Read Online Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) by Lesley Glaister - Free Book Online

dread, thinking it might be Mr Patey. There was only one place the person could be, and that was behind a projecting shelf of flowerpots. She swallowed. She had never fainted in her life but wondered if she might be about to do that now, the edges of her vision melting and a sort of buzzing inside her skull.
    And then Osi stepped out, clutching a book. ‘He’s passed on, Icy,’ he said.
    She exhaled dizzily. ‘I can see that, you clot.’
    They both stared down at him.
    ‘What are you doing out here?’ Isis said.
    ‘I found him.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘He was just sitting there with his pipe in his hand.’
    The deckchair was empty, the pipe was on the floor, a scatter of ash beside the bowl.
    ‘Did you put him on the floor?’
    Osi knelt by the body and had his face about an inch away from George’s, which looked just as bad tempered in death as in life. It was disappointing how much the same he looked.
    ‘Move back,’ she said.
    He looked up at her, baffled. ‘Why?’
    ‘Why didn’t you come and tell me?’ she said.
    ‘I wonder how old he was.’ Osi poked George’s cheek.
    Isis crouched beside Osi and grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t touch,’ she said, peering at the body. The skin was waxy, the pale blue of the eyes dull. Flecks of dust or tobacco had settled on their surface, causing her to blink in sympathy.
    ‘We’ll have to tell Mary,’ she said. ‘But she’s having one of her heads. Even Mr Burgess would have been a help today.’ To her own mortification she began to cry, getting up quickly so as not to splash George with her tears.
    ‘We don’t have to tell her.’ Osi followed her out of the shed and caught hold of her sleeve, his nails catching and scratching.
    ‘Of course we do!’ She got hold of him by both arms. ‘Osi, be normal,’ she pleaded. His eyes were exactly the same greenish dun as Evelyn’s and were acutely focussed, as if he was really here, tuned in to this moment, and not in ancient Egypt for once. He looked not so much a child as a shrunken old man with his pallid indoor skin and stringy hair. The volume clutched to his chest was The Egyptian Book of the Dead.
    ‘We could send him on his journey, Isis, to the next world, with his spade and trowel pipe and food and –.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t be so . . .’ she struggled to find the word, ‘ grotesque !’
     
    After the bright sunshine, Isis was hardly able to see inside the house, and as she hurried upstairs to Mary’s attic, her sight was swimming with pallid after-images of George’s face. She tapped on Mary’s door before she opened it to find Mary lying in exactly the same position as before, eyes shut tight.
    ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she whispered, hating herself for feeling a sort of pride to be the bearer of such momentous news, ‘but George has passed on.’
    Mary opened her eyes, squinting against the light.
    ‘Are you sure?’ she murmured.
    Isis nodded. She strained against the wail that wanted to come out and made a strangled gulping sound. Her cheeks were itching with the tears and she scrubbed them away. ‘What shall I do?’
    Mary tried to sit up, clutching at her skull. ‘Oh Lord above,’ she said.
    ‘No,’ Isis said. ‘You don’t have to move only I don’t know what to do.’
    Mary lowered herself back down. ‘Just a minute,’ she whispered. She lay thinking. ‘I’ll have another dose of powders.’
    The doctor had been called out to Mary years ago, and had diagnosed migraine. The powders he’d given her didn’t help much, but Mary liked them and sometimes, she confided, took one when she didn’t have a headache so that she could enjoy it more.
    Now, Isis unfolded one of the little paper envelopes and tipped it into a beaker of water. Mary sipped it slowly, eyes shut, grains of powder sticking to her lip.
    ‘You’re sure he’s gone?’
    ‘He’s on the floor with dust in his eyes and they’re open,’ Isis said, scrunching her own eyes against the