Sands of Time

13

‘Are you OK?’ Phyllis bent anxiously over Toby’s recumbent form. He groaned, somehow forcing his eyes open to see the old woman in the red dressing gown standing over him, the poker still in her hand.

‘What happened?’ He put his hand to his forehead and brought it away, sticky with blood.

‘I’m afraid I hit you with the poker. Or at least, I didn’t hit you, I hit Lord Carstairs.’

Toby blinked. Somehow he forced himself into a sitting position. ‘How did I get downstairs?’

‘You walked, my dear.’ Phyllis lowered the poker, satisfied that the rightful owner was once more in charge of his body. ‘You were sleep walking. Your eyes were closed. You woke up but then somehow he seemed to overwhelm you again. I had to hit you. You were trying to get the bottle from Anna.’

‘Anna?’ He looked round. ‘Oh God! I remember now. Did I hurt her? Where is she?’

‘She’s gone. She’s all right, but if I had any doubts before about what you said had happened to you, I have none now. It was awful. Frightening. It was not you I hit.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘But even so, I might have killed you. I don’t know my own strength. I’m so sorry.’

‘So Anna got away?’

She nodded. ‘And I don’t know where she’s gone so there is no point in asking me.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think I ought to call the doctor. Perhaps you need a CT scan or something.’

He laughed – then winced. ‘I doubt that. I’ve got a tough head. I might need a psychiatrist, but not a doctor.’ Levering himself onto his feet he groped for a chair. ‘Did I threaten her? I can’t believe this is happening to me. I love her.’

‘So do I, Toby.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘And I don’t know what to do. She’s safe for the moment. That’s the main thing.’

‘I hope to God she gets rid of that damn bottle. Permanently.’

‘She’s afraid to. She’s afraid that will unleash some awful curse upon the world.’

‘I’m far more afraid that it will release some awful curse upon her. Oh, God! I wish I could speak to her.’ He paused. ‘Mobile! Has she got a mobile?’

Phyllis shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

‘How stupid! I should have her number. I should have asked her. Who would know?’

She shook her head.

‘There must be someone! Her father? She told me about her father.’

‘With whom she doesn’t get on. No, Toby, let it be. Anna is safe now, wherever she is. For the time being it is better if she is as far away from you as possible.’

The Orwell Bridge. She was heading towards the Orwell Bridge, that soaring arc of white concrete flying high above the river which divided Essex from Suffolk. Anna smiled. At last, as her fear abated, a plan was taking shape in her mind. The river was deep in the centre; it must be. Deep, and its bed must be mud. Thick black mud which would contain whatever was in the bottle absolutely and completely for ever. It was there she would throw it to its final resting place.

The decision made, she pushed the car harder, concentrating on the road rolling out in front of her, unaware of the restless anger building in the seat behind.

A woman’s body. At first the idea had been exciting; titillating even. A curiosity. Something to be enjoyed; played with. But now he was not so sure. She was beautiful – in some ways not unlike her great-great grandmother, the woman who had so teased and angered and enticed him. But she had a different energy. She was stronger; isolated there inside her head. The love she had harboured for Toby had been reined in, fenced off, and in the fencing, he was not sure that there were any gaps so that he could slip inside her head as he had done so easily with his own great-great grandson. He had spent too long in the dark. His strength and his focus had waned. But that would change. His frustration was growing, and with it his substance.

On the back seat of the car the shadows deepened. They were taking on a shape. If Anna glanced in the mirror she would see it now. She didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the empty road. Several lorries hurtled by on the opposite carriageway, heading for the Midlands. She didn’t see them. She was feeling sleepy. The exhaustion of the last days; the wakeful nights and nightmares, the lack of sleep, were catching up with her.

Carstairs was concentrating on Anna’s thoughts. He sensed her tiredness; it made her vulnerable. Weak. Soon she would be defenceless. He was only marginally aware that they were travelling at some speed; that he was seated in some sort of horseless carriage which was travelling faster than he would have believed possible. It was not until her eyelids drooped and the car began to veer across the empty road that he realised the danger.

At the last moment, her eyes flew open and her hands wrenched the wheel straight as a vicious shot of adrenaline knifed through her stomach. Carstairs felt the fear; he saw the danger through her eyes. He heard the small parcel roll around in the front of the car. He smiled.

‘Shit!’ Anna banged the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. ‘Be careful, you idiot!’ She was talking to herself again. Clutching the wheel tightly she concentrated on the road and now at last she glanced up into the driving mirror. The back of the car was in darkness, her passenger only shadows. She noticed nothing unusual as she drove on.

Ahead she saw a lay-by signposted. She swung the wheel and pulled in. Drawing to a halt she locked the doors and sat with her head back against the head rest, breathing deeply. She was shaking all over. A short nap. She must have a short nap. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.

On the floor beside her a tiny drop of moisture seeped slowly through the bubble wrap, spread across the shiny bumpy plastic and was absorbed by the carpet of the car. Inside the wrapping, in the warm darkness, the crack in the glass bloomed with another thin line of liquid. The life force of the ages was beginning to run out. The priests, hovering over the lay-by, were losing their power.

Anna’s eyes closed. This time she didn’t open them again. She felt safe now that she had stopped. Her breathing slowed. Behind her the shadowy figure leaned forward. Anna didn’t feel the light brush of his finger through her hair.

As the level of her sleep deepened she began to dream. Her bedroom was dark, her nightgown light as a feather, her feet bare. She was standing at the window, looking out into her small back garden. It was lit by brilliant moonlight and in the distance she could see the arched glitter of her small fountain, playing quietly into the pond, where bright concentric ripples spread out into the darkness at its rim. On the lawn she could see two wispy figures, one dressed in shadowed white, one in the skin of an animal. Hatsek and Anhotep. The priests of Sekhmet and of Isis, the would-be guardians of the little bottle, the men who had followed it through aeons of time. Their power was waning. They could feel it and they were angry. They turned as though sensing her watching them and she felt the strength of their impotent fury as a knife blade in her heart. With a gasp she staggered backwards, away from the window. Hands gripped her shoulders. Don’t be afraid. They can’t hurt you. Not any more.

She gave a small cry of surprise and fear as the hands tightened, stopping her from turning round to face him. She felt warm breath on the nape of her neck. You are safe here, my dear. Quite safe. I won’t let them come near you.

‘How can you stop them?’ She could feel him behind her. He was taller than her and very strong. Now she could feel warm lips on her neck. She tried to struggle free but she couldn’t move.

Surely you would rather speak to me than with them.

His hands slid forward to her breasts, caressing her, feeling for the buttons on the front of the nightgown, one by one slipping them free of their embroidered loops. The garment, feather-light silk, was slipping off her shoulders and she could do nothing to stop it.

‘Please. Who are you?’

There was a quiet laugh. Don’t you know?

He was turning her to face him and she found herself looking up into his eyes. The dark, handsome face looking down into hers was that of a stranger. He bent to press his lips against hers and she felt desire knife through her body. Behind her in the garden the moon vanished behind a curtain of cloud. The two wispy figures on the lawn faded.

She was behaving like a harlot, unable to control herself, pressing her body against his, feeling every line of muscle in his tall frame, hungrily reaching for his lips as his hands roamed her hot eager body…