Read Online The Most Frightening Story Ever Told by Philip Kerr - Free Book Online
Authors: Philip Kerr
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is nothing terrifying about a mummy that is as pink as the icing on a birthday cake.
A pink mummy was bad enough. But there was worse. Much worse. A large pair of pink furry rabbit’s ears had been stuck on the mummy’s head and a big juicy red carrot had been placed in its moldering, wrapped hand so that the poor old thing now resembled a weird soft cuddly toy that had been abandoned by some careless child, instead of an Egyptian priest cursed for all eternity.
“There,” said Mr. Rapscallion. The upset he felt was clearly written on his face. And in his voice. “Just look what they did to my mummy. Ruined. That’s what it is. Ruined.”
“Couldn’t you just change the bandages?” suggested Billy.
“Bandages?” exclaimed Mr. Rapscallion.
“I mean, that’s what they did to me in the hospital, after my accident, when my old bandages got dirty. So why not just take the pink ones off and put some dirty new ones on?”
“These weren’t just any old bandages from a hospital, Billy,” explained Mr. Rapscallion. “These were proper mummy wrappings from a genuine mummy of the New Kingdom of Egypt, nineteenth dynasty. They were covered with…years, many years of dust from the real Valley of the Kings.”
“Yes, but would anyone know the difference?” asked Billy. “If you did just put ordinary hospital bandages on the mummy?”
“
I
would know the difference, Billy,” Mr. Rapscallion said stiffly. “All of my sideshows in the Haunted House of Books—my little horrors, as I call them—they are all as close to the real thing as I can make them.”
“Isn’t that very expensive?” asked Billy.
“Of course it’s expensive,”
said Mr. Rapscallion. “But I have my standards, Billy. I have my standards. This is what gives me pleasure. It’s one of the reasons why this is no ordinary bookshop.”
Billy nodded. He could not disagree with the argument that he was in no ordinary bookshop.
“Did you find out who did it?” asked Billy. “Who it was that spray-painted your mummy?”
“The culprits are known to me, yes, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Their ugly little juvenile-delinquent faces were recorded on closed-circuit television.” His face wrinkled with distaste. “The police told me their names. Not that they did anything about it, of course. The police just bent their horrible little ears about damaging property and then let them go.
“Their names are Wilson Dirtbag, Simon Snotnose, Robbie Roach and Holly Hurl; Hugh Bicep, Brad Undershort and Lenore Gas; Michael Mucus, Kate Ramsbottom, Kevin Clipshear, Wilbur Dogbreath and Lloyd Sputum. And when I die you will find those names written on my heart, Billy.”
Mr. Rapscallion ushered Billy out of the Curse of the Pharaohs room.
“Yes, the whole incident left me feeling quite depressed. I even saw a psychiatrist about it. The one who helped me with my number thing.”
“And did it help?” asked Billy.
“Yes. It did. He advised me to write a song about it. That’s what I do when I need to get something out of my system now. I write a song. Would you like to hear it, Billy?”
“I’d love to hear it.”
They went down to the entrance hall, where Mr. Rapscallion sat down at the grand piano. To Billy’s surprise, this was in tune.
Mr. Rapscallion composed himself and started to play.
Billy thought he played very well. And so, it seemed, did the other customers in the bookshop, because they came out of the various sections where they’d been book-browsing to listen.
Mr. Rapscallion played for several minutes. And then he began to sing.
“The Children of Today,” a song by Rexford Rapscallion
VERSE 1
Wilson Dirtbag, Simon Snotnose,
Robbie Roach and Holly Hurl.
We’ve every little nasty habit
A boy or girl can exhibit.
Here you see, one group of us.
Yes there is a troop of us,
Nasty little brutes who must do bad.
We know we’re pretty handy
When it comes to stealing candy;
But we’d much prefer to stay in bed
A pink mummy was bad enough. But there was worse. Much worse. A large pair of pink furry rabbit’s ears had been stuck on the mummy’s head and a big juicy red carrot had been placed in its moldering, wrapped hand so that the poor old thing now resembled a weird soft cuddly toy that had been abandoned by some careless child, instead of an Egyptian priest cursed for all eternity.
“There,” said Mr. Rapscallion. The upset he felt was clearly written on his face. And in his voice. “Just look what they did to my mummy. Ruined. That’s what it is. Ruined.”
“Couldn’t you just change the bandages?” suggested Billy.
“Bandages?” exclaimed Mr. Rapscallion.
“I mean, that’s what they did to me in the hospital, after my accident, when my old bandages got dirty. So why not just take the pink ones off and put some dirty new ones on?”
“These weren’t just any old bandages from a hospital, Billy,” explained Mr. Rapscallion. “These were proper mummy wrappings from a genuine mummy of the New Kingdom of Egypt, nineteenth dynasty. They were covered with…years, many years of dust from the real Valley of the Kings.”
“Yes, but would anyone know the difference?” asked Billy. “If you did just put ordinary hospital bandages on the mummy?”
“
I
would know the difference, Billy,” Mr. Rapscallion said stiffly. “All of my sideshows in the Haunted House of Books—my little horrors, as I call them—they are all as close to the real thing as I can make them.”
“Isn’t that very expensive?” asked Billy.
“Of course it’s expensive,”
said Mr. Rapscallion. “But I have my standards, Billy. I have my standards. This is what gives me pleasure. It’s one of the reasons why this is no ordinary bookshop.”
Billy nodded. He could not disagree with the argument that he was in no ordinary bookshop.
“Did you find out who did it?” asked Billy. “Who it was that spray-painted your mummy?”
“The culprits are known to me, yes, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Their ugly little juvenile-delinquent faces were recorded on closed-circuit television.” His face wrinkled with distaste. “The police told me their names. Not that they did anything about it, of course. The police just bent their horrible little ears about damaging property and then let them go.
“Their names are Wilson Dirtbag, Simon Snotnose, Robbie Roach and Holly Hurl; Hugh Bicep, Brad Undershort and Lenore Gas; Michael Mucus, Kate Ramsbottom, Kevin Clipshear, Wilbur Dogbreath and Lloyd Sputum. And when I die you will find those names written on my heart, Billy.”
Mr. Rapscallion ushered Billy out of the Curse of the Pharaohs room.
“Yes, the whole incident left me feeling quite depressed. I even saw a psychiatrist about it. The one who helped me with my number thing.”
“And did it help?” asked Billy.
“Yes. It did. He advised me to write a song about it. That’s what I do when I need to get something out of my system now. I write a song. Would you like to hear it, Billy?”
“I’d love to hear it.”
They went down to the entrance hall, where Mr. Rapscallion sat down at the grand piano. To Billy’s surprise, this was in tune.
Mr. Rapscallion composed himself and started to play.
Billy thought he played very well. And so, it seemed, did the other customers in the bookshop, because they came out of the various sections where they’d been book-browsing to listen.
Mr. Rapscallion played for several minutes. And then he began to sing.
“The Children of Today,” a song by Rexford Rapscallion
VERSE 1
Wilson Dirtbag, Simon Snotnose,
Robbie Roach and Holly Hurl.
We’ve every little nasty habit
A boy or girl can exhibit.
Here you see, one group of us.
Yes there is a troop of us,
Nasty little brutes who must do bad.
We know we’re pretty handy
When it comes to stealing candy;
But we’d much prefer to stay in bed
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