Queen of the Nile

The light from the full moon danced over the waters of the Nile. Sobek watched her. He saw her body shine luminously as the river caressed her. She was a creature made of moon light, alabaster, phosphorescent, a goddess. To him she was beautiful. Ripples sparkled around her, spray diademed her hair. Lotus stems wound them selves around her limbs clasping her tighter to the Niles bosom. She gave a low moan as her face turned into the smooth green darkness to meet him and she floated face down.

Harif watched from the top deck as on the opposite bank a pair of yellow reptilian eyes noticed the movement. With an almost silent plop the crocodile slipped into the water.
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The cruise ship Hatshepsut moved slowly against the strong Nile current. They were approaching Kom Ombo. Through the palms the ancient temple sacred to the crocodile god Sobek rose before them. As the light and heat from the day slipped over the mountains, cool west winds swept down to refresh the tourists leaning on the ships railings as they sipped the first cocktail of the evening. . The muzzeins call to prayer echoed from the minarets as the ship gently sailed past the fragrant banks of the Nile. Flocks of elegant white ibis disturbed by the soulful noise leapt from the trees to then settle and embroidered themselves onto the reed banks for the night. With a shudder of engines and belch of fumes the Hatshepsut moored alongside the quay as the sun finally slipped over the western bank and night began its eternal journey.

The Hatshepsut was old. Her carcass grimed with diesel fumes, her carpets worn and stained. She was named after Queen Hatshepsut a beautiful warrior queen who ruled Egypt three and a half thousand years ago. One night the god Ra came to Queen Hatshepsut in a dream and told her to give him a mountain of gold. Hatshepsut awoke and was horrified. Egypt was rich but not rich enough to build a mountain of gold. If she built the mountain of gold the country would be ruined, her people starve, but if she didn’t, the great god Ra would be angry and turn his face away from them and who knows what terrors he would reign down on them. She decided to trick the god by building him an obelisk as tall as a mountain, shaped at its tip like a pyramid and the tip and only the tip crowned with gold. So Ra looking down from heaven would see the tip of the glittering obelisk and think she had built him a mountain of gold. Hatshepsuts obelisk was carved from a single block of red granite, her name and exaltations to Ra were written along its great length. The tourists would see this wonder on their trip to the temple at Karnak where three and a half thousand years later it still stands, ninety six feet and three hundred tons of testament to a clever woman.

Despite her illustrious name the Hatshepsut, for the western tourists, was not the luxury, all inclusive, Nile cruise they had hoped for. They thought she was a rust bucket. The generator worked erratically and their rooms smelt of primordial damp. The tourists spent happy hours composing in their heads their letters of complaint, demanding refunds. They competitively whinged to each other at the size of their bar bill .Mythological stories were told of a couple from Manchester whose drinks bill reached £480 for the week.

To the crew the Hatshepsut was luxury beyond the dreams of avarice. Food, a bed of your own, running water, electricity most of the time. They felt guilty when they thought of how their families lived compared to this and knew themselves fortunate indeed.

In her cabin down on the water line, next to the ships engines Jamila the ships dancer was preparing herself for her evening’s performance. She stretched her long sinuous back, arching and twisting, thrusting her hips from side to side. The rhythm of her movements, as she warmed her dancer’s body, followed the percussion of the slap of the river against the hull.
Satisfied her muscles were ready she tied a scarlet jewelled belt around her waist, fastened an emerald beaded top tightly around her breasts and a heavy gold collar adorned with turquoise crocodiles around her throat. As she dressed herself the tiny silver bangles on her wrists tinkled and clattered. On her ankles she fastened slim chains adorned with bells. So now as she quietly moved around her cabin, she had become not only a dancer but her own musical instrument. Finally in to her belly button she fixed a glittering ruby.

Her dressing complete she looked in the mirror.

Her body was without any pigment. Her pink eyes were fringed with white lashes; her hair was the colour of sun bleached bones, her skin as pale and transparent as moonlight. There was no pigment in her eyes only the pink blood cells reflected from her corneas. There was something almost reptilian about her. She could barely see and was going blind. She peered myopically at her reflection. Her eyesight was becoming more clouded, only the edges of her vision remained clear. Jamila world was a world of shadows.

