Mummy Madness, page 2
EGYPT, JULY 1953
The gale howled outside. The old man consulted his black book once more. ‘Booby traps,’ he hissed. ‘Be very careful.’ He pointed to a small rock set into the cave ceiling.
His son moved into position and handed the candle to his father. He reached up and pushed at the jutting rock. ‘Nothing!’
‘Push harder,’ urged the old man. ‘After three thousand years it’s going to be stiff.’
The young man shifted position to get a better grip. He reached upwards and grabbed the rock. He grimaced as he heaved his shoulders upwards. The rock disappeared into the cave ceiling and there was a rumbling to their right. A small hole appeared. The old man was rejuvenated, almost skipping towards the hole. He reached his hand in and felt for the lever. He pulled. The back of the cave slid open, revealing a dark tunnel.
‘Just as the book says,’ he grinned.
They doubled their candle power. The younger man swigged the last of his water and they entered the tunnel.
They edged along, cupping the flames with one hand and feeling in the semi-darkness with the other. Eventually the passage widened out and they were relieved to be able to stand up. ‘This must be Qua’a’s cave,’ gasped the old man, shining his candle at the parchment. He pressed his candle to a torch on the wall and a larger flame was lit. Both men gawped. They were in a much bigger cave. A large tomb took centre stage, the skeleton of Qua’a’s servant sitting in a chair nearby. The cave was full of treasures. The flames reflected off golden goblets and silver headdresses. Gold coins were hanging from the ceiling, glinting like the night-time stars. All of Qua’a’s worldly possessions had been stored here, in readiness for the afterlife.
The young man couldn’t control his excitement. ‘Just as it says in the book,’ he yelled, his enthusiasm bouncing off the walls. ‘Riches beyond anyone’s wildest imagination! But the Nile Ruby, the biggest treasure of them all, is in the tomb with Qua’a.’ He rushed towards the tomb.
‘No!’ shouted his father, running after him. But it was too late. The young man’s foot caught on the tripwire. He fell to the floor and the arrow fired over his head and thudded into his father. The young man crawled over and rolled him on to his back. The old man managed a smile and a nod. ‘The Nile Ruby … my life’s work is now your life’s work,’ he whispered with his last breath.
The young man wiped away a tear and a yell of despair echoed round Qua’a’s cave. His father had come so far and yet was not going to see his dream fulfilled. Qua’a’s treasures had meant very little: the only thing that mattered was the Nile Ruby and now he would never get to see it. The young man looked down at his shaking hands and vowed that he would find the ruby and make sure the world knew that his father had solved the mystery. Everything in the book had been true. The pyramids were a clever trick. Qua’a, the richest and most powerful pharaoh, was buried right here in this long-lost tomb. And, according to the black book, the Nile Ruby was buried with him.
The skeleton appeared to be grinning. The young man edged round the cave, making sure there were no more wires. He carefully removed the grinning skeleton from its chair and sent his foot crashing through the seat. He chose the longest and strongest length of wood and slid it under the lid of the coffin. The young man heaved. The stone moved just a little and the skeleton guard seemed to grin even more. He wished his father could be there to help, but he somehow summoned the strength of two men and the lid of the tomb gradually slid to one side. He fell to his knees, his chest heaving, sweat pouring. He grabbed the candle and, bathed in golden light, he rose to his feet. He lowered the candle into the coffin and peered inside.
‘Found you!’ he gasped, his eyes focusing on the bandaged body of Qua’a. Time had blackened the bandages. His arms swept through the coffin, his eyes searching for the Nile Ruby. Nothing! He scrambled into the crypt and carefully lifted the mummified body out. Still nothing. ‘It’s an empty tomb!’
He looked at his father’s body lying on the floor. ‘The legend was wrong!’ he yelled, tears streaming down his face. ‘The pharaoh was buried without his most precious jewel.’
4. ‘Titchology’
Ben knew his little brother was desperate to get his hands on the HAPI crystals so he took the packet and zipped it into his coat pocket out of the way.
‘And that’s not all,’ grinned the professor. ‘I have invented a, ahem, hand-held mobile phone,’ he announced.
Lara raised a surprised doggie eyebrow and Sophie coughed, to stifle a laugh. ‘Hand-held mobiles, Professor? I think you’ll find they’ve been around for ages.’
