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“Amanda! Amanda wake up!”

The voice was familiar, but seemed out of place.

“Goddamn it, wake up!!”

Amanda’s eyes opened, but the flashlight blinded her. She squinted. A hand tugged her arm.

“Come on, sit up.”

Amanda couldn’t sit up: she was wedged in position. The plastic restraints bit at her wrists and ankles painfully. She managed only a futile “mmmm-mmmm-mmmm!” in protest.

The light came closer to her face. Fingers fiddled, nails scraped, then, in a single violent movement, the duct tape was peeled off.

Amanda spat the moist handkerchief from her mouth and gasped in precious air. Her face stung. “That really hurt,” she complained, her face screwed up with the pain.

“Yes well it couldn’t be helped,” replied Ciara. “Now keep still while I cut these plastic things.”

Amanda waited, powerless. “Where are we?” she asked, utterly confused.

“In the museum,” replied Ciara. “Don’t you remember? Now keep your hands still.” She sawed vigorously with the serrated edge on the back of her hunting knife. But the plastic bonds were tough. Maybe the scissors on her penknife would work? Although, they were small and fiddly…

Amanda was no closer to making sense of it all. “But what are you doing here? How did you -”

“Keep your voice down – there’s a cop outside.” Ciara worked patiently with the scissors. A small incision was achieved: a weakening to work on.

“Lafarge… he got away,” Amanda sighed. Her head spun. “What happened to me?”

“Lafarge drugged you and hid you in here," Ciara replied. "I caught up with him later." She was nearly through the one of the cuffs.

Suddenly - blissfully - Amanda's hands were free. She squirmed. “Hid me in here? What is this...” she asked, reaching up and steadying herself on the side of… the casket. “Wait a minute…" she said, "this thing AGAIN?”

Ciara was focussed only on freeing Amanda. “Put your feet over the side,” she told her.

Amanda shifted in the casket, rolled back, raised her bound feet and offered them to Ciara. “I hid in here earlier when they were closing the museum,” she recalled, rubbing at her sore wrists. Everything was sore in fact, especially her damn head.

“Well you nearly got sealed in here for eternity - the Birtwhistle’s latest mummy!” chuckled Ciara, cutting at the bonds around Amanda’s ankles. They were really tight - she levered the scissor blade underneath.

“Owww!” said Amanda as the metal scratched her calf.

“Sorry…” said Ciara, absentmindedly. “I think you might need some new pantyhose after this.”

Amanda’s inquisitive mind worked overtime to make sense in a whirling world of confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston? I mean, it takes -”

“- three hours and thirty nine minutes on the train,” Ciara finished the sentence for her, then continued: “Hitting redial every few minutes, with no answer, after you left me a final message ending ‘don’t worry.' If I get a message from you saying don’t worry, then no answer, I worry, stupid!”

“Oh,” said Amanda, feeling silly and incredibly grateful all at once. Then, at last, her ankles were freed - bliss! “Oh thank God! Thank you so much…” her voice trembled.

“Come on let’s get out of here,” Ciara implored her, extending a hand.

Amanda got shakily to her knees, bent over the side of the casket and extended one glossy leg then another. Ciara guided her feet to the plinth and then to the floor. But then Amanda’s knees buckled and she sank to the ground as Ciara struggled to keep her up.

“Hang on a minute, I think my legs have gone to sleep,” said Amanda with exasperation. She rolled onto her back with a defeated sigh.

“Hamstrings,” said Ciara, lifting Amanda’s right leg and administering a vigorous massage to the back of her thigh.

“Ooooohh, careful!” said Amanda, wincing.

“Is it helping?”

“Yes,” she sucked in through pursed lips, “now… the other one.”

“Where are your shoes anyway?” Ciara asked her, raking away with her knuckle.

“They might be… upstairs… in the Fossett room. OK stop now.”

“Well you don’t need them,” Ciara said, hauling Amanda successfully to her feet. “Come on this way - we’re taking the fire escape.”

“Wait a minute,” Amanda hauled her back. “I want to look upstairs for my things.”

“Just how crazy are you?” Ciara couldn’t believe her ears. “I told you there are cops in the hallway.”

“But my bag… my laptop… my dad’s gonna freak if I’ve lost it. It might still be there!”

“I’ll buy you another one!” Ciara hissed. “Fire escape, now!”

“The keys for the apartment were in my bag,” said Amanda, matter of factly.

Ciara’s eyes narrowed. “I preferred you tied and gagged.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say!” replied Amanda with mock indignation. “Come on, we’ll take the back stairs.”

She set off across the room, re-energised, irrepressible once more. With a brief ‘tut’ to herself, Ciara closed the casket then hurried after her.

