by Brian Lumley
‘What if he has been dead for a hundred years?’
‘A dried-up mummy, you mean? Borowitz wondered the same thing. We experimented. It was all the same to me. The dead cannot keep their secrets from a necromancer.’ ‘But a corpse, rotting,’ Batu pressed. ‘Say someone dead for a month or two. That must be quite awful…’
‘It is,’ said the other. ‘But I’m used to it. The mess doesn’t bother me so much as the risk. The dead teem with disease, you know. I have to be very careful. It’s not a healthy business.’
‘Ugh!’ said Batu, and Dragosani actually saw him give a small shudder.
London’s lights were gleaming in the dark distance on the curve of night’s horizon. The city was a hazy glow beyond the small, circular windows. ‘And you?’ said Dragosani. ‘Does your talent have its “limitations”, Max?’
The Mongol gave a shrug. ‘It, too, has its dangers. It requires much energy; it saps my strength; it is debilitating. And as you know, it is only effective against the weak and infirm. There is supposed to be one other small handicap, too, but that is a matter of legend and I do not intend to put it to the test.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. There is a story told in my country of a man with the evil eye. It’s an old story, going back a thousand years. This man was very evil and used his power to terrorise the land. He would ride with his bandits into villages and rape and plunder, then ride out again unscathed. And no one dared hold up a hand against him. But in one village there lived an old man who said he knew how to deal with him. When the robber band was seen riding that way, the villagers took all their corpses and gave them spears and propped them on the walls. The robbers came and in the dusk their leader saw that the village was protected. He cast his evil eye upon the watchers at the walls. But of course, the dead cannot die twice. The spell rebounded and struck him down. He was shrivelled up no larger than a roasted piglet!’
Dragosani liked the story. ‘And the moral?’ he asked.
Batu grunted and shrugged again. ‘Doesn’t it speak for
itself? One must never curse the dead, I suppose, for they have nothing to lose. In any argument, they must always win in the end…’
Dragosani thought of Thibor Ferenczy. And what of the undead? he wondered. Do they, too, always win? If so, then it’s about time someone changed the rules …
They were met and whisked through Customs by ‘a man from the embassy’, their baggage delivered as if by magic to a black Mercedes bearing diplomatic plates. As well as their cold-eyed escort there was also a silent, uniformed driver. On their way to the embassy their escort sat in the front passenger’s seat, his body half-turned towards them, his arm draped casually along the back of the driver’s seat. He made small-talk in a frigid, mechanical fashion, trying to assume an air of friendly interest. He didn’t fool Dragosani for a minute.
‘Your first time in London, Comrades? You’ll find it an interesting city, I’m sure. Decadent, of course, and full of fools, but interesting for all that. I, er, didn’t have time to check on your business here. How long do you plan to stay?’
‘Until we go back,’ said Dragosani.
‘Ah!’ the other smiled thinly, patiently. ‘Very good! You must excuse me, Comrade, but for some of us curiosity is — shall we say — a way of life? You understand?’
Dragosani nodded. ‘Yes, I understand. You’re KGB.’
The man’s thin face went icy in a moment. ‘We don’t use that term much outside the embassy.’
‘What term do you use?’ smiled Max Batu, his voice a deceptive whisper. ‘Shitheads?’
‘What?’ the escort’s face slowly turned white.
‘My friend and I are here on business which is no concern of you or yours,’ said Dragosani in a level tone.
‘We have the very highest authority. Let me make that clear: the Very Highest Authority. Any interference will be very bad for you. If we need your help we will ask for it. Apart from that you’ll leave us alone and not bother us.’
The escort pursed his lips, drew one long, slow breath. ‘People don’t usually talk to me like that’, he said, his words very precise.
‘Of course if you persist in obstructing us,’ Dragosani continued, without changing his tone of voice, ‘I can always break your arm. That should keep you out of the way for two or three weeks at least.’
The other gasped. ‘You threaten me?’
‘No, I make you a promise.’ But Dragosani knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. This was a typical KGB automaton. The necromancer sighed, said: ‘Look, if you have been tasked to us I’m sorry for you. Your job is impossible. Moreover it’s dangerous. This much I’ll tell you, and this much only. We’re here to test a secret weapon. Now, ask no more questions.’
