Within the space of an hour the disgruntled police had left, the bar had been wheeled back into position and the place was roistering once more. With a slight movement of his head, Gerrit indicated the red velvet curtain to Ramsay. Gerrit was right, Ramsay thought, he definitely needed something to steady his nerves.
* * *
—
The downward climb into the Sphinx must of necessity turn into an upward slog to exit it. The rake of the passageway was the wrong way around, surely? One should have to put some effort in at the beginning of an evening but be allowed to slip away easily at the end.
Ramsay moved slowly. The passageway was lit by yet more oriental-style lamps—these were gas with open flames, masquerading as torches. For Nellie’s “atmosphere,” no doubt. Ramsay was sure they must be dangerous. Would he be held responsible if the Sphinx caught fire, if all the wayward crowd inside were burnt alive or trampled each other to death while the band played “Ain’t We Got Fun”？
The quivering, ghastly flames illuminated the hieroglyphs. The gas from the lamps was making him feel nauseated again. He felt as if he were turning into a figment of himself. （Was that possible? Did that even make sense? Did anything make sense?）
A rush of cold air indicated that the doormen had let people in, and within seconds Ramsay was engulfed by a glittering tide of people and then left high and dry as they swept into the club. He must get some air. He passed beneath the mask of Tutankhamun again. He almost expected it to say something to him.
He had so much dope in his veins that he was beginning to separate into several Ramsays, different notes on a scale where he had been one harmonious chord. He must stop reaching for an image, it was making him want to vomit.
“Mr. Coker?” one of the doormen said. “Mr. Coker—are you all right?”
The two doormen, burly fellows with oxen shoulders that could have pulled a plough, were still in their bulky winter overcoats. Twenty-seven shillings for a winter one, twenty-five for summer, Ramsay heard Nellie say in his head. His mother was a living ledger. Everything had a price. If she could have pawned her children, she would have done. （No, only Kitty, she said.）
“Yes, quite all right, thank you,” Ramsay said stiffly, making a supreme effort to prevent himself from fragmenting completely and disappearing for ever. “I’m off to the Amethyst now. Good night.”
* * *
—
As he walked through the dimly lit back streets, Ramsay began to develop the uncomfortable feeling that he was being followed by someone. Or something. Something evil. What was the Shakespeare quote? Something wicked this way comes. Yes, that was what it felt like. By the pricking of my thumbs—rather a good title for a novel.
His agitation grew as he began to see shadows like smoke everywhere. A black cat crossed his path on its nightly rounds. Was that lucky or unlucky? He couldn’t remember. For some reason he thought of the mummified cat in the Sphinx, a thought that led to Egyptian mummies in general and from there very quickly back to Tutankhamun and his curse.
What had been in Gerrit’s syringe tonight, for heaven’s sake? He had presumed it was cocaine—Gerrit called it “joy dust” （pronouncing it “yoy dust,” which made it sound less happy）—it usually was, although sometimes Gerrit gave him morphine, which was lovely but impractical, and once heroin, which made him swoon with desire for more, but Gerrit refused. Cocaine didn’t make him feel jittery like this, it usually made him feel bright and alert, an improved version of himself, ready to be a willing adjutant in the Coker corps.
Niven had warned him that there was some “funny stuff” being sold and he should be careful what he took and who gave it to him. Ramsay had stoutly denied taking anything. His heart was pulsing very hard in his chest, an overwrought mechanism about to fail. Perhaps Niven had been right about the funny stuff.
He was quite sure now that he was being dogged, every step seemed to be echoed by another’s, yet whenever he turned to look there was no one in sight. The streets were deserted, even the nightly gauntlet of streetwalkers he usually had to run was absent. It felt unnatural, like something out of a story by Poe.
And then, dear God—a mummy! An actual Egyptian mummy, lurching towards him, the loose ends of its embalming bandages flapping. His nightmares had come to life. The mummy seemed to be unravelling as it jerked along the pavement. Nearer and nearer. Ramsay was paralyzed by the sight. He wondered if he might be going mad. Most artists were probably mad, one way or another. It was almost a badge of honour.