That night was different to any for a long time. I still had nightmares, and awoke sweating and gasping in the small hours as I so often did. But instead of images of shattered bodies in the bloody fields of Ypres, and the bone-shaking blasts of shells, I dreamt of a river, the Nile I suppose. It was night, and moonlight revealed the strong, undulating forms of massive crocodiles in the dark water. Men were swimming toward the shore, and one by one were grasped by the quick strikes of huge jaws. Bodies were ripped apart and blood filled the water. On the bank a large, handsome man laughed as each one died. His skin was black, but he was not a negro.

Even the parts of his eyes that should be white were black. It was as if he were made of darkness which had chosen to form itself in the shape of a man. It was an utter and complete blackness that filled me with fear.

When I awoke I could see the first few rays of dawn filtered through the shutters, and playing on the mosquito net over my bed. Soon the call to prayer would sound across the city, and I craved that familiar, human sound after the bleak brutality of my dream. I had the familiar, comforting ache of a hangover, which numbed the remembrance of the previous day’s events. I had breakfast late, tipping the waiter as always. Whatever part of the Empire I found myself in, I figured I could cope with anything as long as I had a good breakfast, and I hoped keeping the waiter on my side would mean that he looked after me.

By the time I walked over to the Nile Club it was lunchtime, and well nigh time for a couple of gins with the chaps there. They had all heard the news about the dig, and so I didn’t have to reach into my wallet, or be sly about how many I’d had. Eventually I thought I should leave the cheering and head out to the dig. I walked to the river, the call to prayer sounding from the city behind me. I jumped on a ferry, and tried to conceal the ‘top-ups’ from my hip flask while the chaps prayed. If they noticed, they didn’t care. Eventually we got underway, and a horse and cart took me to the dig site. I was pleased to see that a locked gate was being fitted across the tomb entrance, somewhat taken back that it was happening the day after we paid for it to be done. Obviously the Arabs were keen to guard their ancestors’ treasures. I was even more shocked that Saunders wasn’t there, so took the trip back across the river to his hotel, not realising he was already dead.

I stayed in bed for the day after the police released me. When the gin bottles ran dry I pulled on some clothes and dragged my bones into the street. The blazing sun hit me hard after so long indoors, and sapped what little strength I had left. The carts on the main streets threw up clouds of dust, and it was a relief to reach the narrow shady lanes in the heart of the city. I couldn’t face the Nile Club, but an Arab trader I knew could always find some rough gin, his respect for commerce even greater than his respect for Allah. Fared seemed to be expecting me. I suppose that bad news travels fast, and he knew how I would cope with bad news. He was gracious, saying kind words about Saunders as he wrapped my bottles. I said as little as possible, but smiled as I paid him and muttered ‘shoukran’.

My feet found their own way back to the hotel, and as I let myself into my room I saw one of the windows was open. I started to curse the hotel staff for letting the mosquitoes in. However I quickly realised that they weren’t to blame, and I’d been burgled. I swayed around the room for a while looking for my wallet and watch, before realising they were still in my pockets. The room had been turned over all right, but was anything missing? As in Saunders’ room, it took along time to realise that the statue was gone. I closed the window and lay on the bed, opening Fared’s package. There were two unlabelled bottles as expected, but also a note. It was in English, but it was so poorly written, and I was so drunk it took several minutes to understand it. ‘If you want statue, come to Fared shop at midnight’. Ruddy hell. Did the thief want to sell it back to me? Or kill me and rob me? I didn’t miss the statue, and there were plenty more like it in the tomb. If it was the same man or group who did poor Saunders in, why lure me away, why not just kill me in the hotel like they did with him? Obviously Fared had been complicit in leaving the note, and I was upset at the thought that he would collude against me with a thief or murderer. Was this someone who knew Saunders’ murderer and wanted to tip me off? I thought this seemed most likely. I wound up my alarm clock, slugged some gin and lay down on the bed.