Chapter Four
Disclaimer: I have no idea if I need this or not, but I thought I should write it just in case. Anyway, I don't own these characters or anything to do with the Mummy.
Author's Note: No, I'm not lying in a ditch somewhere, decapitated, being eaten by crows, and (needless to say) dead. Instead, I'm actually updating!
A huge thank-you to all my reviewers, particularly toni isis, who encouraged me to write more of this.
'Uh, you wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you?'
I stared at O'Connell with my mouth open, not wanting to believe the horrifying truth but comforting myself with the fact that getting us lost was exactly the sort of thing I would have expected from a rude, irritating and arrogant man like him.
I always find it extremely gratifying and soothing to be right about something.
Unfortunately, it was not quite as soothing as usual. In fact, it was quite a struggle to remain relatively calm and refrain from a) hyperventilating, b) panicking, or c) strangling O'Connell with my bare hands (an extremely tempting option, but one which I realised with regret I could never achieve until O'Connell himself taught me some self defence as he had promised. Until then, I would sooner win a hot air balloon race around the world while blindfolded or convince Jonathan to wash the breakfast dishes than win a wrestling match against Rick O'Connell).
'You are literally unbelievable,' I exclaimed, deciding that while it would not do to murder O'Connell, I was at least entitled to yell at him. 'Do you mean to tell me that not only are you incapable of coherent speech and completing regular hygiene rituals, you are also hopeless at navigation?'
This was just so typical of a man that I could hardly speak for indignation. Various instances of Jonathan refusing to ask directions -resulting in traipses through more rugged countryside than I thought strictly tasteful- whirled through my head. I made a mental note to jot down various landmarks en route to Hamanaptra in case O'Connell had another memory lapse on the way back to Cairo.
Presuming, of course, that we ever actually made it back to the campsite, let alone all the way to Hamanaptra. At this rate I would be forty three years old by the time I saw the Nile River again.
O'Connell crossed his arms across his chest -which was looking a great deal less attractive after his heinous error in getting us lost- and leaned towards me, barking 'Yeah, well, I don't exactly see how you're any better!'
'Excuse me, MR O'Connell, but I beg to differ. I happen to bathe every day of the week, as opposed to once a month, and I never leave the house without a clean pocket handkerchief.'
'Well good for you, but I was talking about navigating, not face powdering!'
The nerve of the man, suggesting that I actually use face powder!
I won't deny that I own some (courtesy of my mother about ten years ago, before she realised that I was more interested in having intelligent conversations with men three times my age than completing time-consuming beauty rituals, and wouldn't know a fashion emergency from a hole in the ground), but I have certainly never used it, apart from the time I hid the key to my diary inside the container in a last desperate -and fruitless, it turned out- attempt to protect my innermost thoughts and desires from the prying eyes of a teenage Jonathan and his six closest friends.
'I happen to have excellent skin, not that I would expect a convicted felon like you to notice.' I retorted.
'What the hell are you talking abo- never mind. I don't want to know. Let's get out of here before I do something I'd regret.'
He turned and stomped off in the direction we'd came from, leaving me to wonder what on earth O'Connell, a man who had shot dead at least three people since suppertime, could do that he would regret.
Take a bath, perhaps, thus washing off the protective layer of dirt he seemed to find so necessary.
'Evelyn!' O'Connell's frustrated shout roused me from my reverie and I began trailing behind him as he strode purposefully through the undergrowth, no doubt anticipating with relish the prospect of downing a good deal of whisky upon our return to the camp.
I could hear him muttering darkly under his breath about '… incomprehensible twittering …' and ' …I'll tell her where she can put her pocket handkerchiefs… ' and '… should have let them hang me when I had the chance …'
Ten minutes later I was still following O'Connell and we were still no closer to the campsite, despite a lot of unattractive squinting at shadows by myself and a lot of levelling firearms at unsuspecting sand dunes and throwing wary glances at shifty looking rocks by O'Connell, who seemed to be more interested in finding an excuse to shoot holes in something with his great dirty gun than finding our campsite.
I yawned and almost choked on air as O'Connell's voice broke the silence, reflecting to my irritation that now I couldn't even yawn without my insufferable companion interrupting me.
'Shit! Something nipped my heel. Could be a snake bite. I'd better-'
'Er, Mr O'Connell, that was my foot.'
'Oh.'
'I do apologise.'
'No problem.'
'It's just that it's rather dark, and, and,'
'Hard to see anything.'
'Precisely.' I paused, hesitating as an idea formed in my mind. 'Er, Mr O'Connell… … …'
'Yeah?'
'Do you think we ought to shout out? Maybe Jonathan will hear us and direct us to the campsite.'
'Yeah, and then we could have a spot of tea and cucumber sandwiches while our good friend the jolly prison warden plays the fiddle. Unfortunately, the more likely scenario would be the one where one of those barge guys hears us instead, finds us, and blows our brains out.'
Hmph. It seems to me that Mr O'Connell is rather pessimistic. Not to mention cranky. It must be the lack of sleep. I've often observed that after Jonathan has been up all night at the pub, drinking, flirting and gambling, that he doesn't respond kindly to any sort of interaction that even remotely resembles polite conversation. He usually just moans for my hangover remedy, which more often than not winds up being tipped over my head after I annoy him about reforming his lamentable drunken ways.
My musings were unexpectedly and rudely interrupted by a loud crash to my right. Quite honestly, the ominous noises were getting a bit old by this time, so I paid no attention to it and continued to reminisce about the time Jonathan had drunkenly set fire to the living room curtains whilst trying to light a cigar after a night on the town.
