Free Egypt by Nick Drake

the beheading had been extremely sharp; the cuts in his flesh were precise and knowledgeable. There was no hesitation, no prevarication, no uncertainty. Khety’s head had been severed expertly, just like the Nubian boys’. And the killer had had a respect, amounting to an obsession, with neatness of composition: behind the head were the other parts of my friend’s corpse, butchered like an animal carcass. His arms and legs were stacked against his trunk, like logs of flesh and bone. His hands and feet had been cut off, too; his fingers, snipped off, were laid on top like a dreadful decoration. And on them, disgustingly, the shrivelled remains of his penis had been placed. The killer had started with his extremities. I realized he would probably have been alive throughout much of the butchery. The world around me was spinning. I turned away and hurried, crouching, into the further shadows of the alley, where I vomited on the filthy ground, bucking like an animal.
    A crowd of fascinated little street children had gathered to watch me. I grabbed a handful of stones and gravel, and hurled it at them as if they were dogs. They scattered, shouting and laughing.
    I returned to the mutilated remains of my friend. Khety’s dead eyes registered nothing. I reached out and took his head between my hands, as carefully as I could. A dead head is heavy. I felt a ridiculous urge to ask him questions, to interrogate him, even to slap his stupid face until his eyes flickered open, his jaw stirred into creaky motion, and he spoke again, if only to curse me for waking him from the dead. Like a madman, I kissed his cold brow, whispering my useless, propitiatory apologies. Two nights ago, my friend had asked for my help. And I had abandoned him. Now he was cruelly slaughtered. Perhaps I could have stopped him behaving recklessly. I could have saved him. Guilt hunched on my back like a vicious monkey, digging its sharp claws into me, and began to whisper its hot accusations into my ears.
    And then, even in the midst of my new agony, a thought crossed my mind; although the jawbone was already stiff, I prised open my friend’s teeth as carefully as I could, and reached inside his dead mouth. And there it was: another fold of papyrus. I tenderly replaced my friend’s head on the ground. I was shivering now, although not with cold, and I forced my hands to do my bidding, to open up the delicate papyrus. Inside was the black star, with its evil arrows pointing in every direction.
    I heard footsteps. Nebamun was walking towards me. I hid the papyrus in my satchel. He glanced at Khety’s remains and shook his head with no more respect or feeling than if he were looking at a dead dog. Then he took a deep, dramatic breath, as if he had something momentous to convey.
    â€˜What a world,’ he managed.
    His trite little clichés had always incensed me.
    â€˜He was a good officer. I know he was your friend. But I can’t have you running around the city like a madman trying to track down his killer. I’m instructing you to remain at home, and I’m assigning someone else to this case…’
    I turned to him.
    â€˜He was my partner. He’s mine . This is my investigation. You can assign your arse,’ I said.
    Nebamun squinted, and spat.
    â€˜I’ve tried to be sweet and compassionate, in your hour of need, and all that … and you’ve thrown it right back in my face. So listen to me carefully, Rahotep. If I hear you’re meddling in this, I’ll have you arrested and thrown into the darkest cell I can find, and I’ll seal you in there for ever, and let some of the more enthusiastic and less fastidious members of the Medjay have a go at you. Understand?’
    The blood burned in my hands.
    â€˜You have no intention of investigating this, any more than you’ve “investigated” any of the other murders,’ I said. ‘What’s that about?’
    I noticed the