Sphinx (32 page)

‘I’m not a religious man, Professor Silvio. I believe in the Big Bang, evolution and free markets. This device is an enigma, that’s obvious. For a start, parts of it are made of an alloy I’ve never seen before. Then there’re the two magnets at its core - they’re unusually powerful. Rotating magnetic fields have interesting properties, but affecting destinies? Come on. Besides, if all you’ve said about this machine is true, then you’d be the first to turn the key - after all, it’d stop your disease in its tracks.’ I challenged him, hoping he would call his own bluff.

The academic smiled sadly. ‘Indeed it would, but I am not afraid of dying. I am a devout Catholic: God has chosen this path for me and I must follow it. Besides, I suspect there is a twist in the astrarium’s promise, a sting in the scorpion’s tail.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Why do you think the key was separated from the machine before the battle of Actium? I believe Cleopatra was entirely aware, and perhaps afraid, of the astrarium’s magical powers. With one turn of the key, she could have influenced the outcome of the battle to her advantage - but she chose not to. The pivotal question is: why?’

I stared at the astrarium sitting there on the table, the soft lamplight picking out the various hues of the metal. Again, I was struck by the sense that the machine appeared to be observing me as I examined it. As I leaned down for closer scrutiny Professor Silvio pulled the key out of the mechanism. He handed it to me, looking at me sternly.

‘The key should never be turned. You understand, Oliver?’

I nodded, still not entirely convinced. But staring at his hagged visage now illuminated by the desk lamp, it suddenly occurred to me that he was acting out of love, love for Isabella. Despite my initial doubts, I found myself trusting him.

‘And promise me you will hide it somewhere safe - not here in this apartment.’ The professor gripped my hands. ‘Do not underestimate Hugh Wollington. He has powerful alliances - he is closely linked to Prince Majeed and the Egyptian authorities - and he is ambitious. Watch yourself, Oliver.’

The next morning, I picked up my car from where it was garaged near the flat and drove over to Lambeth. I found myself checking the mirror constantly to see whether I was being followed, wondering if Wollington had traced my vehicle. If he knew that Silvio had come to see me, he might suspect that I now held the key - at the very least he’d know that I had all the information I needed. I tried to convince myself it was a combination of exhaustion and stress, but by the time I reached Waterloo my nerves were shot.

Behind the station was a Turkish bathhouse and gymnasium that I’d frequented since my student days. Situated in a small seventeenth-century building sandwiched between two office blocks, the baths had originally been established to service gentlemen of leisure. I suspected they were now used for more clandestine encounters too, but chose to ignore the undercurrent of homosexual flirtation that occasionally drifted through the clouds of steam.

The gym had the most basic of equipment - two bench presses, free weights and a couple of exercise bicycles. A signed photograph of the English boxer Henry Cooper hung on one wall. There was also a steam room, a dry sauna and a large tiled area with plunge pools. I usually worked out, then spent some time in the steam room before immersing myself in the cold plunge pool. It was a brutal regime but one I had become addicted to - it was one of the few ways I could clear my mind of the obsessive analysis that was an integral part of my personality and my job.

But today I was there with an entirely different motive. I knew I couldn’t carry the astrarium around for much longer, especially now that the Was had surfaced. I owned a permanent locker in the baths, virtually impossible to find among the other lockers unless you knew the number. The perfect hiding place. I hurried up the narrow stairs, the astrarium in a small bag tucked under my arm. There were several men in various stages of undress in the locker room. A huge West Indian gentleman, his black skin gleaming with droplets of water, was towelling his great shiny back, the rolls of flesh rippling down to his waist. Two young cab drivers, just off the night shift, were exchanging anecdotes about dodgy customers in thick East End accents, while a sullen-looking adolescent in a pair of grubby Y-fronts sat in the corner reading a martial arts magazine that had Bruce Lee glaring out from the cover. They barely looked at me as I unlocked my battered steel locker.

Just then a young Arab entered; lean and muscular, he scanned the room aggressively as if searching for someone. A shudder of fear ran through me and I ducked immediately behind the open door of my locker, hiding my face. I waited a moment before peering over the top. To my relief, the young Arab, having established his territory, was now sitting on the bench. He began stripping his clothes off. I waited until he’d swaggered off in his bathers before placing the astrarium deep inside my locker. Throwing several layers of gym clothes on top of it, I fastened the lock, stripped and then headed to the steam room.

I settled myself on a bench and stared at the pinewood panelling, thinking over the past few days. The moisture in the steamy air condensed and ran down my forehead. I let my thoughts free-fall and in the drifting steam a vague recollection took shape. It was about seven months ago, just before we were due to leave for Egypt. Isabella had received a letter earlier that day and I’d found her sitting at her desk staring at the scrawled Arabic. She’d looked tense. Worried that it was bad news, I’d asked if it was from Ashraf, who wrote regularly. Frowning, she told me that it was an invitation to a conference from a society of archaeologists she used to belong to and that it had surprised her - she hadn’t been involved with them for years. Trying to lighten the atmosphere, I’d joked, asking if it was some kind of coven. To my surprise, Isabella had lost her temper and left the room. Now I wondered whether it had anything to do with the photograph taken at Behbeit el-Hagar. A couple of months after she’d received the invitation she’d gone to a conference in Luxor. Was that the same conference Hugh Wollington had mentioned? My mind wandered to the Egyptologist and our unfortunate meeting. Was he out there, tracking my movements? Would he be waiting for me when I got home? Uneasiness mingled with fear, dark shadows fluttering though my mind, each more threatening than the other. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the sullen adolescent, his acne-marked face leaning over me.

