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In the hotel elevator whisking her up to the seventh floor a middle aged man in a creased and stained white shirt and over long grey trousers opened up a conversation. "You are in seven twenty-two aren't you?" She looked him over, loathed to answer; in this town he could be anyone. His eyes were brown, the whites dull and smoky, his dark hair lank, dirty, his trousers hanging below a soft round stomach. "It's alright, I know you are, and you have been to China haven't you?" Unsure she merely gazed at him, waiting for whatever comes next.
"You know don't you? You know about the ancients. You know about solar cooking, the purpose of the pyramids and ziggurats. You know what I know, don't you?"
She was staring open mouthed at him now.
"It's alright," he smiled. "I've known a long time." Then he shouted, "I've known for fucking years." His eyes were reddening, tears beginning to brim over. The elevator had stopped.
"Are you staying at the hotel," she asked.
"Me? No. I don't stay in smart hotels anymore. When I go anywhere I stay in hospitals. I stay in psychiatric wards. I've become a chemical prisoner most of the time because I talk such drivel, offend so many people. I am an enigma, an historical pain- in-the-butt." He stepped from the lift. "Cummon' show me what you got. I gotta know what you got." She was still assessing him. He seemed wasted, out of shape, there was little sign of strong muscles or any great strength. He probably wasn't dangerous, unless he was armed, but he didn't look like someone who carries a gun, or knife, or even a clean handkerchief judging by the white fleck in the corners of his mouth and food stains on his shirt.
"What makes you think I have anything of interest to you?"
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"Oh cummon', don't fuck about. I know you have drawings, and pictures from China. I've seen the ginger people in the tombs. My girl, my cleaning girl, she cleans your room. I know what to look for. Don't fuck about. It's too important."
"Better you show me what you have."
"I will. I will show you everything. I will prove to you that Egyptologists and historians, and all those nose-in-the-air sectarian departmental heads at the so called universities, the fucking dis-education centres of the fucking free world, are liars. They can't see shit on their own faces. But we are here. Your notes and photos are here. Let me see what you have. I wanna know."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Oh." He paused, thought for a moment or two.
"Okay. Yeah, yeah, okay. I understand. Okay you come with me. I'll show you, then you'll know it's safe to talk."
"You know about Ogam?" He said the moment she settled in the cab.
"Yes."
"Knew you would. Just knew you would. Fucking Ogam everywhere in America. Place is dripping in fucking Ogam steles and monoliths. The Christians didn't purge through North America see? Fucking Christians didn't get chance to obliterate a the sun people's writing in North America. Fucking Indians still use some Ogam. All integrated by the time the fucking Vikings got here. Columbus, what a fucking crock that Columbus crap."
The cab had started to move slowly from the curb, the driver peering in the mirror for instructions. "Hey buddy. Where you wanna go?"
continued . . .
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