As she anointed her strange pale hair with rose scented oil and twisted it into ringlets
She thanked her gods for this place of refuge, this unlikely sanctuary.

Jamila was that rarest and most valuable of commodities, an African albino. She had been born to a tribe of women famed for their beauty. Her birth into the village had been a momentous occasion. The midwife had screamed when this mucus covered white maggot had fallen from the birthing stool. Her mother had been shunned by the rest of the village. The tribe knew this to be strong magic and the mother and child was viewed with suspicion and dislike.

Across Africa albinos had become the most favoured prey of unscrupulous witch doctors. An albinos body parts could be sold for astronomical amounts to the ill and desperate. If a witch doctor was fortunate enough to catch an albino, alive, the victim would be dismembered, chopped up into their constitute body parts and these parts then buried in the Sahara sands for 40 days to dry. Their fingers would be sold as an amulet to bring great riches, their tongues would be sold to bring good fortune, their breasts would be worn in a pouch hung from the neck to make a child quicken in the womb of the oldest and most desiccated harridan. The man who owned a Zeru Zeru body would be rich indeed

She had been twelve years old when the rumours started that a witch doctor was looking for the Zeru Zeru girl. Her mother packed her things and they fled from the village at dead of night. For many miles they ran until finally they came to the Nile. They dropped their bags under an ancient palm and lay down to sleep. That morning as Jamila leaned over the waters of the Nile to wash her face, she was grabbed from behind. She struggled and screamed fighting furiously to escape her witch doctor captor. As her strength was ebbing and his grip grew stronger on her neck, a crocodile noiselessly slid out of the water. Taking careful aim it locked its jaws around the mans leg. He screamed and writhed to no avail as the monster remorselessly pulled him into the water. It turned and taking its prey with it sank to the depths a tiny line of bubbles marking its passage.

A caravan of traders let them travel alongside them in exchange for milking the camels. At night around the camp fire the nomad women taught Jamila their ancient mesmerising dance. A dance that gave the dancer the power to persuade any man she danced for, into believing she was the most beautiful woman in the world. This was Jamila’s true magic not the colour of her skin.

Time past. Her mother died of a fever and Jamila found herself at Aswan. As she walked, dejected, lonely and frightened along the crowded river side, she noticed a sign fixed to The Hatshsephut’s gang plank. Dancer and entertainer wanted, immediate start apply to Hanif. Jamila thought ‘I would be safe here,’
…………………………………………………………

She smelt him before she saw him. It was a sickly smell. An old smell, the smell of the river bed. Of mud and ooze. He was here, Sobek the crocodile god. She bowed her head and her heart beat with pleasure that he had to come to her again. His great crocodile head turned to look at her. She couldn’t see him properly but she knew he was there ‘My lord I am honoured by your presence. I am the most fortunate of women that you choose to visit me. Tonight I will dance in your great temple in your honour.’ The lights in the cabin flickered and went out.
…………………………………………………………..

Hanif the ships cook had been thinking about his wife and children left back at home in Aswan. He worked twelve days round trip and then one day with his family before the cycle started again. His wife was getting thin as he was getting fatter. His children had dark rings around their eyes. He wanted them all to continue at school. Leaving at 14 would be no education. They would not get good jobs they would end up like him, illiterate, having to work his balls off cooking rich food for spoil westerners. Locked in a boiling hot kitchen for 12 hours a day, the food he cooked more often than not, abandoned on the plates by unappreciative guests. The food he’d worked so hard to prepare, he then scraped into the Nile, while his own family went hungry. But what could he do? Where could he get more money?

A vision of Jamila the dancer came to him, taking the shortcut as she often did through the kitchens to her cabin.. The scent of roses that clung to her hair. There was something repellent yet seductive about this exotic creature. Her pale white body, the pink eyes that saw you and yet couldn’t see. . He wondered was she his escape route, was she the food in his children’s belly was she the roses in his wife’s cheeks? He only had one wife he could take another. With a woman like that a man could be rich. Where to start? He carefully picked out the choicest morsels from a fussy lunch diners leftovers and arranged them on a plate. His first offering to her.