I hadn't taken another ten steps before the noise repeated itself twice, and I was startled by its persistency. I felt obliged to alert Mr O'Connell, who, I felt sure, would get whatever it was to stop disturbing the peace quite effectively, by shooting it in the head.
'Mr O'Connell?'
'What is it now?'
'Did you hear something?' I asked.
He turned to look at me warily. 'The last time you asked me that we ended up being held hostage by a man in a black dress.'
I shushed him and held a finger to my lips, and we stood tensely, listening.
There was total silence.
After a while Mr O'Connell raised his eyebrows at me before turning to continue on. For a moment I felt like a complete idiot, and was sure he must think I was barking mad and prone to hearing voices that no one else could hear.
My Aunt Millie used to hear voices. That was just before she was admitted into the psychiatric ward of our local hospital. (I went to visit her once- it was decidedly eerie. The whole time she simply sat in bed knitting rainbow jumpers and wailing something about a goldfish and marmalade on toast.)
Then I heard it, and from the ill expression on O'Connell's face -not unlike the time Jonathan was eight and he went for a pony ride after eating an entire lemon pie- I knew he had heard it too.
An evil, warped, high-pitched laugh resounded through the desert air.
'I'll go check it out,' O'Connell said determinedly, and strode towards the noise.
'I'm coming with you!' I cried, stumbling after him and stubbing my toes on a large rock in the process.
As we approached the noise, another voice rose above the laughter, a decidedly familiar voice…
'… and I say, old chap, did you hear the one about the cat and the frying pan?'
'Jonathan,' O'Connell growled, and the nasty warden appeared, clutching Jonathan's shoulder. Both of them where crying with laughter, but stopped short when they saw O'Connell and I.
'Jonathan, what the hell do you think you're doing?' O'Connell demanded.
'I could ask you the same thing, old chap. We were woken by the sound of blasted shots ringing out and you and Evie were nowhere to be seen. I had to come and make sure that you weren't using old mum for target practice!'
This new hilarious joke at my expense was evidently too much for the warden to take, for after laughing hysterically in the manner of a hyena or psychiopath, he stumbled over and breathed a most offensive, foul odour into my face before abruptly passing out at my feet.
'Great,' muttered O'Connell. 'Looks like we'll have to carry him.'
'I hope that doesn't include me, old chap. My left knee's been a bit out of sorts lately…shouldn't chance it, dangerous threat to my health and all that. Could lead to- of course I'll help, I'd be delighted to! Of course, it would be considerably easier to lift the body if you weren't grasping my shoulder quite that hard-'
Several minutes and several new bruises on Jonathan's arm later we had acquainted my brother with everything that had happened since we'd gone to investigate the first strange noise, including the shameful detail of getting lost, which O'Connell seemed to find quite embarrassing if his slight flush and unnatural lack of loud profanities was anything to go by.
Happily, Jonathan was sure he knew how to get back to the campsite. He and O'Connell managed to convey the unconscious warden (who no one seemed too worried about, despite the fact that he was bleeding from the head) between them as Jon led the way.
'Just follow me, I'll have us all warm by the fire in no time at all.' Jonathan exclaimed enthusiastically, apparently thrilled to be leading the expedition at last after being pushed aside by O'Connell's superior bossiness all day. He has been relating fabricated tales of his heroic deeds to impress women for so long that I think he actually half believes them, so it was no surprise to find him willing to live up to his 'dashing' reputation.
Too tired to even find this annoying, I stumbled after them blearily. My nightgown was, by this time, ruined beyond all recognition, and, although I couldn't see it, I was sure that my hair was too. If we'd encountered any more frightening men in black robes they probably would have taken one look at me and run away screaming, or dragged me to the nearest village square to either be shot or have my hair shampooed.
As I was trying in vain to banish this less than comforting thought from my head the campfire came into view. Few sights have ever been as welcome to me as the sight of the campsite was that night, and that includes the sight of a key coming under the door after Jonathan thought it would be a good idea to lock me in the room where our father kept his spider specimens when we were children. I had nightmares about giant hairy spiders for weeks afterwards, until I effectively overcame my fear by planting a particularly large one in Jonathan's bed and listening joyously to his screams of terror when he discovered it crawling up his leg.
I sat down, exhausted, and watched as O'Connell and Jonathan deposited the warden on his bedroll by the fire before collapsing themselves. I could barely keep my eyes open, though having them open was hardly better than having them closed as everything kept shifting in and out of focus in the manner of a bad photographic exhibition.
I was just about to yawn goodnight to my companions when Jonathan made the inevitable grab for a bottle of something strong and dark and alcoholic.
'Fancy a little drink, then, O'Connell?' Jonathan asked jovially, as if he were at an eighteenth birthday party or an upmarket pub.
O'Connell just looked at him incredulously before hitting him over the head with the palm of his hand.
'I'll take that as a no, then.' Jonathan muttered sulkily.
Author's Note: Below is a rough timeline of what happens on the night of this story. I hope it clears up any confusion about what time the story's up to and how long is left until the next day. It seems a bit rushed to me, but it doesn't really matter. I wanted to have as much time as possible left for the rest of the story.
TIMELINE
8:30 Barge is Attacked (I know it seems a little early, especially as Evelyn is already going to bed, but indulge me.)
8:45 Barge sinks
8:45-9:15 Chapter one
9:15-10:15 Chapter two
10:15-10:45 Chapter three
10:45-11:15 Chapter four
11:15-12:00 Chapter five
I don't know when the next chapter will be ready, but I'll try to write it as soon as I can (preferably not in six months time, which is what happened with this chapter). In the meantime, please review!!!!! And thanks for reading!