‘A secret weapon?’ said the other, his eyes widening. ‘Ah!’ He looked from Dragosani to Batu and back again. ‘What weapon?’
Dragosani smiled grimly. Well, he had warned the fool. ‘Max,’ he said, carefully turning his face away. ‘A small demonstration, perhaps…?’
Shortly after that they arrived at the embassy. In the grounds of the place Dragosani and Batu stepped down from the car and took their luggage from the boot. They looked after their own cases.
The driver attended to their escort. The last they saw of him was as he staggered away, leaning on the driver’s arm. He looked back at them only once — stared round-eyed and fearfully at Max Batu — before stumblingly disappearing inside the gloomily imposing building. And that was the last they saw of him. After that no one bothered them again.
The second Wednesday after New Year, 1977. Viktor Shukshin had known this feeling of encroaching doom for well over a fortnight now, a leaden psychic depression which had lifted only marginally upon the arrival of Gregor Borowitz’s fourth monthly registered letter containing one thousand pounds in large denomination notes. In fact it worried Shukshin that Borowitz had surrendered so readily, that he had made no counter threats of his own.
Today had been especially bad: the skies were overcast and heavy with snow; the river was frozen over with thick grey ice; the big house was cold and seemed invaded by icy draughts that followed Shukshin everywhere. And for the first time in as long as he could remember — or at least the first time that he had noticed it — there was a strange and ominous quiet about everything, so that sounds seemed muffled as if by deep snow, though little had fallen as yet. The ticking of an old grandfather clock sounded heavy, dull — even the warped floorboards seemed to creak a little less volubly — and all in all it had put Shukshin’s nerves in a very bad way. It was as if the house held its breath and waited for something.
That ‘something’ came at 2:30 p.m., just as Shukshin poured himself a glass of iced vodka and sat down in his study before an electric fire, looking gloomily out through neglected, fly-specked windows on a garden frozen into white crystal. It came with the nerve-jangling clamour of his telephone.
Heart hammering, he put down the drink he’d almost spilled, snatched up the handset and said, ‘Shukshin.’
‘Stepfather?’ Harry Keogh’s voice seemed very close.
‘It’s Harry here. I’m in Edinburgh staying with friends. How’ve you been keeping?’
Shukshin choked back the anger which came on the instant, boiling to the surface. So that was it: this damned spawn of an ESPer was here, close at hand, sending out his psychic aura to crush Shukshin’s sensitive spirits! He bared his teeth, glared at the telephone in his hand, fought down the urge to curse and rage. ‘Harry? Is that you? In Edinburgh, you say? How thoughtful of you to call me.’ You bastard! Your mutant aura is hurting me!
‘But you sound so well!’ the other sounded surprised. ‘When I saw you last you seemed so — ‘
‘Yes, I know.’ Shukshin tried not to snarl. ‘I hadn’t been too well, Harry, but I’m fine now. Was there something you wanted?’ / could eat your heart, you unnatural little swine!
‘Why, yes. I wondered if perhaps I might come to see you. Maybe we coul
d talk a little about my mother. Also, I’ve got my skates with me. If the river’s frozen I could do some skating. I’m only up here for a few days more, you see, and I — ‘
‘No!’ Shukshin snapped, and at once checked himself. Why not get it over with? Why not get this shadow from the past out of the way once and for always? Whatever it was that Keogh knew or suspected — however he had come by Shukshin’s ring, which the Russian had believed lost in the river, and whatever the psychic link between this youth and his mother, which apparently bound them still — why not bring it to an end right here and now? Common-sense stood no chance against the bloodlust which surged in Shukshin now.
‘Stepfather?’
‘I meant only — Harry, my nerves still aren’t up to much, I’m afraid. Living here all alone — you know, I’m not used to company. Of course I’d like to see you, and
the river is perfect just now for skating, but I really couldn’t do with a houseful of young people, Harry.’
‘Oh, no, Stepfather, I didn’t intend bringing anyone with me. I wouldn’t think of imposing on you to that extent. Why, my friends don’t even know I have a relative up here! No, chiefly I’d just like to visit the house again and go on the river. I’d like to skate where my mother used to skate, that’s all.’