The two girls crept silently up the back staircase, onto the third floor and out into the fashion room; then across the tiled floor and onto the landing. As they stepped out, the sound of police radios echoed up from below. Amanda turned to Ciara, holding one finger to her lips, as if to say ‘shhhhh’. Ciara acknowledged by grimacing and rolling her eyes.

The Fossett Collection was as before. Amanda flitted across the room to where the Egyptian clock rested on its plinth. A hidden drawer was open. Amanda’s memory began to return. Her eyes traced down the plinth to the floor: there were a pair of converse sneakers, a canvas backpack, and a phone, lying face down.

As she picked up the phone, her face fell as she saw a huge spidery crack across the glass. She turned to Ciara.

“Broken…”

“Come on, let’s go.”

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later, Amanda Jones relaxed in the bathtub covered in a mountain of bubbles. The room was dimly lit by small tea lights. Her feet trailed over the side of the tub, the red weals around her ankles barely visible.

Ciara entered with two mugs of hot tea.

“I found some paracetamol,” she said, offering Amanda a mug and two tablets. She sat down on the edge of the bath.

“You look like a ninja, you know,” said Amanda, sipping tea and knocking back the pills.

Ciara raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well it was nice to be appropriately dressed for once.”

“Did you bring any other clothes?” Amanda asked her with concern. Then, with a second thought: “You can borrow some of mine if you like.”

“Nope…“ Ciara smiled, shaking her head. “Tomorrow, you and I are going to Macys. After we’ve got you a new cellphone, that is. Then we’ll need something nice to wear for dinner; there’s a place in the Meatpacking District I’ve always wanted to try out. When in New York –”

“Whoah there girl!” Amanda chided her. ”All this on a researcher’s salary? And I don’t even start working in the library until Tuesday. We’re eating noodles until then.”

Ciara frowned. “I am not eating your cooking.”

Amanda’s nose wrinkled. “Look… I better call my dad and ask if he can pay for a new phone. Can you pass the broken one to me?” She blew bubbles from her hand: the smallest ones spiralled gracefully upwards on invisible thermals.

Ciara reached over, took the phone from a shelf and handed it to her.

Amanda regarded the shattered screen with sorrow; however the thing dutifully lit up as she pushed the button. Through the cracks she thought to see something interesting: a small box; a cursor; letters…BCGE.

On impulse, she hit the blue Search button. She gasped. “BCGE - Banque cantonale de Genève!” Everything came flooding back. Amanda sat up with a start – water cascaded over the side of the bath.

“What are you talking about?” said Ciara, retreating from the oncoming tide.

“The key!” protested Amanda, “Lafarge got away with the key!” She exclaimed, almost inconsolable.

“BCGE 331?” asked Ciara.

“Yes! How do you know?” Amanda frowned.

“You mean…” said Ciara, pulling a tiny object from her breast pocket, “this key?”

“How did you get that?!?” Amanda stared in disbelief.

“I told you,” said Ciara enjoying the moment. “Your last message said where Lafarge was staying. The museum was closed and, when you didn’t reply, I went to look for him. I tailed him to the park where some guy tried to double cross him. He was going to shoot him, Amanda, but I got him first! After that, Lafarge told me where to find you.”

Amanda was dumbfounded.

“This... is turning into The Ciara Identity! I can’t believe Lafarge just handed that over.”

Ciara changed the subject. “So, what does this little baby open, anyway?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Amanda. “We have to find out.”

“I’m getting your laptop,” said Ciara with a smile. "Let's look at some flights...” she disappeared into the hallway.

“Don’t you bring that thing anywhere near the water!” shouted Amanda after her, recalling a previous episode.

“Relax!” came the distant reply.

Still in the bath, Amanda felt far from relaxed. She needed to get out and dressed. Things were developing rapidly once more. She dunked her head under the water.

Presently, Ciara returned, cradling the laptop in one arm, the free hand flicking at the mouse pad.

“So United does a direct flight from JFK, overnight, leaves tomorrow evening. Hey! You could be back for Tuesday.”

“How much?...” Amanda dreaded explaining this one to her father.

“$2,800 each,” replied Ciara; she didn’t seem particularly fazed by the sum. Absentmindedly, she asked herself out loud: “I wonder if they take Euros?”

There followed a pregnant pause.

“Ciara…?”

She turned and faced Amanda. Her friend sat bolt upright in the bathtub with wet hair draped over her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open and a hand covered her gaping mouth.

“Ciara you didn’t…”

Ciara sighed with the realization that she would never be able to hide anything from Amanda. She reached into her back pocket, and pulled out a wad of red, 50 Euro Notes. She looked up with puppy-dog eyes and met Amanda’s shocked gaze.

