over her shoulder, every gesture and line of her body denoting fear. There was a man behind her. Pounding over the paving slabs in sandalled feet, he was dressed in the long, loose, everyday garb of so many Egyptians, the galabiya. In his hand he was brandishing a knife. He stopped. Even at that distance Emma could see he was gasping for breath, the hand which was not clasping the knife clamped to his side as if he was winded. The man and the woman stared at each other for an interminable moment as Emma watched. She could see the longing in his eyes and the regret as he raised his hand towards her, a hand that was smeared with blood. For a moment, the woman hesitated. She reached out to him in a gesture which spoke of poignant love and loss and then she turned and started to run again, towards Emma. She was so close now that Emma could see her face, her dark eyes, huge with terror, her long hair, torn free of the veil, streaming black behind her, streaks of blood on her dress, her breast, her hands. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Terrified, Emma stepped back out of the way. Between one second and the next, she was there, close enough to touch, to see the detail of her torn, embroidered neckline, the shredded silk of the veil wrapped around her neck, the bare, slender feet soundless on the paving, and then she had run past. Emma spun round to stare after her, but she had gone. Trembling, Emma turned to where she had seen the man bending double to catch his breath. There was no sign of him either.
Hardly daring to breathe, Emma crept towards the spot and stared down. There must be traces of blood. Some sign of the man’s anguish. Some sound. There was nothing.
She looked back to where she had been standing. The sun blazed down between the pillars onto the sand.
‘Oh God!’ Slowly she turned full circle, staring up. There was no sign of a roof now – only lofty columns towering above her. Beneath her, there were no paving slabs either. She was beginning to panic. She was imagining things. It was the heat. The exhaustion. The strangeness of it all.
‘Gill?’ Her frightened cry echoed for a moment through the silence. ‘Mahmoud? Is there anyone there? Anyone?’ She took a deep breath, then she paused, listening. A voice was answering. She strained to hear it.
‘Hello?’
There it was again. Nearer, this time. A man’s voice. She spun round, trying hard to locate the sound. It was deadened; strange.
And then she saw him. Tall, his shock of fair hair obscured by a wide-brimmed sun hat, his eyes a clear green, like a cat’s, he appeared suddenly from behind a pillar only a few yards in front of her. For a moment they stared at each other in astonished silence, then his face relaxed into a grin. ‘It’s Emma isn’t it?’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Confused and still unnerved, she almost threw herself at him. ‘Did you see what happened?’ To her embarrassment, she found she couldn’t hold back the tears of shock.
His arms closed around her, holding her steady, then gently he pushed her away, his hands on her shoulders. ‘I didn’t see anything. What’s wrong?’ He could feel her trembling violently.
‘I saw this woman.’ She could barely get the words out between her sobs. ‘There was a man chasing her. I don’t know why, but I got the feeling he had tried to strangle her! She must have stabbed him. He was bleeding!’ She was staring round wildly.
‘And where are they now?’ He frowned. For a moment she thought he was going to turn away, then she realised that his quick glance was as nervous as her own. He took off his hat and pushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know. I could feel their emotion. It was as if their love and their fear were tangible! Then it had gone!’ She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, suddenly conscious of the fact that nothing she said made any sense, and that she had thrown herself into the arms of a total stranger. A stranger who knew her name.
As though reading her thoughts, he asked, ‘You don’t remember me? I’m Patrick.’ His voice was deep and mellow. ‘I was at the next table on the boat last night. I saw you stray away from the party just now and I thought what a good idea to get out of the sun. I’m writing up the cruise for a travel mag. I was photographing the columns.’ He had a camera bag slung over his shoulder, a Nikon around his neck. ‘Then I heard you calling.’
She gave him a watery smile. ‘I’m sorry I threw myself at you. I was so frightened. It was so strange. And after they disappeared it was as though suddenly I was the only person in the world.’
