"You left me"
Rick O'Connell's voice was accusing, filled with bitter grief and anger.
Evelyn O'Connell shook her head. "No," she protested, "I saved you."
He was stood before her, facing away. All she could see was his back. They were inside the pyramid of Am-shere.
"You ran away like a frightened child. And why not? Your life was obviously more important than mine."
"Rick!" she protested again, darting forwards and catching his arm. He spun around, throwing off her hand, and as his face was revealed, she screamed. Torn and bloody, his whole body was wounded and ripped, his handsome features unrecognisable. His ruined mouth twisted into a snarl. "What's the matter? Don't you love me anymore?" His voice was mocking, cruel.
Evy shook her head, trying to deny the reality of what she saw. "Rick?"
The figure swept out an arm, knocking her away, throwing her off her feet. She fell, and rolled over, beginning to tumble down into a crack in the ground. She lashed out, managing to catch the edge with one hand, but couldn't pull herself up. Glancing down, her heart twisted as she recognised where she was - dangling in the hole leading to hell. The one Imohtep fell into. The one she saved Rick from.
She looked up, and saw Rick standing above her. His features were perfect again, whole, unmarked. He smiled, shrugged, then turned and walked away. As her grip loosened, and Evelyn tumbled into hell, she screamed.
Evelyn woke, screaming. The room was pitch dark, the bedclothes suffocating and clinging. She battled frantically, trying to free herself. Finally she managed to release one arm, and reached out, switching on the bedside lamp. Only then did she stop screaming.
She turned, wanting to wake Rick, wanting to be held in his arms and reassured. He wasn't there. For a terrible moment, her heart leapt, then settled again as she realised where he was. A few weeks before the 'adventure' of Am-shere had begun, she, Rick and Alex had all booked tickets to go and see an exhibition about ancient Egypt, the visit date being set for a little over a week after the date they'd come back from Am-shere. The author of one of Alex's favourite books was going to be there, and so they'd agreed to take Alex.
Then, practically the minute after Evy set foot in England again, she'd come down with the flu. Sore throat, aching head, sneezing, coughing and sweating - the whole works. She was just about over it now, or at least in the last stages, but definitely not in a fit state to go traipsing around an exhibition on the other side of London. So Alex and Rick had gone, and Jonathon had accompanied them on Evy's now spare ticket. Which meant that she was home, alone. Rick had tried to protest, telling Alex that he, Rick would stay with 'Mum', and Jonathon would take him, but Evy had put her foot down. The boy had spent a week without either of his parents, and it wasn't fair to send him off with Jonathon. She had no doubts about letting him be alone with Jonathon - her brother was very capable when he had to be - but Evy had been determined that Alex would be with at least one parent. She'd also decided that Jonathon needed a little fun, so she'd insisted he go along as well. The trouble is, she thought, I organise everyone else's lives to the exclusion of my own.
She sighed, then stood up. She was wearing her oldest, comfiest pyjamas - no need to try and look attractive if Rick wasn't around to appreciate the effort. She slipped her feet into her slippers, then picked up the blanket from the bed, wrapped it around her, switched off the lamplight and blundered out of the room. She ambled downstairs and into the kitchen, then poured milk into a pan and began to heat it up. As it was heating she hoisted herself up onto the work surface, sitting there, swinging her feet until the milk boiled. Then she slid back off, rooted out a huge mug, and dumped what looked like too much chocolate powder in it. She moved back to the pan and reached out to pick it up. As she did, the blanket fell from her shoulders despite her attempts to catch it, which resulted in a fine spray of chocolate powder drifting over the floor. She supposed that she should have put the mug down first.
"Drat" she moaned, putting down the mug and trying to kick the blanket out from under her feet, then picking up the pan and pouring the milk into the mug. Then she had to go and get a spoon, which she'd forgotten, before finally managing to stir and finish making the drink. She sighed - she didn't usually feel sorry for herself - but she was feeling irritable today.
She picked the rug back up, then shuffled over to a cupboard on the other side of the room. Opening it, she reached up, pulling out several things until she came to the pack of chocolate biscuits behind them. Although you wouldn't think it, Rick was like a little boy where chocolate biscuits were concerned - she had to hide them so there were some left for her to eat.
Mug in one hand, biscuits in the other, she wandered into a small sitting room, and curled up on a sofa, only switching on a small lamp light. Outside the window, the rain fell steadily. I bet Nefertiri never got colds, Evy thought petulantly. Well, she wouldn't, would she, living in a country where rain was practically considered to be a gift from the gods? Not like England, where it rained every day of the week, and twice on Sundays.