Professor Cortex gave a disapproving glance and carried on. ‘Not like this one, young lady,’ he said, giving her his hardest stare. The professor held his right hand up and spread his fingers. ‘You see the mobile is in the hand.’
Cool idea, thought Lara, her mind racing ahead.
Ollie looked at Ben. Ben looked at Ollie. They shrugged.
‘This could be even worse than the daytime torch!’ sighed Sophie, rolling her eyes.
The scientist pressed on, undaunted by the children’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s smaller than pico-technology, you see.’
‘Pico?’ repeated Ollie. ‘Cool word.’
‘Cool word indeed, young Oliver. Let me explain,’ nodded the scientist, delighted to have an opportunity to share his knowledge. ‘When I was growing up, and GM451 was just a pup, we had good old-fashioned “technology”.’
Steady on, old boy, thought Lara. I’m not that old!
‘And then things got smaller so we invented microtechnology. And now most scientists are working on nanotechnology … which is smaller than micro.’
Ollie stifled a yawn.
‘But they’re light years behind. There is a Russian scientist who’s working on pico-technology, which is so tiny that the human eye can’t even see it.’
‘Smaller than a flea?’ asked Ollie, imagining the smallest thing he could.
Why’s everyone looking at me? thought Lara, resisting the urge to scratch behind her ear.
‘Smaller than a flea’s brain cell,’ nodded the professor. ‘But, as usual, kiddiewinks, I’m ahead of the game. Fleas’ brain cells are, quite frankly, far too big. We can do better. I’m working on technology so small that the human brain can’t even imagine it. I’ve had to invent a new word for it. Forget “technology”. I’m working on “titchology”.’ The professor peered over the top of his spectacles to see what reaction there was to his new word. The children’s faces were vacant. ‘Titch,’ he repeated, ‘as in “titchy”, which means “tiny”. Can you see that I’ve replaced the “tech” bit with …’
‘Nice one, Prof,’ cut in Ben. ‘We get it. To be honest, I’m more interested in seeing titchology in action. Have you got any gadgets?’
‘Have I got any gadgets?’ fussed the professor, flapping at the pockets in his white coat. ‘Have I got any gadgets …’ he repeated, looking a little flustered. ‘The problem with titchology is that it’s too small to see. Almost too titchy to imagine. So the gadgets sometimes, you know …’ he continued, turning one of his jacket pockets inside out.
‘Disappear?’ suggested Sophie.
‘Quite,’ agreed the scientist. ‘Benjamin, is your mobile switched on?’
‘Yes, Professor,’ said Ben, tapping his trouser pocket.
‘Then let’s try my device.’ The children and dogs watched as the professor made his hand into the shape of a phone. ‘Thumb up,’ he explained, ‘and little finger raised, like so.’ He put his hand to his ear. ‘It’s like they do on TV talent contests when they want you to vote for them,’ he explained. ‘Not that I watch such rubbish. But I know that all those really annoying contestants make a hand signal like a phone. “Vote for meee. Vote for meee!” Except, you see, I have small implants under my skin so my hand is a phone.’
The professor waggled his thumb. ‘Just getting a signal,’ he explained. ‘Zero seven six one one,’ he began, talking to his little finger. ‘Eight eight zero three five one.’
‘That’s my number,’ said Ben, his eyes widening. Everyone jumped as Ben’s ringtone rang out. He fumbled in his pocket and looked around at everyone.
‘Well, go on then,’ urged Sophie. ‘Answer it. It might be Mum or someone.’
The professor chuckled as Ben slid open his phone and put it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he began.
‘Hello indeed,’ said the professor into his little finger. ‘Are you receiving, Benjamin? This is the professor calling from his revolutionary hand-held mobile device.’
Ben looked up. ‘It’s you!’ he said, pointing at the professor. ‘Talking from your … hand phone?’
‘It most certainly is,’ beamed the professor, turning and walking into the next room. ‘So what do you think of my new invention?’
‘It’s kind of … weird,’ stuttered Ben into his phone. ‘And really cool, I suppose.’
‘I agree,’ came the professor’s reply. ‘One of my best-ever inventions. I mean, how many times have you lost your phone or had it stolen? You can’t lose this one because it’s implanted under the skin of your fingers.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked Ben, talking into his mobile. ‘I mean the implanting bit.’
