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Chapter no 3 – Imprisoned with My Cat

The Red Pyramid

[Give me the bloody mic.]

Hullo. Sadie here. My brotherโ€™s a rubbish storyteller. Sorry about that.

But now youโ€™ve got me, so all is well.

Letโ€™s 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 didnโ€™t really mind that part. Heโ€™s a pain anyway. But they locked me in the curatorโ€™s office for ages. And yes, they used our bicycle chain to do it. Cretins.

I was shattered, of course. Iโ€™d just been knocked out by a fiery whatever- it-was. Iโ€™d 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 curatorโ€™s office. She asked me no questions. She just trundled me into a police car and took me home. Even then, I wasnโ€™t allowed to explain to Gran and Gramps. The policewoman just tossed me into my room and I waited. And waited.

I donโ€™t 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 wasnโ€™t much to do. Muffin sniffed my legs and her tail puffed up like a bottlebrush. I suppose she doesnโ€™t fancy the smell of museums. She hissed and disappeared under the bed.

โ€œThanks a lot,โ€ I muttered.

I opened the door, but the policewoman was standing guard.

โ€œThe inspector will be with you in a moment,โ€ she told me. โ€œPlease stay inside.โ€

I could see downstairsโ€”just a glimpse of Gramps pacing the room,

wringing his hands, while Carter and a police inspector talked on the sofa. I couldnโ€™t make out what they were saying.

โ€œCould I just use the loo?โ€ I asked the nice officer.

โ€œNo.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 Iโ€™m too distracted for music, that is a very sad thing. I wondered why Carter got to talk to the police first. It wasnโ€™t fair.

I fiddled with the necklace Dad had given me. Iโ€™d never been sure what the symbol meant. Carterโ€™s was obviously an eye, but mine looked a bit like an angel, or perhaps a killer alien robot.

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Why on earth had Dad asked if I still had it? Of course I still had it. It was the only gift heโ€™d ever given me. Well, apart from Muffin, and with the catโ€™s attitude, Iโ€™m 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 museumโ€”and Iโ€™m not making this upโ€”the necklace got hotter. I nearly took it off, but I couldnโ€™t help wondering if it truly was protecting me somehow.

Iโ€™ll 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 donโ€™t happen. But I knew better. I couldnโ€™t dream anything as horrifying as that fiery manโ€™s face when heโ€™d turned on us. โ€œSoon, boy,โ€ heโ€™d told Carter, as if he intended to track us down. Just the idea made my hands tremble. I also couldnโ€™t help wondering about our stop at Cleopatraโ€™s 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 Iโ€™d 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 cupboardโ€”Mumโ€™s childhood artwork, her O-level results, her graduation picture from university, her favorite jewelry. Itโ€™s 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 couldnโ€™t 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 Iโ€™d kept the photo was because of the symbol on Mumโ€™s T-shirt: one of those life symbolsโ€”an ankh.

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My dead mother wearing the symbol for life. Nothing couldโ€™ve 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 whoโ€™d been arguing with Dad across the streetโ€”heโ€™d 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 didnโ€™t 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. โ€œMiss Kane?โ€ I whirled and dropped the pencil.

A police inspector stood frowning in my doorway. โ€œWhat are you doing?โ€

โ€œMaths,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. โ€œNow

then, Sadie. Iโ€™m Chief Inspector Williams. Letโ€™s have a chat, shall we? Sit down.โ€

I didnโ€™t sit, and neither did he, which mustโ€™ve annoyed him. Itโ€™s hard to look in charge when youโ€™re hunched over like Quasimodo.

โ€œTell me everything, please,โ€ he said, โ€œfrom the time your father came round to get you.โ€

โ€œI already told the police at the museum.โ€ โ€œAgain, if you donโ€™t 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.

