by Brian Lumley
Harry supposed that Darcy was genuine, supposed he was one of only a very few men in the entire world whom he could trust; but the Necroscope’s vampire weirdness was strong in him now, and looking at Darcy Clarke he saw a man who was half-friend and half-enemy. Harry couldn’t read the future, not with any certainty — and in any case he knew that prognostication was a dangerous game, fraught with paradoxes — but he could make a damn good guess at what was coming. If he had to stay here in this world longer than he’d planned, if this task he’d set himself took longer than just a few more days, then it could well be that Darcy would be obliged to join the other team. Darcy was an expert, and as Harry’s metamorphosis progressed the Branch would need all the expert help it could get. Eventually, one way or another, even Darcy would turn against him. He’d have no choice: sooner or later the plague carrier would have to be destroyed. It was as simple as that.
‘Darcy,’ Harry said, as he turned the lights up again, ‘if we ever did come up against one another, why, you’d be just about the only one who could stop me! For which reason I’m half afraid of you. You know I’m a telepath now? Well, I am. And I wonder: would it bother you if I took a closer look into your mind?’
Darcy’s talent sensed no danger. Of course not, for Harry intended him no harm. What he did intend was to take out a sort of insurance policy, one which could be cancelled later, when the danger was past. No harm at all to Darcy Clarke the man, only to his talent itself. For that was what the Necroscope feared: to come up against Clarke knowing he couldn’t win, that the deflector’s guardian angel would protect him. But with his talent taken away from him, Clarke would be impotent. At least for what remained of Harry’s term here. Afterwards… he would give it back to him.
‘Look into my mind?’ Darcy repeated him.
‘With your permission,’ Harry nodded. ‘But it has to be of your own free will.’
Darcy read nothing into the Necroscope’s words. ‘But can’t you read my mind, just like Trevor here?’
This is different,’ said Harry. ‘For this you need to invite me in, as if your mind was a door which you were opening for me.’
‘Anything you say.’ Darcy shrugged; and his eyes met the other’s and locked on them, and in another moment Harry was into his mind.
The mechanism Harry sought wasn’t difficult to find, and he saw at once that it was a freak, a mutation. It was Clarke’s unique talent, which all of his life had protected him from external dangers but was impotent to save itself from the internal danger which was Harry Keogh. And even if it could save itself it did nothing, because Harry meant no harm.
There was no trigger Harry could jam, so he simply wrapped the entire mechanism in a fragment of Wellesley’s blanket. The job took as long as it takes to tell and then he was out again. And he was satisfied that Clarke’s guardian angel had been gagged, for the time being at least.
‘Is that it?’ Darcy frowned. ‘Are you satisfied I’ll do you no harm?’
Absolutely, Harry said to himself, while outwardly he merely nodded. Because if you try you’ll have no protection, which means I’ll at least be able to protect myself.
And then he heard another voice in his head, Jordan’s saying: Which means he’s no longer protected from anything. Won’t you at least tell him what you’ve done?
No, Harry answered. You know Darcy: he’d become paranoid about his safety in a moment. That was always his paradox, that despite this weird talent of his, still he looked after himself like he was accident-prone or something.
I hope he’ll be all right, that’s all, said the other.
‘Well?’ Darcy prompted Harry.
‘I’m satisfied you won’t go against me,’ the Necroscope told him. ‘And now we have to be on our way.’
Jordan said, ‘It strikes me as likely that the Branch will know we’ve been here. If you want to stay on their good side, Darcy, you might like to call the Duty Officer and confirm it. Let them see that you’re not in collusion with us. And at the same time you might use your good offices to clear me.’
Darcy pulled a wry face. ‘Actually, my “offices” aren’t looking any too hot right now,’ he said. ‘But certainly I’ll give it a try.’ He looked at Harry. ‘So where are you two off to now? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘You shouldn’t ask — ‘ Harry answered. ‘ — but I’ll tell you anyway: we’re tracking your serial killer. I sort of got hooked up on it. That’s the job I want finished before I move on.’
Darcy nodded. ‘That way you’ll leave a clean sheet behind you, Harry, which is the way it should be. You’ll always be the right sort of legend: famous instead of infamous.’