‘Not one jot,’ assured the scientist. ‘“Titch-ology”. Teeny-weeny. Unimaginably small. The question is, young man, would you want to buy one?’
‘Of course,’ stuttered Ben. ‘It’s the best invention ever.’
‘Agreed again,’ said the professor. ‘As a famous astronaut sort of said, it’s a small invention by me that will result in a huge leap for humankind. Or something like that. Anyway, over and out.’ Professor Cortex shook his hand and the signal was lost. He bounded back into the laboratory and stood hopping from foot to foot in what Sophie called the Mad Professor Dance.
The children’s mouths were open. Ollie was jumping up and down with excitement. Spud was bounding round the room. ‘That’s the best thing ever, Prof,’ he barked. ‘Can you do one for dogs? I could have a hotline to the biscuit factory.’
Lara gave Spud a disapproving look.
‘Humans only at this stage,’ noted the professor. ‘But maybe,’ he said, thinking aloud, ‘just maybe the technology could be built into Spy Dog collars. And,’ he announced, beaming at Lara, ‘it’s inventions like this that allow me to make huge amounts of money that can be ploughed back into my Spy Dog training programme. What do you say, GM451?’
Lara couldn’t keep her tail still. Her bullet-holed ear stood proudly to attention. It’s a winner, Prof, she wagged. And, if you need a volunteer to try it out, semi-retired agent GM451 is at your service.
HURTMORE PRISON
Mr Big went straight to the front of the dinner queue. Nobody dared complain. He was still relatively new to Hurtmore Prison this second time around, but everyone knew who he was. In a prison reserved for the worst of humanity, he was proud to stand out as the most dangerous man there.
He grimaced as food was slopped into the various sections of his plastic plate. His minder took the tray and Mr Big pointed to a table by the window. The prisoners stopped slurping. All eyes turned to the world’s most evil criminal. ‘Shift,’ he grunted and chairs immediately scraped across the floor as eight burly men rose to find another table. ‘Except you,’ he snarled, nodding at an elderly gentleman with glasses.
‘M … me?’ stammered the prisoner.
‘Yes. Y … you,’ growled Mr Big. ‘They call you Nigel “The Knowledge” Barrowclough. You’ve been inside the longest. And I need some insider info.’
Mr Big parked himself opposite ‘The Knowledge’. His life of crime had brought him the finer things in life yet here he was, eating slop with common criminals. He consoled himself that it would only be temporary. ‘Which celebrity chef cooked this up?’ he asked, scooping up a spoonful of something grey and letting it dribble back on to his plate from a great height.
‘Cannibal Joe’s not a sleb chef,’ piped up Nigel. ‘But he is famous.’
‘Triple murder, so I’ve heard,’ growled the master-criminal. ‘And they never found his victims. That’s a real talent. He should stick to killing,’ he grunted, pushing the bowl away. ‘Cooking’s not his thing.’ The world’s most evil man sighed and looked around at the other prisoners. ‘It’s about time I got acquainted with my neighbours.’ He pointed at a large man with a flat face. ‘What’s he in for?’
‘Weeto? Did away with several wives.’
Mr Big looked impressed.
‘First wife? Poisoned her cornflakes,’ explained The Knowledge. ‘Imagine. What a dreadful way to go. And his second? Well, the police weren’t quite sure how he did it, but all they would say was that it involved Cheerios and gallons of milk.’
‘Nice one,’ purred Mr Big. ‘A cereal killer. And him?’ he said, pointing at a flame-haired man who was pushing food nervously round his plate.
‘Ginger Tom,’ said The Knowledge knowledgeably. ‘Also known as “The Cat Burglar”.’
‘What’s his specialism?’ growled Mr Big.
‘Er, cats,’ said the man hesitantly. ‘Steals pedigree moggies and sells them back to their owners. Dead clever that is. Plus he’s made a fortune from their collars apparently. Rich owners like their pets to have diamond-encrusted neckwear.’
‘Don’t we all?’ agreed Mr Big.
‘And what are you in for, Mr Big?’ asked The Knowledge. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, that is? We know of your reputation. I’m sure you’ve done hundreds of glorious crimes. Which one are you actually in for?’