She sighed, then scowled as she felt her nose begin to itch. She pulled out a handful of tissues just in time as she began to sneeze. One, two, three, four times in a row. Then she began to cough. She couldn't help it - there was an annoying tickle at the back of her throat. Once she'd stopped, she moaned again, and debated whether to throw something, just to ease her frustration. She'd only ever resorted to throwing things once before - shortly after Alex had been born.
She supposed it had been post-natal depression, although it was more like post-natal incandescent rage, and when Alex had woken her crying for the fifth night in a row, and Rick had mildly suggested she do something about it, she'd shrieked and hurled the contents of her bed-side table at him, which had been, in order, a book, a statue, another book and a glass of water. He'd dodged the first three, caught the glass and been hit in the face by the stream of water. He'd then collapsed laughing on the floor. After she'd calmed down (Rick had seen to Alex, in the end) she'd also seen the funny side. She hadn't thrown anything since. And now it wouldn't any fun, if there was no one around to aim at.
She sighed, and sipped her hot chocolate again. She missed Rick. She wanted to talk to someone. She wanted to be reassured that he loved her, and that the events at Am-shere weren't her fault, in any way, shape or form.
She drank her drink, ate her biscuits, drummed her fingers, plumped the cushions, then finally stood up and stalked towards Rick's study, leaving the debris behind. She knew what she really wanted to do. The day before she'd walked into his study, and he'd made a sudden, guilty movement, hurrying away from his desk. She was certain that he'd put something new in his secret compartment, and she wanted to know what. She hadn't gone in the compartment for years, only the once, in fact, just after they'd married. Since then, she'd resisted the temptation.
Don't I deserve something nice? she asked herself. After all, I was the one who died, I was the one who rescued Rick. I'm the one with the lousy, stinking cold, stuck here while everyone else goes running around, looking at fabulous exhibitions. She knew she was whining. Well, maybe I deserve to whine, too.
Maybe he doesn't love me any more. The thought hit her like a thunder bolt. Maybe he's got a mistress, and he's hiding pictures of her in his room. A little voice in her head sighed. Evelyn, it said irritably, it's half past two in the morning, and you're suffering from an excess of chocolate. Go back to bed, and stop being silly.
But,what if, she began to protest.
You're having an argument with a voice in your head, and you think you're in a state to think logically? The voice sounded annoyingly like Rick in one of his infuriatingly sensible moods. She scowled. She knew she wasn't being sensible - her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. How could anyone think sensibly when they had cotton wool instead of a brain? - but she really did want to see what was inside. After all, what harm ever came from looking? She distinctly heard the voice in her head groan at that point.
She determinedly threw open the study door. It was, more or less, the same as it had been the first time she'd done this. More books in the bookshelves, new statues around the room. She smiled as she saw the little statue of Ria, one of the lesser known goddesses of an ancient religion. Ria was the goddess of luck. Evy had given it to Rick for his birthday, because she privately thought that Rick had to be one of Ria's chosen. He had more luck than anyone she'd ever met.
She strode over to the desk, or at least tried to. The rug drooped from her shoulders, she stumbled, and ended up flying into the chair, which lurched backwards and hit the wall, tipping her off. She lay there, muttering irritably, then picked herself up. No injuries. She sighed, then carefully lowered herself onto the chair, moving it forwards so she was sat in front of the desk, although far enough away that she could see into the foot well, which was where the compartment was.
She began to debate internally. Should she open it?
Why bother with this? The little voice asked gloomily. You know you're going to open it.
I might not. Evy was offended, then began to giggle. She was being ludicrous, arguing with herself.
She mentally pulled herself together, ignoring her aching head. She probably shouldn't open it. Rick never intended her to see these things, or he wouldn't have hidden them. She nodded. That was all very logical, but she was alone, and ill, and still frightened after her dream. I wish Rick was here with me. She sighed again, and opened the secret compartment.
The drawer was fuller now. It contained a lifetime of memories. Lying on top was a single sheet of folded paper. Her name was written on it. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and picked it up. Unfolding it, she read the few words written on it.
'I know that you're going to open this compartment at some point, because otherwise you wouldn't be you. Feel free.
Rick'
She giggled softly. He really did know her that well. Heart lighter, she began to unpack the contents of the drawer.
The few objects she remembered from last time were still there - the veil from her Bedouin costume, her white wedding ribbon, a photograph of her, a small knife of Jonathon's, and a rolled up sheet of paper. She put these to one side.
Alex was also included in this little display of memories. There was a photograph of him, one she remembered well. It had been taken in Egypt, and showed Alex running towards the camera, waving something small he was holding. That had been on one of the first digs where he'd been old enough to appreciate what archaeology was about. He'd found a small statue of a god, Anubis, as a matter of fact, and he'd proudly run back to show them.