Harry said nothing. Fame, even infamy, didn’t concern him. All that mattered was his obsession. What was more, he knew why it had become an obsession. He was being chased off his territory, forced to vacate his very own world, which he had fought for. Not physically driven out — not yet, anyway — but soon. And the vampire, especially one of the Wamphyri, is tenacious and territorial. Frustrated almost beyond endurance, Harry was fighting back. But if he must take it out on someone, then at least let that someone be a fiend in his own right. Namely, the serial killer, the necromancer, the torturer of Penny and those other poor innocents. Even Pamela Trotter, innocent, yes. Compared to him, anyway.
It was time Harry and Trevor Jordan were on their way. They said the usual farewells, very simply, and Harry told Jordan to close his eyes again. Darcy Clarke watched them go and when they were no longer there held out his trembling hand into the space where they’d passed through a Möbius door into nothing.
And that was all he found there.
Nothing…
2 Finding Johnny
In Edinburgh it would soon be dawn, but Harry Keogh knew that things — all sorts of things — were rapidly coming to a head and he wasn’t nearly ready to ease off now. Now that he’d started this job his one thought was to get it finished. In darkness or, if needs be, in light.
Early-summer sunlight would be a problem from now on in, but it was more an inconvenience than a threat proper. The sun wouldn’t kill him — not yet, anyway — but taken in large doses it would sicken and weaken him. His glasses helped keep its glare out of his eyes; his floppy hat protected his head and face but was a dead giveaway; he must keep his hands in his pockets for long periods, which gave him the slovenly look of a delinquent youth or a Labour politician but was absolutely necessary. Only the British weather, almost invariably mean, was on his side. Trevor Jordan, on the other hand, suffered no such restrictions and could come and go as he pleased; and with Harry’s help, go as far as he pleased and instantly.
In the Necroscope’s Bonnyrig house they drank coffee (Harry would prefer good red wine but needed a re-supply), and split the list of Frigis Express depots down the middle. They would work through them alphabetically until they found what they were looking for. Jordan would take the day shift with Harry supplying the transport; Harry would do nights with Jordan for lookout. The telepath had asked what was the big deal with this job and Harry had showed him a series of vivid mind-pictures taken from Penny Sanderson and Pamela Trotter, and now Jordan was as eager as he was. There was a monster loose in the world and he had to die.
‘There’ll be night watchmen on these places, I’m sure,’ Jordan said, studying his half of the list, ‘but at this hour of the morning they’ll be kipping off: asleep in some secret corner. We could do a few depots right now, before the drivers or packers or whatever get in.’
The bloke we’re after is a driver,’ Harry said. ‘He uses the Ml and possibly the Al or A7. Maybe we should start with depots close to those major routes.’
Jordan had been glancing through the files on the murdered girls. Penny’s report seemed to interest him greatly. Ignoring what the Necroscope had just said, he asked, ‘Harry, did you know Penny’s body was found in the gardens under the Castle’s walls?’
Harry frowned. ‘Yes. Is that significant?’
‘It cou
ld be,’ the other answered. ‘There are quite a few small, specialized units housed in the Castle. For all we know our man from Frigis delivered meat to the various messes and cookhouses that night, and when the coast was clear he bundled Penny over the wall.’
Harry nodded. ‘I’ll check out the exact spot where she was found. I remember looking over the wall. There are places where it rears over grassy ledges and steep banks, where the drop is only a few feet and if she fell — or was tossed — her body might slip and slither a bit without breaking anything or suffering any real damage. Because apart from the damage and suffering he had caused her, she wasn’t in bad shape.’ His gaunt face had turned angry as he remembered Penny as she had been the first time he saw her. Shaking his head to dismiss the memory, he growled. ‘Anyway, I’ll look at it. If it seems at all likely or even possible… well, it could be you’ve narrowed down the field a little. Thanks, Trevor.’ And then, ruefully: ‘As you can see, I’d never have made the grade as a detective, or even a common or garden policeman!’
‘Listen,’ Jordan told him. ‘You drop me off in Edinburgh right now and let me follow it up. Let’s face it, you’ve been seen up in the Castle. People may remember you. But they don’t know me. I’ll take this file with me. I still have an old E-Branch identity card I picked up fromthe flat. It’s as good as a policeman’s uniform for getting me into places to gather information. Then, while I concentrate on this end of the job, you can get on with checking out the list of depots.’
