The Last Journey
Brian sat back in his seat and stared out of the jets window into the infinite emptiness of the Sahara below. The plane was old, a DC 9 if he knew his planes, which he did. There were only a handful of passengers so he could spread out, relax and reflect on this, his last job for the museum.
The museum had, during the height of Egyptian mania in the thirties acquired a great many valuable artifacts from the Nile delta. Some of these had been acquired more scrupulously than others. Case in point the small gold scarab that Brian was wearing around his neck on a leather shoe lace. To put it bluntly, it had been proven to be stolen from a museum in Cairo eighty years ago and now must be returned with full apologies and the task had fallen to him. A last chance to visit Egypt on the museum's dime was not something to be passed up. The scarab had been supplied to him by the museum’s curator in a bulky plastic security case, wearing it seemed somehow more appropriate, so he’d ditched the case in Paris and worn it around his neck ever since. Somewhere over Tunisia his eyes began to close and sleep came easily.
He woke with a start, they were still in the air but things were too loud and wrong, something abruptly cast a shadow over the plane window. He looked out, below, the desert, timeless and endless, craning upwards, he saw the belly of another plane impossibly close, rivets and grease stains. He sat bolt upright in his seat, wide awake, deathly afraid. The plane started to bank to the right and dive, but at the same time there was an awful grinding of metal and the top of the cabin towards the front of the plane visibly buckled. A window blew out, then another. He could only see sky, then the other plane, far away now trailing smoke, then the ground, then sky again. The oxygen masks dropped, but he couldn’t reach his, acceleration keeping it out of reach. Then with a massive shriek the top of the fuselage above his head started to crack open. His last thought as the g forces and lack of oxygen took away consciousness was the seat belt light still wasn’t on.
The tall thin dark man from the desert with the gun and the beard kicked him but not hard, more of a nudge really. Brian opened his eyes again, immediately regretted it, they were full of sand and the light was too bright. His mouth had sand in it too. He rolled on his side and tried to spit, but there was nothing. The man with the gun poured a little water on his face. “Monsieur. It is not safe here, we must go now” he said handing Brian the water bottle. Brian took a mouthful, spat into the sand and then drank deeply. Then he remembered the plane. “My god, the plane, the collision, what happened? Did anyone else make it?” The Berber looked at him. “No. You are the only one. We have to go now, we shouldn’t be out here like this.” The man grabbed Brian’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Brian’s legs were like rubber but he could stand. Around them small bits of big aeroplane were scattered over a wide area, some of it was burning.
Brian looked down at his body, as far as he could tell he was completely uninjured, even his clothes appeared to be immaculate, none of this made sense. He touched the scarab under his shirt. It was still there, it’s ancient golden weight somehow reassuring. The Berber was tugging at his arm, really anxious to be moving off now. “Wait” said Brian, “How am I even alive. How could anybody survive this”. The thin man’s eyes looked afraid. “Monsieur, the plane you were on crashed five minutes ago. But you, friend, have been dead for longer I think. And I keep trying to tell you, it's not safe for ghosts to be out during daylight. We must go now!”
January 2019 Southampton.
The museum had, during the height of Egyptian mania in the thirties acquired a great many valuable artifacts from the Nile delta. Some of these had been acquired more scrupulously than others. Case in point the small gold scarab that Brian was wearing around his neck on a leather shoe lace. To put it bluntly, it had been proven to be stolen from a museum in Cairo eighty years ago and now must be returned with full apologies and the task had fallen to him. A last chance to visit Egypt on the museum's dime was not something to be passed up. The scarab had been supplied to him by the museum’s curator in a bulky plastic security case, wearing it seemed somehow more appropriate, so he’d ditched the case in Paris and worn it around his neck ever since. Somewhere over Tunisia his eyes began to close and sleep came easily.
He woke with a start, they were still in the air but things were too loud and wrong, something abruptly cast a shadow over the plane window. He looked out, below, the desert, timeless and endless, craning upwards, he saw the belly of another plane impossibly close, rivets and grease stains. He sat bolt upright in his seat, wide awake, deathly afraid. The plane started to bank to the right and dive, but at the same time there was an awful grinding of metal and the top of the cabin towards the front of the plane visibly buckled. A window blew out, then another. He could only see sky, then the other plane, far away now trailing smoke, then the ground, then sky again. The oxygen masks dropped, but he couldn’t reach his, acceleration keeping it out of reach. Then with a massive shriek the top of the fuselage above his head started to crack open. His last thought as the g forces and lack of oxygen took away consciousness was the seat belt light still wasn’t on.
The tall thin dark man from the desert with the gun and the beard kicked him but not hard, more of a nudge really. Brian opened his eyes again, immediately regretted it, they were full of sand and the light was too bright. His mouth had sand in it too. He rolled on his side and tried to spit, but there was nothing. The man with the gun poured a little water on his face. “Monsieur. It is not safe here, we must go now” he said handing Brian the water bottle. Brian took a mouthful, spat into the sand and then drank deeply. Then he remembered the plane. “My god, the plane, the collision, what happened? Did anyone else make it?” The Berber looked at him. “No. You are the only one. We have to go now, we shouldn’t be out here like this.” The man grabbed Brian’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Brian’s legs were like rubber but he could stand. Around them small bits of big aeroplane were scattered over a wide area, some of it was burning.
Brian looked down at his body, as far as he could tell he was completely uninjured, even his clothes appeared to be immaculate, none of this made sense. He touched the scarab under his shirt. It was still there, it’s ancient golden weight somehow reassuring. The Berber was tugging at his arm, really anxious to be moving off now. “Wait” said Brian, “How am I even alive. How could anybody survive this”. The thin man’s eyes looked afraid. “Monsieur, the plane you were on crashed five minutes ago. But you, friend, have been dead for longer I think. And I keep trying to tell you, it's not safe for ghosts to be out during daylight. We must go now!”
January 2019 Southampton.