The generator gave an asthmatic shudder and the lights came back on. Jamila sensed rather than saw the movement by the door in her cabin. Sobek flicked his tail and vanished. The door clicked open and the smell of warm honeyed baklava and pistachios filled the room.
‘I have brought you these I’ve been thinking you are looking too thin. A dancer should make the room sway. Eat, eat.’ Said Hanif smiling at her

‘You startled me Hanif’ said Jamila, ‘Thank you my friend, this is very kind. I was feeling tired these treats will give me the strength to perform well tonight.’
The sweetmeats melted deliciously on her tongue.
‘Is your performance after the tourists have eaten?’ said Hanif
‘Yes, tonight I perform in the temple. The westerners like this show the best. Atmospheric they say’ from the corner of her eye she saw Sobek standing smiling his crocodile smile at her. ‘This is my favourite performance too, I feel the old gods so close to me here.’ She turned to see Sobek better but he had gone.
‘They are lucky to see such a wonderful dancer as you’ said Hanif

The full moon shone over the temple of Sobek. The massive pillars carved with mysterious hieroglyphs telling the story of Sobek, his greatness and goodness and calling for his mercy and blessing. Bored young military conscripts careless and uninterested in their surroundings lounged around the ruins. Their unloaded Kalashnikovs strung nonchalantly over their shoulders. Some smoked some chatted. The group of tourists were herded off the boat and into the temple ready for this evening entertainment. They gasped at the magical beauty of the ancient building, the mysterious shadows thrown against the walls. They marvelled at Cleopatra’s store room, shuddered at the mummified crocodiles and glanced warily at the armed guards provided for their own protection.

They took their seats in the knave facing the holy of holies. The lights dimmed and for a moment only the infinite stars lit the scene. From the doorway to the left Jamila appeared suddenly like an ancient apparition, her pale body hidden by a black Maleya her arms upraised in the Egyptian temple posture. No one stirred. It was as if time had rewound and they were in ancient Egypt, witnesses to a profound mystery. Worshippers and believers themselves paying homage to primeval forces they could not understand but knew to be true. As the tabla and rababa started to play their winding pounding pulsing rhythms Jamila body undulated in ecstasy. The audience was now completely transformed too, washed clean from the shallow, greedy creatures of the day, to worshippers of this primeval force of the night. They were bathed and transformed in moonlight and revelation.

Hanif watched from the shadows. Yes she was the answer, she would be his. She would not come willingly, but she would get used to the idea eventually. His wife would help calm her. He had bought some strong sleeping pills from Abdul the
Pursor. The tourists were always leaving drugs lying around in their cabins. He could keep her drugged and hidden in the ceiling space above his cabin till they got back to Aswan. Then it would be easy to smuggle her off the boat. His wife would know what to do with her after he, and perhaps one or two special friends had finished with her. He salivated at the prospect.

The last note of the tabla hung in the air and Jamila stood motionless, then shockingly she fell to the floor, hidden again by her Maleya. It was as if she had vanished. The audience leapt to their feet in rapturous applause.

The audience drifted back to the boat enjoying the breeze as they walked along the banks of the Nile. Behind them the temple of Kom Ombo settled back into the darkness and pulled its mysteries closer to it.

Back in her cabin Jamila sponged the sweat from her body and then fell exhausted onto her bunk. She found the performances more and more draining. She could hear the ship starting to settle for the night. The tourists called their goodnights to each other, doors slammed. She could faintly smell tomorrow’s bread baking in the ovens. The air conditioning hummed. The ship rocked comfortingly from side to side, and she fell asleep cradled in the ships arms.
Up in the kitchens Hanif was pummelling the last of the sweet dough ready for the morning. His massive forearms beat and stretched the mixture until it was silky smooth. He carefully shaped it into delicate crescents and placed it into the ovens. As he worked he hummed the ancient desert tunes Jamila had danced to. He must wait he thought, he must be patient, he would know when the time was right, the time he could make her his. As he had finished putting the last tray into the ovens, the generator gave an asthmatic grunt and stopped. The ship was plunged into darkness.
Hanif cursed, his bread would be ruined and he would have to start again.

Down in her cabin Jamila stirred and awoke. The room was suffocatingly hot. The air conditioning had stopped. She tossed and turned but could not get comfortable. Her poor weak eyes got accustomed to the dark. She lay there for a few minutes willing the generator to come on again and the cool air to start. It didn’t.
With a sigh she got up and pulled on a thin cotton robe and went out of the cabin.

