Barbara Erskine - Sands of Time

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…

In the distance a loaded container lorry heading for the coast thundered towards her. As it raced past the lay-by her car shook and rocked. Anna awoke with a start in time to see the tail lights retreating into the distance. She blinked hard, pushing herself up in the seat. The buttons of her blouse were undone, her skin was on fire. It was almost as if…

She groped for the dream but it was gone.

With a yawn she stretched. Then she reached for the ignition. She didn’t hear the quiet exultant laugh from the back seat.

Passing Ipswich Anna drove on, ahead of her the Orwell Bridge and beyond it the road to Felixstowe. When she drew up at last at the side of the road it was on the apex of the bridge. Exhausted, she sat for a moment, staring out of the windscreen at the empty road ahead. From the car she couldn’t see the river, only the expanse of road stretching away ahead; the central reservation; the parapets on either side. They didn’t look high. She should be able to see over. Taking a deep breath she bent and fumbled for the parcel. It had rolled under the passenger seat and for a moment she couldn’t find it. Swearing under her breath, she leant across the handbrake and the gear lever, her fingers groping frantically in the darkness, encountering nothing more than empty space beneath the seat.

Behind her, the shadow that was Lord Carstairs stirred. She did not notice.

‘Damn! Where is it?’ She leaned further across the seat. And then her fingers closed around the bubble wrap. It rustled under her touch and for a fraction of a second she drew back. Had Carstairs somehow conjured a snake to guard the bottle as he had on their boat on the Nile? Was it possible that now, here on the Orwell Bridge, there was a cobra, coiled around the bottle to prevent her from throwing it into the water? There was no snake. Almost as she thought it her fingers encountered the small parcel again. It was wedged in the far corner beneath some integral part of the seat. Gently she waggled it free, her fingers slipping on the wet paper, and then she had it. She didn’t pause to wonder why it was damp; wonder where those few drops of moisture had come from. She didn’t hear the anguished wailing from the shadows around her in the dark above the car or suspect that the guardian priests were nearing the end of their strength. Sitting up triumphantly she opened the car door and stepped out into the road. An icy wind whipped past her as she walked around the front of the car, stepped over the low metal traffic barrier and leaned against the parapet, looking down. The water was a long way below, just visible in the darkness.

Don’t do it .

The voice at her elbow made her cry out in fear.

Don’t dare to commit such sacrilege. You will take this bottle back to Scotland. To my house. There you and I will make use of it as I planned all along .

Anna stared round, terrified. The wind was tearing at her hair, her coat, bringing tears to her eyes. There was no one there. No one in sight. A lorry rattled past in the fast lane, with horn blaring, then she was alone again on the deserted bridge. The voice had not come from inside her head. It was real. External. Coming from the dark recesses of the night.