That again! The bastard did know something — or at least suspected something — definitely! So he wanted to skate, did he? On the river, where his mother skated. Shukshin’s face twisted into a leer. ‘Well in that case… when can I expect you?’
‘In about, oh, two hours?’ came Harry’s answer.
‘Very well,’ said Shukshin. ‘About 4:30 to 5:00 p.m., then. I shall look forward to it, Harry.’
And he put the phone down before an utterly animal growl of hatred could burst from his writhing mouth and betray his true feelings: Oh, how I shall look-forward — to — it!
Harry Keogh wasn’t nearly so far away as Edinburgh. In fact he was in the foyer of the hotel where he’d been staying the past few nights in Bonnyrigg itself. After speaking to Shukshin on the phone he shrugged into his overcoat and went out to his car, a battered old Morris he’d bought on the cheap especially for this trip. He had passed his driving test the first time around — or at least an ex-driving instructor in the cemetery in Seaton Carew had passed it for him.
Now he drove on icy roads to the top of a hill some quarter of a mile from the old house and overlooking it, where he parked and got out of the car. There was no one about; the scene was bleak and bitter; shivering, Harry carried binoculars to a stand of trees rising starkly naked against the sky. From behind the bole of one of them, he trained the glasses on the house and waited — for no more than a minute or two.
Shukshin came out through the study’s patio doors and hurried through his courtyard garden, finally emerging from a door in the wall facing the river. In his hand he carried a pickaxe…
Harry drew breath sharply, let it out slowly to plume in the frosty air. Shukshin scrambled through brittle shrubbery and brambles down to the river’s rim. He let himself down carefully on to the ice, tested it, sprang up and down at its very edge. Then he turned and looked all about. The place was quite deserted.
He walked to the centre of the grey-shining expanse of ice and bounded again, and once more seemed satisfied. And now Harry’s eyes were riveted to the scene, that monochrome tableau which he almost felt he’d watched before, and the act which he was absolutely certain Shukshin had performed before.
For the figure trapped and enlarged in the lenses of his binoculars now crouched down, took his pickaxe and swung it in a wide circle, scoring a boundary, a demarcation, in the crusty surface of the ice. And all around that etched circle he strode, hacking periodically with all the strength and passion of a madman, until spouts of water jetted up each time the point of the pick struck home; so that in a matter of minutes a great disc of ice nine or ten feet across floated free in a pool of its own. Then the final touch:
Once more pausing to peer all about, finally Shukshin walked the perimeter of the circle, using his feet to brush icy debris from his assault back into the gap. The water would freeze over again, of course, but it would not be safe for hours yet, certainly not before tomorrow morning. Shukshin had set his trap — but he didn’t know that the intended victim had watched him do it!
Harry could scarce control his shivering now, the trembling in all his limbs which had little or nothing to do with the actual temperature. No, it had more to do with the mental condition of that hunched figure down there on the ice. The binoculars were not powerful enough to bring the figure really close, but still Harry was sure that he’d seen its face working hideously through all the hacking. The face of a lunatic, who for some reason lusted after Harry’s life as once he had lusted after — and taken — his mother’s.
Harry wanted to know why, would not rest until he had the answer. And there was only one way to get it.
Feeling physically and mentally weary, and yet knowing that his work wasn’t over yet, Viktor Shukshin returned to the house. Inside the walled courtyard, he dragged his pickaxe behind him across frosted flags, letting its haft fall clattering from his fingers before he stepped through the open patio doors and into his study. Head down and arms dangling at his sides, he took two more paces into the room — and froze!
What? Was Keogh here already? The entire house felt filled with strange forces. It reeked of ESP-aura, its very atmosphere seeming to vibrate with alien energies.
Instantly inflamed, now Shukshin sensed movement: the patio doors clicking shut behind him! He whirled, saw, and his jaw fell open. ‘Who…? What…’ he choked.
Two men faced him, stood there in his own study where they had waited for him, and one of them held a gun pointed straight at Shukshin’s heart. He recognised the weapon as Russian service issue, recognised the coldly emotionless looks of the two men, and felt Doom closing its fist on him. But in a way it was not entirely unexpected.
