Writing for Fun
Something's Wrong - Pete Norman
July 2014
It had seemed alright at the interview; it had all looked quite normal – well, as normal as any place can ever look when it is filled to the gunnels with hundreds of tons of granite and sandstone, carved into uncannily lifelike statues – the ancient civilisation equivalent of Madame Tussauds. But then it had been daylight and there were people wandering about . . . now it was dark and he was all alone with all this . . . this . . . stuff!
Roland had lived in East London all his life, but like most locals, he had spent much less time in the capital city than the average tourist and he was slightly embarrassed to admit at the interview that he had never once visited the British Museum, nor did he have much of a clue as to what it was actually a museum of. Dominic, the Head Curator, had given him a conducted tour and he was amazed to see the countless numbers of Egyptian, Greek and ancient Middle Eastern statues and artefacts crammed into a whole series of vast halls.
At first it had seemed strange to him that they would have any need of night security to prevent burglars from stealing a twenty ton statue of Ramesses II, surely to God someone would notice the low loader and the crane outside? But Dominic had explained that the museum contained many thousands of exhibits, some of which were portable and collectable and most of which were unique and priceless.
However, when he had been led into the temporary exhibition hall his jaw had dropped. In the centre of the room was the most fabulous object he had ever seen: the burial mask of Tutankhamen. As he stood before the glass case drinking in its exquisite golden beauty, Dominic leant in close and whispered, 'But some things are more priceless than others!'
The whole exhibition was only on loan to the British Museum for a few weeks, but the Director had insisted on extra security as the insurance alone on this collection was just short of half a billion pounds.
Tonight, Ted Crosier, the regular night watchman, had phoned in sick at the very last moment and it was too late to organise a replacement. Roland had been told that just for tonight he would be on his own and tomorrow, if Ted was still unwell they would sort out some help. Roland knew, but did not dare divulge, that Ted would definitely be back tomorrow, as tomorrow was no longer his wedding anniversary, so he said he was quite happy to work solo just for this one night.
However, he was now beginning to regret his altruism, because on your own at night this place took on an entirely more sinister personality altogether. The Director's rule was that to conserve electricity the main power was to be switched off during the night, leaving only the emergency lighting to provide just enough of a dim glow to see by – the only other comfort he had at his disposal was the powerful dragon lamp which hung on a wide leather strap from his shoulder.
In the daytime, surrounded by hoards of people, the huge statues stood like silent, immovable monoliths, but at night, by the eerie glow of the emergency lighting, he could swear that they moved – the eyes of the ancient figures followed you across the hall, the smaller figures slithered stealthily between the deeper areas of shadow. No matter how often you stopped and shone the powerful light of the dragon lamp on their frozen stone faces, the moment you turned the light away they would immediately resume their furtive creeping, closing in on you in the claustrophobic confines of your precious illumination.
And now it was shortly after midnight, not quite halfway through his shift, when he forced himself to his feet and abandoned the comforting brightness of the bank of CCTV monitors, which lined his desk by the front doors, for his hourly physical walkabout.
As he progressed through room after room his dragon lamp swung randomly about the exhibits, more to keep the figures from closing in on him than to detect intruders. He was relieved when he finally moved out of the large halls into the smaller areas where the most threatening objects were pots and vases.
However, the relief was short-lived, because just beyond this haven of tranquillity was the most terrifying place of all – the hall of the mummies. There the wizened remains of 4000yr old Pharaohs lay in their glass cases, removed from their sarcophagi, relieved of their bandages. As he opened the door he could almost hear the dry creaking of shrivelled brown necks as they twisted towards him; empty eye sockets watching him hungrily as he entered. He hurried through the long room, waving his lamp in a frenzy, weaving snakelike between the cabinets to keep as much distance as he possibly could from the hideously deformed cadavers.
At the far end he released the breath he had been holding for far too long and leant back against the firmly closed doors while his heart slowly returned to a normal rhythm.
Next it was his favourite bit – he never tired of the new exhibition – he stood before the golden mask and stared into gentle eyes, youthful eyes highlighted with heavy black mascara strokes, a soft mouth, benign, compassionate. He felt himself relaxing, the trauma of the journey here all but forgotten in the moment of exquisite beauty.
But then he heard it.
Something was wrong.
He held his breath and strained his ears. As the night air cools old buildings move – by infinitesimal amounts, it is true, but enough that they creak and sigh like a sleeping beast that Roland had no desire to awaken.
But this sound was different. It was more stealthy, more regular . . . were the mummies out of their cases? Were they coming after him? He shrunk back against the case in which the golden throne glowed bright in the dim light, fighting to retain a grip on his sanity, but within the sanctuary of this special place he was able to pull himself together. He was a professional. He was a security guard. The priceless treasures on display here were under threat and there was no one else to protect them but himself.
The telephone was on his desk beside the CCTV monitors. He tugged out his mobile phone but in the bright glow of the screen the depressing reality was that there was no signal deep within this huge stone building. The special exhibition was in a side room and the only way back to his desk was past whatever was approaching. The sounds were getting steadily louder, they would be here in a moment.
He spun around, searching desperately for something to use, something to protect himself, something to protect the priceless treasures which were now his alone to save. In the far corner was a door and on the door was a small stick figure man. It was a toilet. A place to hide maybe, but not a place which would contain anything useful in this situation. But then a light bulb lit in the confused gloom of his mind. He rushed through the door, closing it silently behind him. From one of the cubicles he pulled out a roll of paper, which he quickly wound around his arms and legs and then around his body. He heard whispered voices from the room beyond and hurriedly wrapped the last of the paper around his face. Then he eased the door open and peered through the gap. Two shadowy figures were hunched over the cabinet in which his beloved mask lay.
Roland thrust his arms forwards and strode stiff legged into the room, deep moaning escaping from his lips. The two figures spun around to face him. Their screams brought a grim smile to Roland's lips. As their footsteps disappeared into the distance he hurried back to his desk to make the call.