Another photograph showed her and Alex together. They were both in formal wear - Alex in a version of black tie, her in a long dress, and they were stood under the cherry tree in the garden. That had been Alex's first proper 'grown-up' party, the first time he'd worn formal clothes.
The next item she handled carefully. It was a small pyramid, made from matchsticks with the heads broken off. In a surprising display of initiative, Alex had covered it with glue and stuck sand onto the sides, to create the right effect, although some of it was flaking off now. He'd been fascinated by Egypt since he was little, although she wondered how much of that was due to her.
She recognised the next object. She'd suggested it, and helped Alex make it. They'd taken a piece of paper, placed it in the oven until it was brown, and burnt the edges of it, until Alex had decided that it 'looked properly like authentic ancient parchment'. Then he'd laboriously written a message to his Daddy, using Hieroglyphics. He could read them well, but he'd had a lot of problems writing in them. She remembered that they'd had to do it several times until he got it right. She laughed softly, shaking her head. The things she'd suggested, to keep her son happy and interested.
There was a dried flower amongst the objects. She thought it was a rose, although she couldn't be sure. He'd bought her roses many times since they'd been married; after their first fight; on one of her birthdays (he always gave her unusual, unique presents, and she thought that the roses had just been a spur of the moment addition to his other presents that year); on their tenth wedding anniversary, and just occasionally on impulse. He was a romantic, although he strenuously denied it. Still, the presence of the secret compartment, and its contents, seemed to confirm that he was.
The last item was a piece of paper, rolled up and tied with a black ribbon. She hesitated, remembering the last letter she'd opened, then shrugged, remembering Rick's note. If he hadn't wanted her to read it, he wouldn't have left it in there. She slipped the letter out of the ribbon, unrolled it, and began to read, aching head and stuffy nose completely forgotten.
'I can hardly bear to watch you sleep. That's what you're doing as I write this - lying in bed, covers pulled up to your nose, blissfully, soundly asleep. I find it hard to sleep at night - an old habit, I suppose. I've spent much of my life lying in strange places, wondering if someone is coming to kill me, and I learnt to sleep lightly, if at all. I doubt it's a habit that you ever developed. I hope you never need to. That's part of my job, I think - to make sure that you can sleep easily at night.
I watched you die. That's the reason I find it hard to watch you sleep - any time you aren't awake, moving, laughing, talking, I have to remember. I see you as you were, still, small, dead. It's not something I want to remember, but it isn't something I'll ever be able to forget.
Seeing you die made me realise something. I thought that my life was about my choices. That if something happened, I'd make a choice, and what resulted from that would be the consequence of my action. 'I am in control of my life.' Then you were stabbed, and I realised that: I hadn't made this choice. My life had changed, and it had been changed by someone else. Whatever choice I made then, it couldn't alter what happened to you.
And then you were alive, and that hadn't been because of me, either. Was what I did wrong? Should I have stayed with Jonathon and Alex, and you, rather than chase after Imohtep? I like to think I fought him for justice, rather than revenge. That's something you've taught me, over the years. Motives are important. You've done the impossible - changed Rick O'Connell. Who'd have thought I'd have a wife, let alone a son? I always thought I'd die in jail, until I met you. Shows how well I knew myself, though.
Fate.
Ardeth said that you and I were fated to be together. I don't believe that. Never have, never will. Maybe you were Nefertiri, once, and I'm some sort of 'mystical chosen one', but, here and now, we are who we are, and we've worked hard at life to be together. Our relationship didn't just happen. I lost you before I even had you, I fought for you, and you fought for me. We battled for what we had, and the outcome wasn't pre-ordained, wasn't destiny. I could have lost you forever. You can't tell me that was destiny.
I don't believe in fate.
I do believe in love.
I believe in you.'
She looked away from the letter, and smiled. Carefully, she rolled it up and slipped it back in the black ribbon. Then she replaced each item in the drawer, exactly in the order and position she'd pulled them out. She picked up the drawer and slid it back under the desk, replacing it.
She stood up, tugging the rug back on her shoulders, and pushed the chair back to where it had been. She walked to the door, and switched off the light as she left. Outside the window, thunder rolled, and shortly after lightning lit the world. She smiled, then wandered up the stairs and into bed. Lying there, safe and warm, listening to the wild night, Evelyn O'Connell thought about her husband, and her dream. Whatever else, she knew that he trusted her. She didn't think she'd have that dream again.
She wondered if she'd let Rick know she'd opened the drawer, when he came back. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't. Sooner or later, she'd make her choice.