“Well… I sort of did….”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

“Amanda! Amanda wake up!”

The voice was familiar, but seemed out of place.

“Goddamn it, wake up!!”

Amanda’s eyes opened, but the flashlight blinded her. She squinted. A hand tugged her arm.

“Come on, sit up.”

Amanda couldn’t sit up: she was wedged in position. The plastic restraints bit at her wrists and ankles painfully. She managed only a futile “mmmm-mmmm-mmmm!” in protest.

The light came closer to her face. Fingers fiddled, nails scraped, then, in a single violent movement, the duct tape was peeled off.

Amanda spat the moist handkerchief from her mouth and gasped in precious air. Her face stung. “That really hurt,” she complained, her face screwed up with the pain.

“Yes well it couldn’t be helped,” replied Ciara. “Now keep still while I cut these plastic things.”

Amanda waited, powerless. “Where are we?” she asked, utterly confused.

“In the museum,” replied Ciara. “Don’t you remember? Now keep your hands still.” She sawed vigorously with the serrated edge on the back of her hunting knife. But the plastic bonds were tough. Maybe the scissors on her penknife would work? Although, they were small and fiddly…

Amanda was no closer to making sense of it all. “But what are you doing here? How did you -”

“Keep your voice down – there’s a cop outside.” Ciara worked patiently with the scissors. A small incision was achieved: a weakening to work on.

“Lafarge… he got away,” Amanda sighed. Her head spun. “What happened to me?”

“Lafarge drugged you and hid you in here," Ciara replied. "I caught up with him later." She was nearly through the one of the cuffs.

Suddenly - blissfully - Amanda's hands were free. She squirmed. “Hid me in here? What is this...” she asked, reaching up and steadying herself on the side of… the casket. “Wait a minute…" she said, "this thing AGAIN?”

Ciara was focussed only on freeing Amanda. “Put your feet over the side,” she told her.

Amanda shifted in the casket, rolled back, raised her bound feet and offered them to Ciara. “I hid in here earlier when they were closing the museum,” she recalled, rubbing at her sore wrists. Everything was sore in fact, especially her damn head.

“Well you nearly got sealed in here for eternity - the Birtwhistle’s latest mummy!” chuckled Ciara, cutting at the bonds around Amanda’s ankles. They were really tight - she levered the scissor blade underneath.

“Owww!” said Amanda as the metal scratched her calf.

“Sorry…” said Ciara, absentmindedly. “I think you might need some new pantyhose after this.”

Amanda’s inquisitive mind worked overtime to make sense in a whirling world of confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston? I mean, it takes -”

“- three hours and thirty nine minutes on the train,” Ciara finished the sentence for her, then continued: “Hitting redial every few minutes, with no answer, after you left me a final message ending ‘don’t worry.' If I get a message from you saying don’t worry, then no answer, I worry, stupid!”

“Oh,” said Amanda, feeling silly and incredibly grateful all at once. Then, at last, her ankles were freed - bliss! “Oh thank God! Thank you so much…” her voice trembled.

“Come on let’s get out of here,” Ciara implored her, extending a hand.

Amanda got shakily to her knees, bent over the side of the casket and extended one glossy leg then another. Ciara guided her feet to the plinth and then to the floor. But then Amanda’s knees buckled and she sank to the ground as Ciara struggled to keep her up.

“Hang on a minute, I think my legs have gone to sleep,” said Amanda with exasperation. She rolled onto her back with a defeated sigh.

“Hamstrings,” said Ciara, lifting Amanda’s right leg and administering a vigorous massage to the back of her thigh.

“Ooooohh, careful!” said Amanda, wincing.

“Is it helping?”

“Yes,” she sucked in through pursed lips, “now… the other one.”

“Where are your shoes anyway?” Ciara asked her, raking away with her knuckle.

“They might be… upstairs… in the Fossett room. OK stop now.”

“Well you don’t need them,” Ciara said, hauling Amanda successfully to her feet. “Come on this way - we’re taking the fire escape.”

“Wait a minute,” Amanda hauled her back. “I want to look upstairs for my things.”

“Just how crazy are you?” Ciara couldn’t believe her ears. “I told you there are cops in the hallway.”

“But my bag… my laptop… my dad’s gonna freak if I’ve lost it. It might still be there!”

“I’ll buy you another one!” Ciara hissed. “Fire escape, now!”

“The keys for the apartment were in my bag,” said Amanda, matter of factly.

Ciara’s eyes narrowed. “I preferred you tied and gagged.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say!” replied Amanda with mock indignation. “Come on, we’ll take the back stairs.”

She set off across the room, re-energised, irrepressible once more. With a brief ‘tut’ to herself, Ciara closed the casket then hurried after her.

