Page 75 of The Salt King

The Jordanian Ministry of Health had picked them up from the road when the video finally reached someone’s email. Now they were at the same hospital where the archaeologists were being held, and Tallis had lost count of the number of people who had spoken to them. People from the Ministry. Calls from her agency. Doctors. Radiologists. Experts, experts who the first experts thought were better, and through it all, test after test after test. But the dosimetry was negative. Blood tests were negative.

Then the Minister himself arrived and came to the Perspex window to see them.

“There’s a place in England called Hreodwater,” she began. He was already nodding, though slowly; he did everything slowly. He didn’t so much walk as ooze, and even when he was trying to do something urgent, like save you the trouble of a long explanation, he only moved at about half the speed most people would. If she hadn’t been in isolation with suspected radiation sickness, she would have been delighted with him, because he was very definitely a sloth in a ministerial disguise.

“Yes,” he said. “We have contacted a representative of the Vatican who believes the substance is called salt light. It occurs at Hreodwater and, as far as anybody knew until today, nowhere else. We have been advised . . .” He paused for a long time, then nodded to himself. “That it does not penetrate silver. Therefore, a technician is fitting silver plating and a silver shutter to a camera. The doctors will take photographs of you upon its availability. If there is any residue, it will show. But according to our contact, it is harmless. People visit the mine for many days and remain well.”

“There are no records of anyone ever coming to harm from it,” one of the doctors put in, and at ordinary speed, she sounded supercharged. “Pilgrims have visited for a thousand years. Some stay for over a month. Scholars have visited since the eighteen eighties; it really looks fascinating, but . . . no fatalities.”

“Until this Matthew person turned to salt,” Sally said.

“Until that,” the doctor said uneasily. “But we’ll know more once we have some imaging. However, you’re not contaminating anything. Feel free to stretch your legs and get a coffee in the concourse.”

“Meanwhile the IAEA are attempting to send someone to Hreodwater, but the weather is severe and the crossing is closed. It appears to be an island,” the Minister said, disgusted. “There is no way to gain entry at present. So, we are waiting for some word from the Vatican inquisitor already there.” He looked like he would have trusted the assessment of a passing goat more. “One hopes he is not too distracted by the discovery of the Risen Lord on his toast, or . . . whatever it is Catholics spend their time doing. In any case: good work, both of you.” His eyes caught on Tallis. “I thought your violin performance was quite wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Are you aware it’s gone rather viral?”

“No,” she said, wondering now if they were in trouble for posting something so frivolous on the ministry account. The Minister seemed like the kind of person who said frivolous often.

But the Minister only nodded once. It took him a long time. “If what is happening is what I suspect is happening,” he said, “then it will be a good thing for a scientific branch of the government to have a strong social media presence that people enjoy and trust.” His sad, slow brown eyes tracked across both of them. “Do continue, won’t you.”

“What did that mean?” Tallis murmured to Sally once he had gone.

Sally shook his head slightly. “I don’t know, but—he knows something, doesn’t he.”

There was a shop in the hospital concourse selling cheap phones. While Sally went in to find himself a new one, she bought them some coffee from an unexpectedly swanky café and claimed a couple of chairs by the big window, feeling grateful her own phone was still all right. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to set up a new one. She hadn’t slept much, and now she was in that quiet-minded haze that would have made real work impossible, but was quite nice just to sit with. She gazed at the huge television screen across the concourse. It was showing a news report from Al Jazeera with English subtitles. Something was happening in Poland. Communications blackout in a place near Krakow. Someone was talking about nuclear bombs.

She propped her cheek on her hand and thought how nice it would be if World War III didn’t choose this moment to start. Compulsively, her fingertips found her hairline and the roots of her braids. She had washed the salt out, but she kept expecting to feel the grit of it again.

“Are you Dr Osho?”

It made her jump. The woman standing by the table was ill and nervous, and tiny. Tallis thought she might be French. “Er—yes? Hello. Are you . . . somebody I know and I’ve forgotten about because I’m turning into a zombie?”

“No. I’m Veronique, I’m the linguist with the archaeological expedition at the Dead Sea.” She sat down in the chair that was supposed to be for Sally. “I’ve been here for a few days; they’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with us. I’ve been doing some work. Actually—a translation of the script around the tower gateway.”

“Oh, right?” said Tallis, wondering how to say Would you mind awfully if you were to bugger off until after I’ve had this coffee?

“The doctors mentioned that you talked about a place in England where—electronic devices also suffer, and where a man turned to salt?”

“Yes, it’s a salt mine,” Tallis said, and then frowned, because the item on the news now, the one about Poland, was about a salt mine too. Wieliczka.

Sally came across, looking speculative. He stopped by Tallis’s chair with a glance that asked whether she needed help getting rid of her crazy person.

“This is Veronique, she works for the archaeology expedition at our site,” Tallis said, pulling across another chair for him.

He hinged down into it and smiled quickly when she gave him his coffee. “Oh, okay.” About the coffee: “Thank you.” To Veronique: “Hi.”

Veronique ignored him. “The language around the gate is ancient. It predates any other script in the region. We think it might be a prehistoric form of, er, of Aramaic,” she ploughed on, pushing one hand through her hair. Probing her hairline, Tallis noticed. She looked terrible. There were ashy circles under her eyes. “Early Bronze Age, from before hieroglyphs.”

“Impressive,” said Tallis. “But—we’re nuclear inspectors, we don’t know anything about—”

“The doctors said that you saw something, in the dosimetry tests,” Veronique said, suddenly intense. “I made them show me. I saw it. The figure on the films.”

Tallis waited this time. Sally was quiet too, green eyes vivid in the daylight.

“The script on the tower doorway. It says, ‘Traveller turn back, lest the curse of Sedem become your curse too.’ ”