A heat haze rose from the streets and highways so that even within the cool shelter of the car’s air-conditioned interior, Patrick could see the heat waiting outside. The world was sweating beneath an unrelenting sun.

  The drive into the city was quiet. The normally busy roads were mostly deserted; the entire state had come to a standstill because of the heat. Anyone who had braved it moved about lethargically, as though weighed down by the sun’s rays.

  In the city, he drove down Queen Street, alongside the tram lines that ran down the centre of the road. Overhead, a chaotic mass of power lines crisscrossed the thin stretch of clear blue sky framed between the tops of skyscrapers.

  He turned right along Broadhurst Street and passed the front entrance of the museum, past the empty steps leading up to the main doors.

  On a cooler day, the steps would be a hive of activity, filled with hipsters, corporate hotshots, tourists, and the homeless—everyone sipping coffee or sketching in visual diaries. A communal melting pot of society where the entire spectrum of humanity could find neutral ground and no one looked out of place.

  He continued down the road, past a large abstract sculpture he had never really understood, and headed around to the back of the building.

  From the backstreets, the museum looked more like an old, rundown warehouse. Two large roller doors faced out into the carpark, and two concrete platforms extended from the base of each door so trucks could unload directly into the storage area.

  The graffiti that covered both doors and walls overwhelmed the senses with a mass of colour.

  He parked as close as he could to the main entrance.

  As soon as the car door cracked open, the heat assaulted him. It hung on his body like a blanket, wrapping itself around him in an unwelcome embrace.

  The sound of the world was flat and listless, vibration dampened by the effort required to move through the hot, heavy air. Everything was tainted by the smell and taste of hot bitumen.

  He walked over to the door and pressed the buzzer on the small intercom mounted beside it.

  After a moment’s silence, a voice crackled through the speaker.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, hi. This is Patrick Wilson, I’m here to see Alex Riley.”

  There was a brief pause—long enough for Patrick to feel a bead of sweat roll down his spine.

  “Okay, come in.”

  The door clicked as the electronic lock released. He quickly pulled it open and stepped inside.

  The corridor looked like something out of a hospital or an asylum. Sterile white walls ran along a concrete floor painted with thick, rubbery grey paint. Above, bright fluorescent tubes shone down with a harsh, unforgiving light. The only thing missing was the smell of ammonia. But at least it was cool.

  The door at the far end—about twenty-five metres away—was the only one he had ever been through. He walked toward it, accompanied only by the echo of his heels.

  The other doors led to destinations unknown. Walking past them always made him uneasy. The feeling of a psychiatric ward was too strong. It was easy to imagine one bursting open and spilling madness into the corridor.

  He tried to shake off the feeling. The hallway always gave him the creeps, but today it was worse.

  He reached the door at the end just as Alex pushed from the other side.

  Patrick’s heart thumped in his chest. For a moment, he thought his fears had become reality.

  Alex saw the fear flash in his eyes and smiled.

  “Sorry.”

  “Fuuuucking hell, dude. You scared the shit out of me.”

  Alex laughed. “Don’t be such a pussy.”

  He was the last person anyone would expect to work in a museum. His youthful good looks and athletic appearance disguised the intellect behind his blue eyes. He had graduated from university three years younger than his peers, with results most could only dream of. After university, he travelled the world for six years, filling gaps in his education with firsthand experience.

  Before taking up his tenure at the museum, he had been courted by institutions around the globe. But Melbourne had always been home.

  “Security said you were here. I thought I’d meet you. Didn’t mean to jump you.”

  “That’s okay. Just wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I’ll know better next time. How’ve you been?”

  “Good. Busy, but good. You?”

  “Not too bad. They’ve had me working overtime this week. The board’s worried the new French Renaissance exhibit at the State Museum is going to draw everyone away.”

  Patrick knew about the exhibit. He had been thinking about asking Melanie to go—if she said yes, it would be their first official date. But he hadn’t had the chance yet.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  As Alex spoke, Patrick noticed a bandage beneath his right sleeve.

  “What happened there?”

  Alex tugged his sleeve down, embarrassed.

  “Oh, nothing. Just an accident.”

  One of the fluorescent lights flickered. Darkness flashed. Patrick’s heart raced as a memory brushed his consciousness—then slipped away.

  “The wiring’s ancient,” Alex said. “Too many air conditioners.”

  “Come on. Let’s talk in my office.”

  The word office was a completely inaccurate description of the room where Alex worked. It was more like a tool shed crossed with a miniature museum than an office. A variety of dusty antiques were scattered throughout the room, seemingly at random. Artifacts of all shapes and sizes were stashed into every available space. Some of the larger objects were hidden in back corners beneath dusty sheets, apparently forgotten.

  One grey-looking sheet that covered what appeared to be a colonial-period dresser had been in the exact same position the first time Patrick had visited Alex over four years earlier. He was always curious about what lay beneath it, but it was blocked by another bench piled high with stuff, and getting to it would have been a bigger job than he was prepared to undertake.

  At the centre of the room stood a long wooden workbench covered with an assortment of pieces from all over the world. Jewellery, pottery, medieval weapons, numerous other trinkets—and even an old clock dismantled and abandoned, its inner workings spread across the table in a disorganised jumble.

  Alex roughly cleared a space with a sweep of his arm.

  “What have you got for me today?” he asked.

  Patrick hesitated. Now that the moment had arrived, he didn’t want to show the artefact to Alex. He couldn’t do it again—not to another friend. He’d already shown it to Scott.

  God damn it, why did I show it to Scott?

