The Twelfth Tablet

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The museum was closing. Tourists studied their maps, wondering where to go next; relieved husbands hurried their wives away to the tables they had waiting for dinner. A few students lingered, getting maximum value, until the guards rounded them up.

Paul Mitchell let himself out of his office and followed the crowds towards the exit, oblivious to the two thousand years of masterpieces on the walls. It had been a long day, and a long night ahead — five pages to get written, he’d promised himself. The thesis was already late. At six months overdue, the university had cut off his funding. In three weeks, they’d kick him out completely if he didn’t hand it in.

‘Do you work here?’

The voice was loud, easily enough to break him out of his thoughts. A big man, standing in front of the doors to the Classical gallery. He was built like a heavyweight, with puffy lips and a mane of dark hair tumbling over the tight shoulders of his jacket. He had a fat gold ring wrapped around his finger, and a blonde in a fake fur coat wrapped around his arm.

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