She needed to collect her thoughts. Anouk staggered back and landed hard on the stone. “Ouch! My bum.”
She looked down at her trousers. The knees were torn and dirty. She checked the rest of her clothing and body. Everything looked fine apart from the dirt on her hands, coat and shoes.
“Well, if my trousers are the only casualty, I can live with that.”
Anouk leaned her back against the cross. What was that man doing in the sarcophagus? How had he got in there in the first place? He had been flesh and blood, and not a ghost. Anouk shook her head. As if ghosts existed. Maybe he was some crazy taphophile who took his hobby a tad too far, like her Goth friend Geordie whose pride and joy had been a real human skull he had stolen somewhere.
Anouk rubbed her face. First Owen, now some crazy in a coffin. And she had thought the worst was over when she left the office. Yes, this definitely wasn’t her day.
She glanced in the direction the man had vanished. The path looked empty and no shadows were lurking under the trees.
“I hope that maniac is long gone.”
She pushed herself up and walked to the sarcophagus, picking up the bundle of papers on her way.
The cover lay next to the stone coffin on the ground and in one piece. Anouk stooped down to examine the cover which had come to rest at the base of Mr Rafael Cowen’s gravestone. It should be in tiny pieces, but it was fine… as was the sarcophagus. How could that be possible?
She straightened and took a deep breath before risking a look inside the casket, mentally preparing herself to see a smashed coffin and human bones protruding from within. She peeked inside, and an orange flash of light filled her vision—sharp pain stabbed through her eyes to the back of her skull and she jumped back screaming.
Chapter 2
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Did I scare you?” a man’s voice asked.
Anouk’s heart missed a beat. She swivelled her head towards the speaker, but bright orange dots bounced around, filling Anouk’s world. She blinked to ward them off but with no success.
“I can’t see!” Anouk flailed her hands around, trying to find something solid to hold on to. Her fingers brushed the rough edge of the sarcophagus. She grabbed it with both her hands, ignoring the sting of small crystals biting into her palm.
“Oh, you looked directly at the light, didn’t you?”
“Am I going blind?” Anouk squeezed her eyes tight before opening them again. The frantic light show persisted, and the throbbing dull pain behind her eyes beat to the rhythm.
“No, but it will take some time before you get your sight back. Here, let me help you.”
Owen’s favourite horror movie The Mummy’s Curse popped into Anouk’s mind. She startled back. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
She lifted her arms in front of her, readying herself to block him should he try to attack her—blind or not, she wasn’t going down without a fight. That said, her skills in martial arts were useless against a gun or a cursed corpse. Or, indeed, a cursed corpse with a gun!
“Of course not, I’m not a brute.” There was amusement in the man’s voice.
A soft thud came as he jumped down from the sarcophagus, followed by the clinking of metal and rustling of fabric. A warm hand touched hers. Anouk was relieved to find it wasn’t wrapped in a shroud. Thank God, not a homicidal mummy after all. But, was he the same man who just a few minutes earlier shot at her? No, that was impossible, she hadn’t seen him sneaking back. To be on the safe side, it was better to play along for now, so she clutched his hand. The man’s other hand found her shoulder and she let him guide her.
The orange lights showed no sign of dissipating.
“How long does it take?” Anouk asked.
“How long does what take?”
“To get my vision back.”
The hand from her shoulder moved to take her by the elbow. “Not long. Now, let me help you sit on this stone slab,” the man said and assisted her to a seat. “I won’t leave you before you get your sight back, ma’am.”
Anouk squeezed his hand. “Thanks.” The idea of sitting alone and blind in a cemetery was creepy. Although… sitting with a stranger might not prove much safer in the long run. What did he want from her?
“Who are you?” Anouk asked.
“I’m so sorry, I forgot my manners. Nat Walla at your service, ma’am.”
For the first time, Anouk paid attention to his voice. It was rich and resonant, but his accent was strange. It was an odd mixture of posh and Gaelic with a sharp rolling of the letter ‘R’. She frowned. Where did they speak like that?
“Anouk Herring,” she blurted, not knowing how else to respond. His old-fashioned greeting had warmed her but the last man who climbed out of that grave had shot at her. Now, if ever, it was best to be polite and not give this one any reason to do likewise.
“Pleased to meet you, Anouk Herring. You have a beautiful name.”
Anouk burst out laughing, albeit tinged with hysteria. “Which? Anouk or Herring?”
“Well, both, but I meant Anouk. I haven’t heard that name before.”
“It’s Dutch.”
“Dutch?”
“Yes, my father is Dutch and Anouk was his grandmother’s name. He wanted me to be named after her. My mother is British; she died a few months ago. I was visiting her grave when I bumped into a guy who, by the way, shot at me, and then… you. I do hope you don’t have murder on your mind.” Anouk tittered nervously, wondering why she was babbling.
“My deepest condolences for your loss, and no, I don’t go about killing women,” Nat said, a note of indignation in