  Because it wants to be seen, came the answer. And it knows that even though you’re terrified, you’ll keep playing along as though everything is fine—because to do anything different would be to admit that nothing has ever been less fine.

  He reached into his bag and stepped closer to the table. Without hesitation, he placed the package among the clutter.

  “No—wait. I can’t do this.”

  Against his will, his hands moved to the package. With great care, he unwrapped the old, ragged cloth that surrounded the golden cross.

  The cross was twenty centimetres long and ten centimetres wide, with a clear crystal inset at the intersection. The moment Patrick saw the crystal, the mental block that had stopped him from thinking about it crumbled.

  He tried to look away, but as before, he felt himself drawn into its turgid depths.

  That terrible, impossible crystal glowed with an inner light—sickly and poisoned. The light reached into his mind, tearing at his consciousness from the inside. Everything it touched was replaced with darkness. The mechanisms of thought that anchored him to reality revealed themselves as nothing more than tenuous threads, close to breaking.

  And there, deep within—hidden even from himself—the truth.

  The light reached toward the secret he kept buried, trying to pry it loose.

  He struggled against it, refusing to let it be revealed.

  Something shifted in his… my… his—my mind, my mind.

  This stupid light, this impossible thing that made no sense at all, had somehow found its way into this reality and was prying at the truth I had worked so hard to hide. Why couldn’t I just stay here? Why did this thing have to come and ruin everything?

  I pushed back against its insistent pressure.

  Suddenly, I felt my - his - my - his mind snap back into some measure of control.

  “No!”

  The word came out as a groan of effort. Patrick tore his gaze away from the cross and kept his eyes averted.

  He turned to Alex.

  The danger was not over.

  “Alex.”

  No response.

  Alex’s gaze was locked on the cross, his eyes wide, filled with fear. In that instant, Patrick understood that the fear would remain buried within his friend for the rest of his life, slowly driving him mad.

  “Alex!”

  Still nothing.

  Alex stared unblinking into the crystal, jaw slack, face empty.

  Instinctively—without looking—Patrick reached out and covered the cross once more.

  Alex reacted as though a rope that had been pulling him inward had been severed. He staggered backward, arms flailing. Patrick grabbed him by the shoulder and steadied him before he could fall.

  A memory emerged from the depths of Patrick's mind. Herschel Potrevski had reached out in exactly the same way the first time Patrick had seen the cross.

  How did I forget that?

  Alex turned toward him without recognition. For a brief moment, his eyes held terror and understanding. Then they cleared, and the fear vanished.

  Patrick released his arm.

  Alex composed himself, and a veil of normality covered his demeanour.

  “It’s an exquisite piece,” Alex said calmly. “Incredible craftsmanship. The engravings—the sun, moon, and Earth on the front, the planets of the solar system on the back—are remarkably detailed. And that crystal was set using a technique I’ve never seen before.”

  The veil spread and Patrick could no longer remember what was causing the dagger of fear in his heart.

  He still felt that something was wrong. That life and death had balanced on a knife-edge only moments ago.

  But the light was gone. Everything it had revealed retreated beyond remembering. Reality refused to be dragged into the open.

  With each second, the sense of doom faded. The world held.

  “Where did you come across it?” Alex asked.

  “A guy walked in off the street to get it appraised,” Patrick replied. “Said he found it in a box in his garage.”

  “Hm. Interesting. There’s no signature. Did he say how it got there?”

  “No. He said he’d never seen it before.”

  Alex raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, it’s valuable. If it’s solid gold—and it certainly feels heavy enough—you’re looking at over twenty thousand dollars just in gold.”

  Patrick didn’t react.

  Feels heavy enough.

  Did Alex even pick it up? Patrick couldn’t remember.

  “But the craftsmanship is the real value,” Alex continued. “It looks simple, almost plain—but the technique is extraordinary. That stone looks like it grew from the gold.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “There’ll be records. Pieces like this don’t pass through history unnoticed.”

  “Where will you start?” Patrick asked.

  “I’ll need to hold onto it,” Alex said. “I’ll contact colleagues overseas.”

  Patrick felt a strange sense of relief.

  “Keep it as long as you need.”

  Alex lifted the cross—still wrapped—and carried it to a large cabinet against the wall. He locked it inside, tested the door, and slipped the key into his jacket pocket.

  Patrick checked his watch.

  “I should head back. The afternoon crowd will be coming in soon.”

  Alex lingered by the cabinet, his hand hovering over his pocket. A look crossed his face so fleeting that Patrick almost missed it.

  Lost.

  Then it was gone.

  They walked back down the hallway.

  “Still having trouble sleeping?” Alex asked.

  Patrick sighed. “Scott’s been recruiting, hasn’t he?”

  “After Sarah, I was next.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Patrick said. “A few hours last night.”

  “How long now?”

  Patrick hesitated. “Nearly two months.”

  Alex stopped. “Two months?” Jesus.”

  “I don’t feel tired,” Patrick said. “If anything, I feel sharper.”

  They stepped back into the furnace outside.

  “I’ll call you when I know more,” Alex said. "Now get out of this heat, I'm heading back to the office and planting myself in front of the air conditioner until a cool change gets here."

  Patrick nodded, "It's going to be another hot one. How many days in a row is that?"

  "I don't know, it seems like a while."

  Patrick got in and started the car; the AC was still on full, but it blew hot air at him for a few seconds before the cool began to cut through. He gave Alex a toot before he disappeared back into the cool interior of the museum and then he drove away.

  

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