The two girls crept silently up the back staircase, onto the third floor and out into the fashion room; then across the tiled floor and onto the landing. As they stepped out, the sound of police radios echoed up from below. Amanda turned to Ciara, holding one finger to her lips, as if to say ‘shhhhh’. Ciara acknowledged by grimacing and rolling her eyes.

The Fossett Collection was as before. Amanda flitted across the room to where the Egyptian clock rested on its plinth. A hidden drawer was open. Amanda’s memory began to return. Her eyes traced down the plinth to the floor: there were a pair of converse sneakers, a canvas backpack, and a phone, lying face down.

As she picked up the phone, her face fell as she saw a huge spidery crack across the glass. She turned to Ciara.

“Broken…”

“Come on, let’s go.”

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later, Amanda Jones relaxed in the bathtub covered in a mountain of bubbles. The room was dimly lit by small tea lights. Her feet trailed over the side of the tub, the red weals around her ankles barely visible.

Ciara entered with two mugs of hot tea.

“I found some paracetamol,” she said, offering Amanda a mug and two tablets. She sat down on the edge of the bath.

“You look like a ninja, you know,” said Amanda, sipping tea and knocking back the pills.

Ciara raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well it was nice to be appropriately dressed for once.”

“Did you bring any other clothes?” Amanda asked her with concern. Then, with a second thought: “You can borrow some of mine if you like.”

“Nope…“ Ciara smiled, shaking her head. “Tomorrow, you and I are going to Macys. After we’ve got you a new cellphone, that is. Then we’ll need something nice to wear for dinner; there’s a place in the Meatpacking District I’ve always wanted to try out. When in New York –”

“Whoah there girl!” Amanda chided her. ”All this on a researcher’s salary? And I don’t even start working in the library until Tuesday. We’re eating noodles until then.”

Ciara frowned. “I am not eating your cooking.”

Amanda’s nose wrinkled. “Look… I better call my dad and ask if he can pay for a new phone. Can you pass the broken one to me?” She blew bubbles from her hand: the smallest ones spiralled gracefully upwards on invisible thermals.

Ciara reached over, took the phone from a shelf and handed it to her.

Amanda regarded the shattered screen with sorrow; however the thing dutifully lit up as she pushed the button. Through the cracks she thought to see something interesting: a small box; a cursor; letters…BCGE.

On impulse, she hit the blue Search button. She gasped. “BCGE - Banque cantonale de Genève!” Everything came flooding back. Amanda sat up with a start – water cascaded over the side of the bath.

“What are you talking about?” said Ciara, retreating from the oncoming tide.

“The key!” protested Amanda, “Lafarge got away with the key!” She exclaimed, almost inconsolable.

“BCGE 331?” asked Ciara.

“Yes! How do you know?” Amanda frowned.

“You mean…” said Ciara, pulling a tiny object from her breast pocket, “this key?”

“How did you get that?!?” Amanda stared in disbelief.

“I told you,” said Ciara enjoying the moment. “Your last message said where Lafarge was staying. The museum was closed and, when you didn’t reply, I went to look for him. I tailed him to the park where some guy tried to double cross him. He was going to shoot him, Amanda, but I got him first! After that, Lafarge told me where to find you.”

Amanda was dumbfounded.

“This... is turning into The Ciara Identity! I can’t believe Lafarge just handed that over.”

Ciara changed the subject. “So, what does this little baby open, anyway?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Amanda. “We have to find out.”

“I’m getting your laptop,” said Ciara with a smile. "Let's look at some flights...” she disappeared into the hallway.

“Don’t you bring that thing anywhere near the water!” shouted Amanda after her, recalling a previous episode.

“Relax!” came the distant reply.

Still in the bath, Amanda felt far from relaxed. She needed to get out and dressed. Things were developing rapidly once more. She dunked her head under the water.

Presently, Ciara returned, cradling the laptop in one arm, the free hand flicking at the mouse pad.

“So United does a direct flight from JFK, overnight, leaves tomorrow evening. Hey! You could be back for Tuesday.”

“How much?...” Amanda dreaded explaining this one to her father.

“$2,800 each,” replied Ciara; she didn’t seem particularly fazed by the sum. Absentmindedly, she asked herself out loud: “I wonder if they take Euros?”

There followed a pregnant pause.

“Ciara…?”

She turned and faced Amanda. Her friend sat bolt upright in the bathtub with wet hair draped over her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open and a hand covered her gaping mouth.

“Ciara you didn’t…”

Ciara sighed with the realization that she would never be able to hide anything from Amanda. She reached into her back pocket, and pulled out a wad of red, 50 Euro Notes. She looked up with puppy-dog eyes and met Amanda’s shocked gaze.

“Well… I sort of did….”