‘The guv’nor told me to tell you there was a bloke looking for you before, at reception, a nasty piece of work, a foreigner. We didn’t let him in, though. You being a regular and all,’ he said gravely. ‘Guv’nor told me to tell you to watch your back. People die in weird places nowadays.’

 

As I swung the car into my street, I saw Dennis sitting on the doorstep of my building. He was dressed in an old pinstriped suit beneath which the cuffs of pyjamas were visible. Wondering how he’d got hold of my address, I steeled myself for bad news before pulling up in front of the house.

‘Something’s happened—’ I started, but his grim expression cut me off in mid-sentence. All my anxieties about my brother’s self-destructiveness shot through me.

‘We’ve been trying to ring you for ages. We didn’t know where to look for you. It’s Gareth.’

‘Has he overdosed?’

‘It was an accident . . .’

‘No.’ The possibility of his death made me reel. Dennis grabbed me by the arm. ‘Oliver, Gareth’s still alive. He’s in a coma, at the Royal Free. Zoë’s with him . . .’

Before he’d even finished his sentence I was back in the car.

 

My first impulse on seeing Gareth lying there so unnaturally still was to tear the tubes from his body, lift him out of the bed and run with him out of the hospital, to whisk him back to my father’s house and tuck him under the hand-stitched quilt. To return him magically to the boy I used to read to; mapping out his future with story books filled with adventure. But I couldn’t. Gareth had done this to himself, had pushed the life out of his own body until there was almost nothing left but a papery shell.

As I watched, tremors ran under his eyelids, as if he were scanning the horizon of an interior world inaccessible to anyone else. I pulled my gaze away from the clear plastic tube that ran from his wrist up into a drip, terror of further loss rising up in me like bile.

‘I knew he’d done too much, and then he wanted a bath - I should have stopped him.’ Zoë rocked herself in a chair beside the bed. She looked at me, her face drawn thin around her eyes. ‘We had to break the door down.’

I took Gareth’s hand. It was cold. I barely noticed the doctor entering the room. He glanced with disapproval at Zoë’s unbrushed hair, miniskirt and fishnet stockings, then turned to me.

‘You’re the brother?’ he asked brusquely.

I nodded.

‘He’s been in a coma for over five hours, I’m afraid. It’s too early to tell what the outcome will be.’ He waved the chart in his hand. ‘The blood tests indicated high amounts of both amphetamine and cocaine. The combined effect plus the heat of the bath most likely caused the seizure. Frankly it’s a miracle he didn’t drown.’

On the other side of the bed a heart monitor blipped regularly. The guilt of not forcing Gareth to come and stay with me, of not watching him all the time, washed over me. I knew I wouldn’t survive the death of somebody else I loved, not now. I wished then that I believed in God, in any kind of afterlife. Dread threatened to overwhelm me. To combat it, I focused on Gareth’s appearance; on how ridiculously young he looked without all the fashionable paraphernalia and eye make-up - like the boy I’d known. Someone, a nurse probably, had combed down his hair into an even parting. Gareth would have hated that.

‘Will he live?’ I asked. ‘Is his brain damaged?’

The doctor hesitated. ‘It’s too early to say. But I must tell you that his brain was without oxygen for quite a few minutes - we don’t know how many - and the longer he remains in a coma the worse the prognosis. We must hope he regains consciousness soon.’

I stood up, towering over him. ‘For God’s sake - is there nothing you can do?’

The doctor stepped back nervously. ‘Mr Warnock, you should prepare yourself for the possibility that Gareth may already be virtually brain-dead. We just don’t know yet.’

Incredulous, I looked at my brother’s prostrate figure. ‘Brain-dead?’

‘The next twelve hours are crucial.’

 

Having escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the ward I stood dazed at the entrance of the hospital, watching the rest of the world bustle along in sickening normalcy. The daughters helping their elderly mothers through the glass doors, the pregnant women clutching overnight bags, the ambulances pulling up at the side entrance. Zoë stood next to me. Sighing, she lit up a cigarette.

‘Hampstead Heath is nearby - we could take a walk,’ she ventured. ‘Doesn’t have to be for long, but it might help?’

I nodded blankly.

 

It was late afternoon by now. Pollen smudged the light as dandelion puffs floated through the air like tiny parachutists intent on flight. We walked from South End Green up towards the Hampstead ponds. Above us, a corridor of chestnut trees waved majestically. The heady scent of lilac conjured memories from my youth: of Gareth as a boy playing cricket on the green, of us fishing illegally in the village pond, of taking him out for his first drink down at the local pub. And I was filled with irrational anger - at my brother for his utter disregard for his own life, for the people who loved him; and at the rest of the world that kept on functioning, seemingly indifferent.

Zoë and I walked in silence; words seemed superfluous. She stopped, her settling foot breaking a twig. There was a fine film of sweat on her upper lip and the sunlight illuminated her skin as if she was lit from within; I imagined all the blood corpuscles, her unmarked youth, racing under its surface in an abundance of hope and health. And, despite my fear and anger, I found that I suddenly wanted her.

As if she knew, she reached up to kiss me. I responded, then, filled with chagrin, broke away from her.

She smiled at my mortification. ‘It’s okay, you know.’

‘No, it’s not - you’re my brother’s girlfriend.’

‘We haven’t got that kind of relationship. Gareth would understand.’

‘I don’t.’

We’d reached a clearing, a hidden sunlit circle set away from the path, and I threw myself down on the grass. I couldn’t help feeling I had betrayed Isabella by desiring someone else. But then I realised I was angry with her too; angry that she’d withheld so much of herself from me - her past, the real nature of her work. I stared up, Zoë beside me. The tree branches above us formed a swaying tent of dark green and lime, of blue and the burning globe of the sun.

‘Want a cigarette?’ Zoë asked.

‘No, thanks, I’ve given up.’