โ€œWell, Sadie,โ€ Inspector Williams said. โ€œYouโ€™ve got quite an imagination.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m not lying, Inspector. And I think your eyebrow is trying to escape.โ€

He tried to look at his own eyebrows, then scowled. โ€œNow, Sadie, Iโ€™m sure this is very hard on you. I understand you want to protect your fatherโ€™s reputation. But heโ€™s gone nowโ€”โ€

โ€œYou mean through the floor in a coffin,โ€ I insisted. โ€œHeโ€™s not dead.โ€

Inspector Williams spread his hands. โ€œSadie, Iโ€™m very sorry. But we must find out why he did this act of…well…โ€

โ€œAct of what?โ€

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. โ€œYour father destroyed priceless artifacts and apparently killed himself in the process. Weโ€™d very much like to know why.โ€

I stared at him. โ€œAre you saying my fatherโ€™s a terrorist? Are you mad?โ€ โ€œWeโ€™ve made calls to some of your fatherโ€™s associates. I understand his

behavior had become erratic since your motherโ€™s death. Heโ€™d become withdrawn and obsessive in his studies, spending more and more time in Egyptโ€”โ€

โ€œHeโ€™s a bloody Egyptologist! You should be looking for him, not asking stupid questions!โ€

โ€œSadie,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. โ€œThere 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 youโ€™ve heard him mention any namesโ€”โ€

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 โ€œtell the truth,โ€ and when you do, they donโ€™t believe you. Whatโ€™s 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 Iโ€™d 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 shouldโ€™ve 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 couldnโ€™t remember why.

Behind me, the inspector cleared his throat. โ€œSadie, 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. โ€œAgainst my will? I chained the curator in his office.โ€

The inspectorโ€™s eyebrow started to creep up again. โ€œBe that as it may, surely you didnโ€™t understand what your father meant to do. Possibly your brother was involved?โ€

I snorted. โ€œCarter? Please.โ€

โ€œSo you are determined to protect him as well. You consider him a proper brother, do you?โ€

I couldnโ€™t believe it. I wanted to smack his face. โ€œWhatโ€™s that supposed to mean? Because he doesnโ€™t look like me?โ€

The inspector blinked. โ€œI only meantโ€”โ€

โ€œI know what you meant. Of course heโ€™s 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 werenโ€™t related, or looked at my father askance when he said the three of us were a familyโ€”like weโ€™d 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.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry, Sadie,โ€ the inspector said. โ€œI 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 mightโ€™ve mentioned.โ€

โ€œAmos,โ€ I blurted out, just to see his reaction. โ€œHe met a man named Amos.โ€

Inspector Williams sighed. โ€œSadie, he couldnโ€™t have done. Surely you know that. We spoke with Amos not one hour ago, on the phone from his home in New York.โ€

โ€œHe isnโ€™t in New York!โ€ I insisted. โ€œHeโ€™s rightโ€”โ€

I glanced out the window and Amos was gone. Bloody typical. โ€œThatโ€™s not possible,โ€ I said.

โ€œExactly,โ€ the inspector said.

โ€œBut he was here!โ€ I exclaimed. โ€œWho is he? One of Dadโ€™s colleagues?

How did you know to call him?โ€

โ€œReally, Sadie. This acting must stop.โ€ โ€œActing?โ€

The inspector studied me for a moment, then set his jaw as if heโ€™d made a decision. โ€œWeโ€™ve already had the truth from Carter. I didnโ€™t want to upset you, but he told us everything. He understands thereโ€™s no point protecting your father now. You might as well help us, and there will be no charges against you.โ€

โ€œYou shouldnโ€™t lie to children!โ€ I yelled, hoping my voice carried all the way downstairs. โ€œCarter would never say a word against Dad, and neither will I!โ€

The inspector didnโ€™t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

He crossed his arms. โ€œIโ€™m sorry you feel that way, Sadie. Iโ€™m afraid itโ€™s time we went downstairs…to discuss consequences with your grandparents.โ€

โ€ŒS A D I E

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