Hanif too waited for the generator to start again. The hammering and voices coming from the engine room meant that this was a bigger problem than normal. Experience told him it could take at least half an hour before the boys had fixed it. He might as well go and have a smoke.

Up on the deck Jamila leaned her forehead against the railing to cool it. The night air was like a caress on her hot skin. A skein of Nile geese called to each other as they flew overhead.
Hanif saw her. She didn’t hear him but she felt the whistle of the air as the punch came towards her. She turned to look at him in surprise. His fist still scented with sweet dough hit her on the side of the head. Rage surged through Hanifs body, rage at his lousy life, he realised he’d enjoyed hitting her. He hit her again. She fell. She tried to pull herself up. He hit her in the stomach and the force of it lifted her up and she lay draped along the railings her wrap opening to show her pale body. He hit her in the face. Her head lolled backwards, her fingers grasped the railings and she tried to pull herself away from him. He grabbed her but she slipped from home. All he was left holding was her wrap as she fell, naked, backwards into the water.

The cool water felt wonderful to Jamila. She wasn’t frightened. She knew he was there. There was no need to struggle he would come for her.

The light from the full moon danced over the waters of the Nile. Lord Sobek the crocodile god heard her. He saw her body shine luminously as the river caressed her. She was a creature made of moon light, alabaster, phosphorescent, a goddess. To him she was beautiful. Ripples sparkled around her, spray diademed her hair. Lotus stems wound them selves around her limbs clasping her tighter to the Niles bosom. She gave a low moan as her face turned into the smooth green darkness to meet him and she floated face down.

Harif saw from the top deck as on the opposite bank a pair of yellow reptilian eyes noticed the movement. With an almost silent plop the crocodile slipped into the water.

Who won the first Grand National?

Maida Vale hospital for Nervous diseases 1865
The room was cold and bare. The old man lay on a stained straw mattress with a label tied to his foot identifying him as a ’Lunatic pauper’ The nurse sitting by his side had been on duty for eight hours. Her day off wasn’t for another ten days. She was tired, hungry and sick of ill people.
‘This one’s drunk himself to death, he stinks’ thought the nurse as she roughly wiped the drool from the mans mouth.
The old man lay with blank eyes, unmoving, his breath labouring like a winded horse.

‘Come on, you can do it. Come on. ’ the crowd roared in the old mans head head.
…………………………
From the Liverpool Courier February 12th 1836.
A new horse race is to be run at Aintree on Monday February 29th. The race to be called The Grand Liverpool will see ten runners. Two o’clock start. Beer tent and refreshments.


Monday February 29th 1836.
It was ten o’clock and the sun was trying to burn off the early morning mist that rose from the Mersey and twisted itself around the two men, chilling their bones to the marrow. They raised their arms in greeting as they approached each other across the flat wind swept field. The movement startled a flock of rooks, rummaging in the short turf for leather jackets. The birds took flight cawing crossly to each other as they flew across the large field and settled in a wind stunted hawthorn tree. Their twenty gimlet eyes watched the men and horses suspiciusly.

‘Good morning Captain Becher glad you could make it’ said Mr.Sirdefield shaking him firmly by the hand
‘Glad to be here. Your horse looks bloody marvellous’ the man replied appreciatively.

Captain Martin Beecher was 38 he had survived Waterloo and now wanted to make some money. His bones ached from the falls and he knew his racing days were coming to an end. He needed to make his money now and perhaps this was the horse, this was the race and this was the day to do it.

His mount ‘The Duke’ stood skin twitching with excitement, skittering from foot to foot, his breathing raising clouds in the sharp February morning. Trained by Mr.Sidefield and kept in the stables of the George Inn, Crosby. The horse was as fit as a flea. Its diet supplemented by the beer slops from the pub, trained on the smooth sands of the banks of the Mersey this horse looked the business.

Beecher felt his heart soar.

‘I’ve put a lot of money on this and you’d better deliver’ said Sirdfield. ‘Mr. Lynn wants this to be a big race and a good show today and we’ll be made. He’s planning to make more on the booze and pies than on the race entries. If it works he says it may be an annual event. I can’t see it myself people prefer the greyhounds, but he’s a canny bastard. If he fell in the Mersey he’d come out smelling of roses.’