He glanced round. ‘We still might be.’ He frowned. ‘There is an eerie atmosphere in here, I agree. Come on.’ He held out his hand. ‘We’d better find someone and tell them what you saw. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Whoever they were, they seem to have gone now.’ There was something about Patrick which she found comforting.
They walked several paces down the centre of one of the avenues between the columns, then Emma stopped. She shook her head. ‘The roof was still there, where I saw them. And the floor was paved. Somehow, I’ve moved away from where it was.’ She turned round slowly. On every side, all she could see were vistas of columns beneath the sky. She saw Patrick glance at her for one thoughtful second and she grimaced. ‘You think I dreamed it up. Heatstroke or something.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Am I going mad? But it was so real, so clear.’ She bit her lip.
He stared past her into the distance. ‘No, I really don’t think you’re going mad. Something does feel wrong.’ He took a few steps away from her and, very cautiously, reached out to touch the column that was nearest them.
She watched, holding her breath as his fingers traced the lines on the carved stone. He withdrew his hand and stared at it thoughtfully, then he reached into his hip pocket for a well-thumbed guide-book. ‘This doesn’t look right at all. I think we should find Mahmoud. He’ll know what to do.’ He took a few paces forward and stopped, puzzled. ‘There should be people. Crowds. I don’t understand.’
‘And the sparrows are quiet,’ Emma put in nervously. Her voice shook. ‘Did you notice?’ Suddenly it seemed terribly important.
He turned back and put his arm around her shoulders. Somehow the gesture, protective and comforting, made her feel even more scared. She huddled against him, conscious that her mouth was dry with fear. ‘This isn’t in your guide-book, is it?’ She stabbed at the open page with her finger. ‘Look at all those columns. The hypostyle hall. It looks like this, but it isn’t. This goes on forever! We’re lost!’
‘We can’t be lost, Emma, it’s not possible. The site is vast, but not that vast.’
‘Then we’ve fallen through a trap door in time -’ She broke off abruptly. She had meant the remark to be facetious but as their eyes met she saw that, for a split second, they both wondered if it were true. ‘They were ghosts, weren’t they?’ she said at last.
There was a moment of silence. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ His reply was cautious.
‘So you believe in ghosts?’
‘Not until now.’
‘She was real, Patrick. She ran by me, only a few feet away.’ But without a sound, without a movement of the air around her. She managed a shaky smile. ‘Perhaps we’d better pinch each other!’ She saw him grin. Saw him reach out towards her. Felt the tips of his fingers brush against hers. Then the world went black.
For a long moment she held her breath, unable to think, then the air around them exploded into sound. She felt Patrick grab her wrist, realised they were running, heard the echo of music and the noise of disembodied voices. ‘What’s happening?’ She was bewildered. Terrified.
‘I don’t know. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
At least now there was noise. Light. He clapped his hands over his ears as the sound of trumpets and brass echoed around the Temple. Stopping, he pulled her into his arms in the shelter of a stone wall.
‘It’s all right, Emma! It’s all right! It’s the sound-and-light show. I don’t know how, or why, but somehow we’re in the middle of it! Look!’ Bright lights flared up all around them.
‘It’s night. How can it be night?’ Emma found she was still clutching his hand.
‘I don’t know; and I don’t for the minute care. At least we’re out of that place!’ He caught her hand and they ran together, dodging between obelisks and statues, through columns and past walls, seeing spotlights playing on the stone near them, then swinging away to light another area.
There was no one on the gate; the car park was a sea of empty coaches. Panting, they stopped and stared around.
‘We’ll find a taxi.’ Patrick glanced over his shoulder as one of the spotlights swung up towards the sky.
To Emma’s relief he seemed to know where to find one, how to negotiate the fare with the driver, even where the boat was moored. As they rattled back through the streets of Luxor, she found she was still clinging to his hand.
‘Patrick,’ she said quietly. ‘Whatever happened back there?’ She glanced at him in the glare of the street lights
