Chapter 10: Oxford - Jericho

Angela had spent a productive afternoon as far as her project on the shabtis was concerned. She had managed to catalogue another thirty of the figures and, she thought, she was getting closer to devising a way of categorising the various inscriptions that each carried.

She hadn’t, however, made any progress on the material for the exhibition. In spite of the fact that it was quite against the museum’s rules she decided to take a few pieces home to work on. A small plastic box was all she needed to hold a few of the smaller items she was in the process of labelling. The ring was amongst them.

‘Home’ for Angela was a flat in Jericho. It took her about 30 minutes to walk there, up St John Street and across Wellington Square. She got indoors and scowled at the contents of her fridge, only now remembering that she had intended to shop for food. Dinner looked like it was going to be a can of baked beans emptied onto some buttered toast with an accompanying mug of tea or can of soda if she was feeling reckless. There was a takeaway place at the end of the road but she wasn’t sure she could even be bothered with that. She turned on the radio. Some pop music she didn’t quite recognise was playing. She took out the few things she had brought home and laid them out on her table. The ring in its small clear plastic box with the white label on the side seemed to be blinking at her. She couldn’t work out where the light it appeared to be reflecting was coming from.

There was a knock at the door. She opened it, unsure if she wanted company. Standing on the threshold, looking dishevelled, was her boyfriend of a week ago, Patrick. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Angela responded. “You’re drunk.”

“Hmm, maybe. A bit.” Patrick leaned against the door frame, a friendly grin on his face.

Angela didn’t feel inclined to indulge him. She had decided soon after his departure that it was no bad thing. “You moved out. Remember? You were tired of the old statues and funny picture writing. They’re still around.”

“I thought we might try again.”

“I don’t think so, Patrick.”

“Ah, come on. Let’s talk at least.”

Angela could only hear the lyrics of Dua Lipa’s ‘New Rules’ running through her head... ‘One, Don’t pick up the phone, you know he’s only calling ‘cos he’s drunk and alone’. “I don’t that’s a good idea.”

“Sure it is.” He pushed past her into the flat and pulled a bottle from his jacket. “Come on. Have a drink. Relax.”

“Patrick, I really don’t want to talk.”

“Sure you do.”

It was one of the things about him that had annoyed Angela more than anything else and probably the main thing that had decided her that she didn’t want him back. He could never just accept that that what she said was what she wanted. It had been the same problem if they were discussing what movie to go to, what sort of food they should eat or whether or not Angela fancied sex.

“Patrick, can’t you just do as I ask?”

“Come on. It’s only one drink.”

Why was it so difficult to get him to do what she wanted, Angela thought. Then she remembered the box of things she had brought home from the office, the ring and the curious way that Carfax had appeared to respond to it. As Patrick was fumbling around in the kitchen looking for glasses for their drinks, Angela found the box, pulled out the ring and put it on her finger. She felt a warm, sensual feeling pass through her. She sat down and waited for Patrick to reappear. As Patrick entered the room he underwent a transformation every bit as dramatic as the one that Angela had seen with Carfax. He fell to his knees, bowed his head and offered one of the drinks to her.