I’m careful. I’m hanging off the idol’s head. Elbow deep in one eye socket, prying the stone from the other. The second perfectly polished, stunningly expensive, massive precious stone. Fortune! There is a creak, a stone against stone noise and then a pop. It’s in the bag faster than you can say “ancient curse”. That’s when the earthquake strikes. Curses! The floor underneath the idol bucks like someone flapping a carpet. I jump clear of the toppling megalithic man just in time. Safe! There is a deep, throaty, grinding noise and shouting. Cultists! Rumbled and caught. It’s the pot for me.
By Pete Sutton