Rain was flowing horizontally across the windowpanes of the commuter train. The skies were overcast, had been for weeks. Meteorologists considered this to be summer with the longest day of the year due shortly. The extra hours of daylight gave the roiling greyness an added opportunity to draw attention to itself. Once in a while, bits of blue peeped through the clouds, hinting at what might be possible, until the grey called it to order and triumphed again.
Trueth's job was gone when she returned, but she found similar employment without too much effort. She still saw Sammie, who appeared shyer than ever, and that relationship was still going nowhere.
Once back in the dump she called home, her fridge warranted a visit from those cleaners experienced in clearing particularly unsavoury scenes of crime. She decided a few germs more made no difference and sanitized the mess herself, using the rest of her sani-wipes. Why she even bothered, she could not imagine—it had to be surplus energy from all that sun.
Trueth thanked her mother for letting her travel, threw in a few memories for good measure, how she enjoyed the places she had visited. She nearly caught herself describing the desert beyond Luxor and the boat trip up the Nile, which never was included on the original agenda.
At least her job was easier now she did not have to shove her left hand into a pocket whenever people got on her nerves—which was far too often. Among them was her new boss, Porridge. He had a face to match his name. He was especially annoying when seen first thing in the morning, by the light of the fluorescent lamps in the new Call Centre. They cast their aggressive glare into the big room she shared with the other galley slaves tied to their headsets all day long.
Commuting was worse.
She spent endless hours of waiting and minding the gap once a train finally limped into the station. The maggot-pale commuter throng then rushed forward again, and she engaged in the pointless grapple for personal space where nobody would shove a newspaper in her face, pinch her buttocks, or leer at her. Or twitch to the tinny music coming from more headphones. She could not stand the damn things.
In the end, it proved too much.
Trueth was not sure what triggered her. It might have been the sights and sounds of Porridge in the early hours before she consumed a cup of the weak brew the Call-Centre meted out as coffee. Or the fumes of too much alcohol imbibed the previous evening wafting across from the next cubicle. But she told her bosses what she thought of the whole charade and shortly afterwards found herself outside the galley for the last time, her papers in her hand, a final commute ahead of her.
Before the train approached the town with her flat, it sped up- through V-shaped embankments bristling with fir trees before rattling through a smelly tunnel. Trueth believed this to be the ideal place to do what she needed to do. It was not far from the station and could be reached on foot.
She only had to make sure the fridge was clean, which it was. She then took a shower to clean herself and set out to end a life that had become to hard to bear. Trueth left a note for her mother, thinking she was turning into a marvel of communication.
Once she got to the top of the embankment, she worked her way through a carpet of old needles that felt so springy underfoot she wanted to sense them. So she took off her trainers and threw them to the winds. This was a good thing too, given how they reeked.
As Trueth approached the tracks, she encountered a collection of detritus blown in by trains gone past. Sandwich wrappers, soda bottles, an old-fashioned brogue—it seemed she was not the first one to leave her footwear behind. She spotted a broken plastic cat carrier, thought of Blondie, and hoped the former occupant of the box had come to no harm.
Having checked her mobile, she knew the next train was imminent. It would accelerate right here and so would she. Not that she really wanted to kill herself, but calling that bastard priest was no alternative, assuming he wasn't at the back of Beyond anyway. It would just give him the excuse to consider himself superior. On the other hand, did she really want to prove a final point?
Trueth stood motionless, holding on to a fir, the needles pricking the soles of her feet. How could she call him? He was not a jinnie in a lamp she had to rub to make him appear.
Metjen? Trueth felt like hitting herself over the head for the mind-call. But for that she would have had to let go of her tree. He would not hear her anyway. How could he?
Look, this is getting ridiculous. We've been there before, I believe?
Metjen's voice sent an avalanche of sorrow from rushing from Trueth's heart. The voice in her head was back. How was this possible? Trueth pinched herself and cursed, as that train she had been waiting for thundered past, its slipstream making her lose her balance and fall. She landed not on the springy cushion of pine needles, but instead on the spiky remains of an umbrella that had lost its battle with British precipitation. Which chose this very moment to start again, and it did so with a vengeance.
The image of Metjen, who she had expected never to see again, rose in her mind and made it easy to relay her thoughts. You are unbelievable.
My feelings entirely. I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I? You run away and do silly things. Metjen appeared from behind the tree he had been holding on to. He nearly slipped; the embankment had turned even more treacherous after the rain.