Harry saw the sense of it. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And we’ll meet back here tonight. Meanwhile, we can easily contact each other if anything breaks. But you have to understand that the sun hampers me. It might stop me getting through to you or you to me. On the other hand, if the day is dull everything will be OK. The only thing is…’ He paused uncertainly.
‘Yes?’ Jordan waited.
‘You’ll be on your own,’ the Necroscope continued. ‘If the Branch decides to move on me, they’ll be picking my friends up, too.’
‘But picking them up’ Jordan repeated him. ‘Not picking them off! And anyway, Darcy said he’d take care of that.’
Harry nodded. ‘But he can’t take care of the fact that I’m a vampire. And you know the Branch won’t be taking any chances, Trevor. In fact I’d lay you odds that my warrant has already been issued, and that right now they’re busy closing off any boltholes. For now… they’ll probably lay off this place, because it’s mine and I know it better than they do. But sooner or later even this house of mine won’t be safe. Hell, it would be the perfect place to settle with me! Out of the way, alone and lonely.’
‘Morbid’s not the way to go, Harry,’ the other told him. ‘Let’s for now just try to find this Johnny, right? Plenty of time then to sort the rest of it.’ And the Necroscope knew he was right. All except the plenty of time part…
The following morning, the Minister Responsible called Darcy Clarke in to E-Branch HQ. When Clarke walked into what had once been his office, the Minister was seated at his old desk… and Geoffrey Paxton was standing in one corner of the room, arms folded across his chest and with his back to the reinforced glass windows. Clarke could do without Paxton picking at his mind, but he was no longer in a position to complain about it.
After apparently casual nods of greeting or acknowledgement, the Minister remarked how ragged Clarke looked; to which he replied, ‘I was up late. In fact I’d just managed to snatch an hour or two when your office called to arrange this meeting. Well, that was good, for I was coming in anyway. You see, last night I had a couple of visitors. Except I’m afraid you’re not much likely to believe me when I tell you who one of them was.’
Paxton spoke up at once. ‘We know who they were, Clarke,’ he said, sourly. ‘Harry Keogh and Trevor Jordan — vampires!’
Clarke had been ready for that. He sighed and turned to the Minister. ‘Do we have to have this meathead in on this? I mean, if he must forever be wriggling about like a fucking great maggot in people’s heads, can’t it be from a distance? Say, right outside the door here?’
Unruffled, the Minister stared right back at him. ‘Are you saying that Paxton is wrong, Clarke?’
Clarke sighed again. ‘I saw Harry and Trevor last night, yes. He’s right that far.’
‘So you’re saying that Harry Keogh and Jordan aren’t vampires?’ The Minister’s voice was very quiet.
Clarke looked at him, looked away, chewed his bottom lip. And the Minister prompted him: ‘They are vampires?’
Clarke faced him again and said, ‘Jordan… isn’t.’
‘But Keogh is?’
Clarke snapped, ‘But you were already pretty sure of that, right? All thanks to — ‘ he glanced fire at Paxton ‘- to this slimy shit! Yes, Harry’s been contaminated. He picked up this bloody thing protecting us — every single one of us — doing a job out in the Greek islands which I had asked him to help us with. So that in my book at least he’s not about to turn killer now! What more can I tell you?’
‘We think quite a lot,’ Paxton answered, but softly now, his pasty face reddening from the sting of Clarke’s insult.
Clarke looked at him, looked at the Minister, and felt no rapport. He wasn’t getting through to them at all. ‘Why don’t you let me tell it my way?’ he pleaded. ‘And why don’t you try listening to me? Who knows, you may even learn something?’
But Paxton said, ‘Yes, and we might get thrown right off the track, too.’
Clarke glared at him, looked at the Minister across his desk and said, ‘Look, your pet parrot here isn’t making much sense. Shit, I don’t understand a word! Do you know what he’s raving about?’
