Whispers in the Sand. Barbara Erskine

      She shivered, conscious of the goosepimples on her bare arms. ‘Ben?’ She couldn’t see him. A crowd of visitors were making their way into the inner chamber. She turned round, half expecting to find someone standing behind her. There was no one there. ‘Ben?’ Her voice was muffled in the silence.

      Confused, she put her hand to her head, conscious suddenly of a group of tourists speaking Italian loudly, happily, as they filled the entrance behind her; in a moment they were all around her and she found herself being swept on in their wake.

      She frowned. The tomb was no longer cold; it was as hot as the other they had visited and she could hardly breath. Suddenly panic-stricken, she pushed her way forward. She still couldn’t see Ben. She wasn’t usually claustrophobic, but the walls seemed to be closing in on her.

      The people near her were anonymous black shadows, faceless in the dark. Her mouth had gone dry.

      She stared round frantically and diving for the next entrance she abruptly found herself standing in the burial chamber itself, looking down at the open eyes of the young king Tutankhamen. He lay gazing up at the ceiling of his dark, hot tomb, disdaining the presence of the peasants who had come to stare at him, divested of the riches which had bolstered his royalty, but still he was awe-inspiring. How many of the people standing round him, she wondered, were as suddenly and as intensely aware as she was of the emaciated, broken body of the young king, lying inside that gilded wooden coffin? She shivered again, but this time not with cold.

      ‘Anna?’ Ben appeared beside her, his camera in his hand. ‘Isn’t he amazing?’

      She nodded. The bag on her shoulder had grown very heavy. Why had she not taken out her own camera? She swung the soft leather holdall to the floor and was pulling open the zip when a strange wave of dizziness hit her. With a gasp, she straightened, leaving the bag to subside into the dust at her feet, spilling its contents over the ground.

      ‘Are you OK?’ Ben had caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. He stooped, and hastily began pushing everything back into the bag for her. She saw a flash of scarlet as the silk-wrapped scent bottle was scooped out of sight, then his arm was round her shoulders.

      ‘I felt weird suddenly.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘I’m all right. I must have bent over too quickly to get my camera. Too much excitement, and too early a start, I expect.’ She forced herself to smile.

      ‘Perhaps that is a sign that it’s time to go and have a rest up in the fresh air.’ He took her arm, glancing over his shoulder. ‘These tombs are a bit overpowering, to my mind.’

      ‘There’s something down here, isn’t there?’ Anna could feel the perspiration on her back icing over. She was shivering again. ‘I thought all that business about the “curse of the mummy’s tomb” was rubbish, but there is an atmosphere. I don’t like it.’

      A shout of laughter near her from a party of Germans, and the earnest mumble from a group of Japanese photographers in the treasury beyond the burial chamber, seemed to contradict her words, but it made no difference. ‘I do want to leave. I’m sorry.’

      ‘No problem. Come on.’

      Grateful for the strength of his arm she stumbled after him, back towards the entrance corridor and the blinding sunlight outside.

      Once sitting in the shade of the visitors’ resting area, she felt better. They both drank some bottled water, but she could see Ben was longing to move on. ‘Go without me, please. I will be all right soon. I shall just sit for a few minutes longer, then I’ll follow.’

      He gave her a searching look. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Of course.’

      She couldn’t see where it was that Hassan had taken Louisa and pitched her a makeshift shelter on a soft Persian rug. She desperately wanted to get away from the crowds, to find the place and to experience the silence as Louisa had done. She stood for a moment shading her eyes, looking up one of the white, dazzling paths which led away from the noisy centre of the valley. Could that have been where they went? Glancing over her shoulder she saw Ben disappearing with another queue into a tomb on the far side of the well-trodden centre of the valley. Near him she recognised one or two other people from their party. She hesitated, then, resolutely turning her back on them, she began to make her way up the empty track past a dusty fingerpost labelling yet more tombs, and, her shoes slipping on the dust and stones, she scrambled on upwards away from the crowds.

      Above her the rock martins circled and swooped into holes in the cliffs but apart from that nothing moved. Almost immediately the sound of the crowds behind her diminished and disappeared. The heat and the silence were overwhelming. She stopped, staring round, scared for a moment that she might lose her bearings, but the path was clearly marked. Just empty. The colours of the rock were monochrome. Blinding. The sky the most brilliant blue she had ever seen.

      Somewhere near her she heard footsteps suddenly, and the sound of scraping on the limestone. She frowned, shading her eyes as she scanned the cliff face. There was no one there. It was no more than a shifting of the sands.

      But her mood had changed again and once more she began to feel uneasy. After the noise and bustle and colour of the main valley – the crowds, the shouting guides, the raised voices in a dozen different languages – this intense silence was unnerving. It was the silence of the grave.

      In spite of the heat she found herself shivering again. She had the strangest feeling that she was being watched, a weird sensation that there was someone near her. She stared up at the cliff face, narrowing her eyes against the glare. There were other tombs in this direction. She had seen them on the plan. But no one seemed to be visiting them. Perhaps they were closed as the greater part of the tombs were, to protect them from the massive tourist interest. She took a few steps further up the path, rounding another corner. The cliffs were arid, silent, but for the birds. Far above she could see a dark speck against the blinding sky. Perhaps that was a kite, like the one Louisa had seen. The feeling that there was someone there at her shoulder was so intense suddenly that she swung round. Tiny eddies of dust swirled momentarily round her ankles in an undetectable breath of wind, then the air was still again.

      Stubbornly she moved on. It was round here that Hassan had pitched the shelter for Louisa, she was sure of it. Here they had sat together on the rug and she had opened her sketchbook and, unscrewing her water jar, had begun one of her paintings of the rugged hillside.

      ‘Do I gather you too prefer to be away from crowds?’

      The voice, a few feet from her, shocked her out of her reverie. She spun round. Toby Hayward was standing nearby. He swung his canvas satchel off his shoulder onto the ground and wiped his face on his forearm. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t see you until I came round the corner.’

      Astonished at how relieved she was to find out the presence she had felt was that of a real person, she managed a smile. ‘I was dreaming.’

      ‘The right place for it.’ He stood for a moment in silence. ‘I find it hard to catch the atmosphere with the crowds down there,’ he said suddenly. ‘So many of them, and they snap endless pictures, but don’t look. Have you noticed? Their eyes are closed.’

      ‘The camera remembers. They are afraid they won’t,’ Anna said quietly. ‘We all do it.’ Her own camera was still in her bag.

      ‘I’m sure you look as well.’

      The anger in his voice disturbed her. ‘I try to.’ She decided to try a different tack. Her quest, after all, was not secret. ‘I was trying to picture this place a hundred years ago, before it was commercialised.’

      ‘It’s always been commercialised. They probably brought guided tours here before the corpses were cold.’ Folding his arms he stared up at the cliffs. ‘Did I hear you right last night? You are a relation of Louisa Shelley?’ No apology for eavesdropping, she noticed.

      ‘I’m her great-great-granddaughter, yes.’

      ‘She was one of the few