He had thought there might be some sort of visit one day. But that it should be now, of all ill-omened moments.
‘Sit down — Comrade,’ said the tall one, his voice harsh as a file on Shukshin’s ragged nerves.
Max Batu pushed a chair forward and Shukshin very nearly collapsed into it. Batu moved to stand behind him where he sat facing Dragosani. The ESP-aura washed all about Shukshin now, as if his mind swam in bile. Oh, yes, they were from the Chateau Bronnitsy, these two!
The blackmailer’s face was ravaged, eyes sunken deep in black sockets. Looking over his head at Dragosani, finally Batu’s round face cracked into a grin. ‘Comrade Dragosani,’ he said, ‘I had always thought you looked ill — until now!’
‘ESPers!’ Shukshin spat the word out. ‘Borowitz’s men! What do you want of me?’
‘He has every reason to look ill, Max,’ Dragosani’s voice was deep as a pit. ‘A traitor, a blackmailer, probably a murderer…’
Shukshin looked as if he might spring to his feet. Batu placed heavy, stubby hands on his shoulders. ‘I asked,’ Shukshin grated, ‘what you want of me?’
‘Your life,’ said Dragosani. He took a silencer from his pocket, screwed it tightly to the muzzle of his weapon, stepped forward and placed it against Shukshin’s fore head. ‘Only your life.’
Shukshin felt Max Batu step carefully to one side behind him. And he knew they were going to kill him.
‘Wait!’ he croaked. ‘You’re making a mistake. Borowitz won’t thank you for it. I know a lot — about the British side. I’ve been giving it to Borowitz bit by bit. But there’s a lot he doesn’t know yet. Also, I’m still working for you
— in my way. Why, I’m on a job now! Yes, right now.’
‘What job?’ said Dragosani. It had not been his intention to shoot Shukshin, merely to frighten him. Max’s getting out of the line of fire had only been a natural reaction. Shooting was messy and made for bad necromancy. The way Dragosani had planned Shukshin’s death was much more interesting:
When he had o
btained all he could get this way, by simple questioning, then they would take Shukshin to the bathroom and bind him. They would put him in a bath half full of cold water and Dragosani would use one of his surgical sickles to slit his wrists. As he lay there in water rapidly turning red as his life leaked out, then Dragosani would requestion him. The promise would be that if Shukshin told all, his wounds would be bound and he’d be released. Dragosani would show him bandages, surgical tape. But of course, Shukshin would only have so much time to respond. All the time the water was darkening with his blood, until he lay in a cold, crimson soup. It would have been a warning, a promise that if Shukshin continued to give them trouble, then Dragosani and Batu — or others like them — would be back to finish the job. That is what they would tell Shukshin, but of course the job would be finished right there and then.
Even so, still Shukshin might hold something back. Something, perhaps, which he did not consider important, something forgotten — maybe something too damning to tell. Maybe, for instance, he was already working for the British…
But whatever he said it would make no difference. When he was dead they would flush his drained corpse with fresh water, take him out of the bath, and then…then Dragosani would continue to question.
Now Dragosani took the gun away from Shukshin’s forehead, sat down facing him. ‘I’m waiting,’ he said. ‘What job?’
Shukshin gulped, tried to force his fear of these men — and his hatred of their weird ESP talents — to the back of his mind. It was there, it wouldn’t go away, but for now he must try to ignore it. His life hung by a thread and he knew it. He must get his thoughts in order, lie as he’d never lied before. Some of it would be the truth anyway, and of that much at least he could speak with absolute conviction:
‘You know I’m a spotter?’
‘Of course, it’s why Borowitz sent you here: to find them and kill them. You haven’t been too successful, apparently.’ Dragosani’s sarcasm was acid.
Shukshin ignored that, too. ‘When I came in here a moment ago — the moment I stepped into this room — I knew you were here. I could almost taste your presence. You’re powerful ESPers, both of you. Especially you,’ he glared at Dragosani. ‘There’s a terrific, a monstrous talent in you. It… it hurts me!’