, or looked at my father askance when he said the three of us were a familyโlike weโd done something wrong. Stupid Dr. Martin at the museum. Inspector Williams. It happened every time Dad and Carter and I were together. Every bloody time.
โIโm sorry, Sadie,โ the inspector said. โI only want to make sure we separate the innocent from the guilty. It will go much easier for everyone if you cooperate. Any information. Anything your father said. People he mightโve mentioned.โ
โAmos,โ I blurted out, just to see his reaction. โHe met a man named Amos.โ
Inspector Williams sighed. โSadie, he couldnโt have done. Surely you know that. We spoke with Amos not one hour ago, on the phone from his home in New York.โ
โHe isnโt in New York!โ I insisted. โHeโs rightโโ
I glanced out the window and Amos was gone. Bloody typical. โThatโs not possible,โ I said.
โExactly,โ the inspector said.
โBut he was here!โ I exclaimed. โWho is he? One of Dadโs colleagues?
How did you know to call him?โ
โReally, Sadie. This acting must stop.โ โActing?โ
The inspector studied me for a moment, then set his jaw as if heโd made a decision. โWeโve already had the truth from Carter. I didnโt want to upset you, but he told us everything. He understands thereโs no point protecting your father now. You might as well help us, and there will be no charges against you.โ
โYou shouldnโt lie to children!โ I yelled, hoping my voice carried all the way downstairs. โCarter would never say a word against Dad, and neither will I!โ
The inspector didnโt even have the decency to look embarrassed.
He crossed his arms. โIโm sorry you feel that way, Sadie. Iโm afraid itโs time we went downstairs…to discuss consequences with your grandparents.โ