Mr Big’s mood changed in an instant. ‘I’m only in here for one crime,’ he snarled. ‘Getting caught. And when I get out,’ he growled, ‘there’s going to be one very sorry mutt. And one dead professor.’ Everyone said revenge was sweet, but he would have to wait to rid himself of the sour taste of Spy Dog and her evil puppies. His nostrils flared as he looked around at the inmates. The worst criminals from across the land. He had so much in common with his fellow prisoners that he felt sure he was going to enjoy his temporary stay at Hurtmore Prison.
‘And what’s he in for?’ he asked, pointing to his own cellmate, sitting alone at another table. ‘I can’t get a word of sense out of him. Just jabbers away all day and all night. Keeps mentioning something about the legend of the Nile Ruby.’
‘Crazy Dez?’ laughed The Knowledge, pointing with one of his good fingers. ‘Dr Desmond Farquhar. Your cellmate used to be a famous archaeologist who once met the Queen. But somehow he became a tomb robber. And a serial museum thief.’
Mr Big’s eyes widened with interest. ‘Tombs and museums, eh? What else do you know?’
‘Only that he has broken into the British Museum thirty-four times. Same place. Thirty-four times! That’s bonkers, that is. And then, the final straw, he was caught in the Egyptian Room, breaking into a coffin. But it wasn’t a ruby he was after. He was trying to steal a mummy! Nasty business if you ask me. Imagine trying to steal a dead body. That’s just weird, that is.’
Mr Big looked at the old man. He was bony-thin with wild white hair which made him look rather like a spring onion. His eyes darted around as though he was an animal on the run. The old man was chattering to himself. ‘He even talks in his sleep,’ grumbled the master-criminal. ‘Do you think they’ll ever let him out?’
‘No chance,’ smirked The Knowledge. ‘This is Hurtmore Ultra. If you do get out, they bring you straight back,’ he said, eyeing the only-ever escapee nervously. ‘Nobody ever leaves permanently. Unless it’s in a coffin.’
Mr Big nodded silently and looked at his frail cellmate, an evil idea forming in his genius mind.
5. A Random Act of Evil
Mr Big returned to his cell. Crazy Dez was scribbling on the wall. Big sidled up to him. ‘Tell me again,’ he said, this time with genuine interest, ‘about this Qua’a bloke. And the ruby.’
‘I was a young man back then,’ Crazy Dez began, his eyes as wild as his hair. ‘In the empty desert, far from the pyramids. We found the tomb,’ he smiled, his eyes dancing in their wrinkles. ‘But the mummy is cursed. It took my father’s life.’
‘And the Nile Ruby?’ growled Mr Big. ‘What is it? And, more importantly, where is it?’
The old man’s eyes darted left and then right. He lowered his voice as if someone might be listening. ‘Can I trust you?’
A huge smile lit up Mr Big’s mouth. ‘Man of my word,’ he lied.
‘The book was right,’ whispered the old man. ‘Qua’a was buried with the world’s biggest ruby. I made a terrible mistake.’
‘We’ve all made those, Dr Dez,’ agreed Mr Big. ‘My mistake was getting caught. And not killing that Spy Dog when I had the chance.’
‘I found the tomb. Qua’a was there. He’d been hidden for thousands of years …’
‘And no jewel,’ interrupted Mr Big, trying not to lose his temper. ‘Skip the detail, old man. Get to the bit where you tell me where the jewel is.’
‘It’s written in the stars,’ whispered the old man, sweeping his hand round the cell.
‘Yeah, well, I can’t read the bloomin’ stars,’ complained Mr Big. ‘It’s a load of old graffiti.’
‘Hieroglyphics,’ said the old man.
‘Hiero-whatics?’
‘The mummy and the ruby are one,’ said the old man. ‘If you get out of here, you must find the mummy’s final resting place. The museum. And it is there that you will find the ruby.’
Silence fell on the cell. Mr Big lay in the top bunk, his brain whirring. His crazy cellmate lay in the bunk below, jabbering away to himself. ‘Mad as a box of frogs,’ Mr Big murmured under his breath. ‘And if he doesn’t stop chattering he’ll be sending me round the bend too!’ The master-criminal looked up at the ceiling. It was covered in strange signs and weird language, scribblings made by his cellmate. Men with dogs’ heads. Pyramids. Caves. Stars. Until that moment Mr Big had assumed it was just the graffiti of a madman.