The Minister came to a decision, gave an abrupt nod and said, ‘Clarke, I’m going to give it to you straight. E-Branch was monitoring your place last night. Yours and Jordan’s both. You see, we knew even before you did that Jordan was back from the dead, which is to say undead. What? A man dead and gone, yet up and about among the living? Undead! That’s how we see it, the only way we can see it. And not only Jordan but one of those murdered girls, too. Vampires, for there’s nothing else they can be.’
Clarke cut in desperately, ‘But if you’ll only listen to me — ‘
But the Minister wasn’t listening. ‘We know what time Keogh got to Jordan’s flat, the time they left it together and where they went, and the fact that however much we don’t know — and even if you hadn’t admitted as much — still we’d be absolutely sure that Harry Keogh is a vampire! How can we be so sure? Because he carries all the stigmata. You could say he even smells of vampire: which is to say he covers himself in mind-smog. Do you follow me so far?’
‘Of course I do,’ Clarke answered, feeling his desperation increasing by leaps and bounds, knowing that the Minister was building a case, but what sort of case? Against whom? He had to take one last stab at getting through to him. ‘But can’t you see that even in this you’re wrong? With all due respect, you don’t know anything about vampires. You’ve had no experience of them. You’re not even talented. You only know what you’ve read or heard from others. And hearsay can’t make up for experience. See, this mind-smog you’re talking about is something Harry can’t control. He doesn’t “cover himself” with it, it just is. It’s a result of what he is. Like a dog has a tail, Harry has mind-smog. It isn’t deliberate. In fact if he could get rid of it he would, for it’s a dead giveaway!’
The Minister looked questioningly at Paxton, who nodded however grudgingly. Or perhaps it wasn’t so much a grudging nod as a grim one. A nod of affirmation? And even as his apprehension went up another notch, so Clarke said, ‘So you see how easy it is to make mistakes?’
Unblinking, unwavering, the Minister said, ‘All vampires have this mind-smog, right?’
Clarke did blink, however, as his nerves started to jump. There was nothing to fear here, for his talent would warn him of it, but still his nerves were jumping. ‘As far as we know, yes,’ he answered. ‘All of them that we’ve dealt with, a
nyway. When a telepath tries to scan a vampire, he gets mind-smog.’
‘Darcy Clarke.’ The Minister’s face was white now. ‘It must have taken a lot of nerve to come here. Either that or you’re a madman, or you really don’t know what’s happened to you.’
‘Happened to me?’ Clarke could feel the tension building and didn’t know what it was about. ‘What the hell are you talking — ?’
‘You have mind-smog!’ Paxton spat the words out.
Clarke’s jaw dropped. “What? I have…?’
The Minister raised his voice. ‘You out there, Miss Cleary, and Ben. You can come in now.’
The door opened and Millicent Cleary stepped inside, with Ben Trask right behind her. The girl looked at Clarke and her voice was breathless as she said, ‘It’s true, sir. You… you have it.’ She had always called Clarke sir. He looked at her, backed away a step and shook his head.
But Ben Trask said, ‘Darcy, she’s telling the truth. Even Paxton is telling the truth.’
Clarke took two hesitant steps towards him… and Trask narrowed his eyes, backed off and held up his arms to ward him off! Clarke saw the look in his old friend’s eyes and couldn’t believe it. ‘Ben, it’s me!’ he said. ‘I mean, with your talent you have to know that I’m telling the truth, too!’
‘Darcy,’ Trask answered, still backing away, ‘you’ve been got at. It’s the only answer.’
‘Got at?’
‘Without your knowing it. You believe you’re telling the truth, and on your own that would be enough to throw me. But it’s two to one, Darcy. And you have been pretty close to Harry Keogh.’
Clarke spun on his heel, looked at the faces surrounding him. The Minister, white as chalk behind his desk. Paxton, grim-faced, his right hand nervously playing with the lapel of his jacket. Trask, whose talent had never once let him down — until now. And Millicent Cleary, still respectful for all that she’d just accused him of being a monster!
‘Crazy, every damned one of you!’ Clarke shakily husked. He thrust his left hand into his pocket, brought out his Branch ID and tossed it on to the desk. That’s it; I’m through with all of this; finished with the Branch for good. I’m walking.’ He reached with his right hand inside his jacket and dragged his issue 9mm pistol into view -