He examined Trueth's feet. 'Why are you running around in socks?'
'It felt better that way. How did you find me?' Trueth asked.
Another train thundered past, this time from the other direction, causing the spindly twigs of the firs to wave wildly in the wind and send another load of water down necks that were already soaked.
'I don't know about you, but I find this place a trifle damp,' Metjen said, desperately clinging to one of the soggy firs. 'I would prefer to continue this conversation somewhere less draughty, preferably with a nice cup of tea. And ginger biscuits would be appreciated. Come on, I'll give you a hand up this bloody hill.'
With that he gripped Trueth's arm and pulled her upwards, through the trees, back towards the road. They did not recover the trainers, but she could not care less. Together, they bought biscuits and fresh milk. Trueth had thrown out the last carton in her fridge as it was turning into one of those surprise ingredients they used on MasterChef when they wished to rid themselves of undesirable contestants.
Back in her flat, she closed the window she had left open; mopped up the puddle that had was throwing waves on the laminated floor, changed her socks and produced two mugs of tea. When she returned, Metjen appeared to be examine the sofa. She had got it second-hand from an auction. With increasing age the springs had given up their fight with gravity, and the whole thing now mimicked a pile of velour poop.
He gingerly lowered himself while balancing his tea, slipped, and the sofa won, smothering him in a puff of dust. Metjen sneezed several times and tried to rearrange his limbs back into their usual configuration.
'You ok?' Trueth asked.
'Eh, yes, thank you. I hope I have not stained your settee?' Metjen stared morosely into his mug.
Trueth made him another tea. 'To hell with the sofa. It's a piece of shit. How did you find me?'
'When know what I'm looking for, scouting isn't difficult. I decided we should talk, took an aeroplane, and here I am. I explained matters to Iseret... .'
Trueth experienced a surge of panic, shrieked, and Metjen observed her with alarm. 'Bloody hell. I didn't mention the chamber, nor the tomb, you sister of...you nitwit. She obviously hasn't noticed anything, otherwise I would have heard. Or I wouldn't be here—at least not with all my limbs intact.. . Well, I told Iseret the prospect of returning to the temple had scared you so badly, you had to run away.'
A glimmer showed in his eyes, matching his grin.
'She was surprised and asked me if her behaviour was unsuitable. I said yes. Things have improved significantly since then. Nebmutef sends his regards, and Rani-Ra and Ranofer have asked me to tell you to stop being an idiot and please come back. Mum has promised to bake bread and cook this lamb stew you like so much. Father wants to show you the dig—this time properly. You might not appreciate this offer. But they have hacked their way all to the end; he called me this morning. They have found an engraved text which sounds totally crazy... . '
'Imhotep,' Trueth asked.
'Yes, of course,' Metjen said.
Imhotep, Iseret, the temple and Metjen's family. It was all coming back to her. 'Do you have any results from the papyrus snippets your father wanted to examine?'
'Well, it depends. The carbon-dating placed that text in the right period. I mean, the one when Imhotep was around, give or take a few hundred years. Father wonders whether this might be not a palimpsest. They did that quite often. It would explain the bad shape it was in, and I'm not talking about the burned bit.'
'A what?' It sounded like one of Metjen's favourite spells.
'A palimpsest is a papyrus somebody has wiped clean of existing text to use it himself.' Metjen explained, sounding like the Egyptian branch of Wikipedia. 'It means you could have an ancient papyrus—but the writing is not from the same period. We also have snippets with 'sleepers' and 'balance', and you know about that'.
He was right. She remembered the whispering in the temple only too well.
Metjen continued talking 'We believe the papyrus is for real, just like the tomb. But we need more information. This is such a mess.'
She was grateful to hear the others were still there. Metjen still had not explained how he had found her. It did not matter. He was like a re-incarnation of an energetic Rottweiler; incapable of leaving her well alone. She would never tell him how glad she was he had saved her.
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Well ... I agree that was not very clever. But does that make her weak, as some of you seem to be thinking? Let me have your opinion. And if you enjoyed your read, I appreciate your feedback - and please make sure to vote. Thank you!
This chapter is dedicated to Sallymasonxxx. Her novel 'Living with the choices we make' could have been an alternative title for this chapter. Unlike the main character in Sally's outstanding novel, Trueth has a second chance. But is that really the right choice?
The image is from Adrian Benko, taken in 2005. Source Wikimedia Commons