A short squat figure picked his way towards them through the mud.
‘You talking about me’.said William Lynn. ‘What do you think about my Grand Steeple chase then Becher?
‘Looking good sir’ replied Beecher.
‘Coming up to eleven o’clock and look at all the hungry thirsty punters. This is going to be bigger than the Great St.Albans. We’ll show those southerners how to run a race.’ Lynn congratulated himself.
‘You going to win it then Beecher? My moneys on Laurie Todd. Now that’s a horse and Powell, that bloke’s a winner. With a name like Horatio Nelson Powell he’s got to be a winner or a nancy boy. I think you’re a bit past it mate, Boney gave you too much of a battering. You can ride that’s for sure, I just think you’ve had too many Waterloos.’ Lynn cackled at his own joke and then having amused himself decided to explore the comedic value of the topic further.
‘And as for your horse. Your horse is worth more as glue, Sirdefield. You’d get 57 pots out of him. You could wallpaper that whole pub of yours with that thing and stuff a couple of sofas.’ Pleased with this final flourish, he stomped off in the direction of the pie tent, to count the takings so far.


Becher said nothing but forced the toe of his cavalry boot into the soft Liverpool mud.


He’d known Powell since Waterloo. Powell was there when Beechers horse was blown away from under him. The bits of horse bone embedded in Beechers thigh although healed, still ached, making him part man, part horse. Powell was a pal, a blood brother, a fellow jockey who understood the nature of the job they did, not like the punters, the owners, the trainers. It was men like Powell and Beecher who risked their necks, their lives for the sport. Blokes like Sirdefield and Lynn had no idea what it was like, but Horatio Nelson Powell despite his stupid heroic name did.

It was 1 o’clock the race started at 2pm. Powell and Becher were sitting on bales in the scabby stables that constituted the weighing in room at this event
‘Have you put the bet on? asked Powell
‘No I haven’t I’m not that daft, I got some bloke to do it for me. Bought him a round, he was happy to do it. A favour for a war hero.’ Becher snorted.
‘What odds?
‘Laurie Todd 9 to 1. You’re the favourite’
‘How much’
‘Fifty quid. Twenty five each’
‘Fifty quid at 9 to 1, to win, that’s four hundred and fifty pounds.’
They looked at each other in silence.
Then Beecher said thoughtfully ‘If we pull it off that’s our pub Powell. That’s easy street, that’s wine women and song. That’s no more risking our necks in this caper.’
Powell looked furtively around him checking no one was with in ear shot and said ‘But how are we going to do it. How will we fix it?’
‘It’s a dangerous looking course, lets not make a move too soon. Let’s keep to the back of the field away from trouble. Let the nutters kill them selves on the first circuit. Keep close to me, but let me lead. Wait until we’re on the second circuit. Make your move when we are through the last open gate that leads to the run back on to the race course. I’ll start to pull Duke up and slow down. It’s far enough away from the stands no one will see us, and then you take the lead. Win by a few lengths nothing too obvious. Don’t worry you’re the favourite no one will suspect.’

The lump that was Sirdefield appeared in the doorway. ‘What are you two plotting eh’

The two men looked at him in disgust. ‘We are talking through the course you idiot. Neither of us has ridden it we want to know where the turns and the jumps are. This is a dangerous game we need to know what we’re doing’ said Powell.

Sirdefield backed away ‘Alright gentlemen, sorry to disturb you. You make sure you win though Becher’.

‘Bloody amateur’ spat Beecher as the rotund back of Sirdfield retreated back to the beer tent.

The course, if that was what it could be called, consisted of sixteen fences raced over fields jumping farm hedges, gates, ditches and even running alongside the canal. This was a days hunting condensed into a few minutes. The course started and finished on the race course proper, which was a strip of sodden field levelled and railed for half a mile before the open country. This was going to be a race that meant risking your neck with hidden rabbit holes. The riders must run the circuit twice, finishing, by galloping through an open farm gate from the fields back onto the track and to the winning post. There were ten runners, mostly ridden by amateur jockeys. The jockeys were allowed to remount their horses if their horse fell, they were allowed to catch and remount a riderless horse. How ever you rode it was the winning that counted.

This was more dangerous than bloody Waterloo thought Becher.

At 1.45 Becher mounted the duke, the horse caught and ran with the anxiety from the other horses. Dead on two the starter dropped his flag and they were off. Fields, fences and ditches soared beneath him. The Duke was flying, this was the ride of his life the horse was unbeatable

‘The Duke’ raced along with the pack, Beecher keeping him safely towards the back, with Powell a length behind him. They jumped over the second to last fence and came into a field. The horse pounded beneath him. He sensed Powell getting closer. He could feel the heat from Powell’s horse as the ground surged past them. Round this corner, through the gate and they’d have done it. Slow down now Duke. He started to pull back on the reins of the horse who fought him for his head, crazy with excitement.
The horse didn’t want to slow down. He was standing up in his stirrups sawing at the horse’s mouth making it slow down, when, as they surged around the corner, the gate into the next field and the home run had been closed. Not expecting a jump and Becher unbalanced The Duke in a slither of panic churned into the mud as he desperately tried to get enough height to leap over the unexpected obstacle. Becher wasn’t ready. His weight was too far back and he caused the horse to stumble and swerve right into the side of Powell. From the corner of his eye he saw Powell’s horse jump and try to clear the fence. Then he was over and the Duke regained his head and the horse raced ahead unstoppable, mad with fear and excitement. The horse thundered on with Becher struggling to control it. The crowd were screaming with excitement. ‘Come on, Come on’ and he passed the winning post with the sound of distant hooves in their ears.

Sirdefield ran up to him ‘We’ve won, we’ve won. I knew we’d do it, we’ve bloody won.’ He hugged Becher ignoring the blood and spit from the Dukes mouth that flecked his clothes. ‘We’ve won. I’ve hidden your two hundred guineas in your saddle bag’ he whispered.

‘What fucking bastard closed that gate we could all have been killed’, Beecher screamed at him.

‘We won didn’t we. It doesn’t matter now. We won.’ said Sirdefield, ‘The money, it’s in your saddle bag.’’ he hissed.

A shot echoed across the muddy field. Startled the rooks took flight from the ground and flew away lamenting to each other. ‘What was that’ he asked Sirdfield.
Sirdefield shrugged and looked shifty ‘I’m not sure I think it was Powells horse, fell at the gate, must have broken its leg.’

Becher looked around him. Horses and jockeys milled around him, but he couldn’t see Powell. ‘Where’s Powell’ he asked?

Sirdefield shrugged again. ‘We won didn’t we?’




Maida Vale hospital for Nervous diseases 1865

‘Come on, you can do it. Come on. ’ the crowd roared in the old mans head head.

‘Poor old sod, how did you get into this state I wonder, you needed a good woman to look after you. You’d be better off dead than lying here like this. You wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this. You’d shoot it. It won’t be long now old mate, hurry up will you’ said the nurse. ‘and then I can go for a sleep. I wonder who you are and how you ended up here.’

The old man dreamt on.
‘Come on, come on, you can do it’ He could see the winning post he was nearly there, He could hear the horses breath as its lungs battled to pull more air into them, a few more strides and he’d have done it. It would be over.

The nurse leaned over the grey figure and rummaged in his pockets. She pulled out an ancient battered wallet. She opened it. A newspaper cutting fell out. Faded, torn and crumpled it was a race report from The Liverpool Courier, dated February 29th 1836.
She smoothed the yellowed paper out and read….

The Grand Liverpool race ends in tragedy.
‘The runners completed one circuit in safety of this challenging race, but tragedy struck on the second circuit. A gate had been nailed open for the race, but one unknown spectator after the runners had passed through for the first time, prised the nail out and closed and locked the gate. We have to sadly report that Horation Nelson Powell was killed when his horse Laurie Todd failed to clear the unexpected obstacle. The horse fell onto Mr.Powell killing him instantly. The horse had to be shot.
The race was won by Captain Martin Becher on The Duke with a time of 20 minutes 10 seconds. The race is set to become a popular fixture in the racing calendar.’

The old mans breath became more laboured. The nurse saw his lips moving but couldn’t hear what he was saying. She brought her face closer to him. She felt the faint warmth from his breath on her cheek as he struggled to speak
‘I won it didn’t I?’
‘Yes you did Captain Beecher, yes you did.’ she replied.

This is a true story.