Necroscope®

by Brian Lumley

  But Harry got no worse through the night, and in the morning he was able to have a bite of breakfast, following which he engaged Brenda in a peculiar, guarded conversation which she was dismayed to find as depressing and morbid as any talk she’d ever had with him during his gloomy or morose periods of previous, less happy times. After listening to him for a little while, when he began to talk about making a will leaving everything to her, or to their child in the event she was unable to make use of it, then she rounded on him and laughed out loud.

  “Harry,” she said, taking his hands where he sat on the edge of the bed with his shoulders slumped, “what is this all about? I know you’ve had a bug of some sort or other and that you’re still feeling low, and I know that when you’re a bit down in the mouth it really seems like the end of the world to you, but here we are married for just eight weeks and you sound as if you expect to be dead by the spring! Yes, and me shortly after! I’ve never heard anything so silly! Just a week ago you were swimming, fighting, skating, full of life—so what is it that’s suddenly bothering you?”

  At that he decided he really couldn’t hedge any longer. Anyway she was his wife now and it was only right that she should know. And so he sat her down and told her everything, with the exception of his dream of the tombstones, and of course excluding the death of Viktor Shukshin. He passed off his aggressive “exercising” of the past few months as simply a means of ensuring his fitness for work still to come, work which could well prove dangerous; which in turn led him to speak of the British ESP organization, but not in any depth. It was sufficient she should know that he wasn’t the only strangely talented person—that in fact there were many more—and that there were foreign powers ranged against the free world who were not above using such talents to its detriment. Part of Harry’s work with the organization would be to ensure that these alien powers failed in their objectives; his talent as a Necroscope would be used as a weapon against them; the future therefore seemed at best … uncertain. His talk of wills and such had been simply an expression of this uncertainty: he thought it was best to be prepared for any eventuality.

  Even telling her all of this—and while not being too specific on any point—still he wondered if perhaps he was making a mistake, if it would have been better to keep her entirely in the dark. And he wondered at his own motives: was he really confiding in her in order to prepare her for … for whatever? Or was it that she was right, that he was feeling at a low ebb and so needed someone to share the load?

  Or there again, was it guilt? He had a course to run now and must pursue it; the chase was not at an end; Shukshin had merely been a faltering step in the right direction. Did he feel that because he chose to go in that direction Brenda was at risk? The dream epitaph—his mother’s warning—had said nothing about Brenda dying as a result of anything Harry was yet to do. He had impregnated her, yes, which would result in a birth; but how could any course he took now influence the physical event of the birth itself? And yet a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him that indeed it could.

  And so it seemed to him that his motive for telling her was chiefly one of guilt, and also because he needed to tell someone—needed to tell a friend. The trouble was that he seemed to be leaning on the very one he endangered, which aggravated and magnified the guilt aspect out of all proportion!

  It was all very confusing and abstruse, and trying to muddle through it made him more tired than ever, so that when he was done talking he was glad to sit back and let her think it over.

  Strangely, she accepted everything he said almost as a matter of course—indeed with visible relief—and at once set about to explain why:

  “Harry, I know I’m not as clever as you, but I’m not stupid either. I’ve known there was something in the air ever since you told me that story of yours—about the Necroscope. I sort of sensed that you hadn’t finished it, that you wanted to say more but you were scared to. Also, there’ve been times up in Harden when Mr. Hannant has stopped me and asked after you. The way he talked, I knew he thought there was something strange about you, too.…”

  “Hannant?” he frowned suspiciously. “What did he—?”

  “Oh, nothing to be concerned about. In fact I think he’s more than a little frightened of you. Harry, I’ve listened to you talking to your poor dead Ma in your sleep, and I knew you were holding real conversations! And there were so many other things. Your writing, for instance. I mean, how come you were suddenly a brilliant author? I’ve read your stories, Harry, and they’re not you. Oh, they’re wonderful stories, all right, but you just aren’t that wonderful! Not the real you. The real you is ordinary, Harry. Oh, I love you—of course I do—but I’m nobody’s fool. And your swimming, your skating, your Judo? Did you think I’d believe you were a superman? I promise you it’s easier to believe you’re a Necroscope! It’s a relief to know the truth, Harry. I’m glad you’ve finally told me.…”

  Harry shook his head in open astonishment. Talk about levelheaded…!

  Finally he said: “But I haven’t told you everything, love.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she answered. “Of course you haven’t! If you’re to be working for your country, why obviously there’ll be things you need to keep secret—even from me. I understand that, Harry.”

  It was as if someone had lifted a great weight off his chest. He breathed deeply, lay back again, let his head sink into his pillows. “Brenda, I’m still very tired,” he yawned. “Just let me sleep now, there’s a love. Tomorrow I’m to go down to London.”

  “All right, my love,” she leaned over him to kiss his forehead. “And don’t worry, I won’t ask you to tell me a thing about it.”

  Harry slept right through until evening, then got up and ate a meal. They went out about 8:00 P.M. just to walk for an hour in the crisp night air, until Brenda started to feel the cold. Then they hurried home, took hot showers, and made love, and afterwards both of them slept right through the night.

  It was the least Harry had done in any single day in his life.

  Later he would have reason to recall it as the most wasteful day in his life.

  * * *

  Sir Keenan Gormley was thoughtful as he left ESP HQ, took the lift down to the tiny lobby and went out into the cold London night. Several things had given him cause for concern just recently, not the least of them being Harry Keogh. For Keogh had not yet contacted him, and with each day that passed Gormley felt the time weighing on him like lumps of lead. It was just after nine o’clock as Gormley walked the streets heading for Westminster tube station, and two hundred and twenty-five miles away Harry Keogh himself was just making love to his wife before settling to a night’s sleep.

  As for Gormley’s other causes of concern: there were two of them. One was the way his second in command kept enquiring after his health, which might seem silly if his second in command weren’t Alec Kyle, and if Alec Kyle wasn’t a very talented seer, a man whose by no means negligible talent lay in foretelling the future! Kyle’s concern for his boss over the last week or ten days had been pretty obvious, no matter how carefully he’d tried to hide it. If there was anything specific, Gormley knew that Kyle would tell him. That was why he hadn’t pressed him about it, but it was worrying anyway.

  And finally there was the other thing, the big thing. Over the period of that last six or seven weeks there had been at least a dozen different occasions when Gormley had known that there were ESPers about, when he’d “spotted” them in his mind. He had never come face to face with one, had never been able to pin one down, but he’d known they were there anyway. At least two of them.

  It had got so he could recognize them almost as easily as he recognized his own men, but these were not his men. Their auras were strange. And always they watched him from the safety of crowds, in the busy places, never where he could tie a face to a feeling. He wondered how long they would go on watching, and if that was all they would do. And as he reached the underground and went down to the trains he patted the
bulge of his 9 mm Browning through his overcoat and jacket. At least that was a comfort. There wasn’t an ESPer in the world who could think himself out of the way of a bullet—not that Gormley knew of, anyway.…

  There were only a few people on the platform and fewer in the compartment where Gormley picked up a discarded copy of the Daily Mail to keep him company during the journey. He found it mildly alarming that the headlines seemed completely alien to him. Was he really that much out of touch? Yes, he probably was! His work had been putting a lot of strain on him and taking up far too much of his time; this was the third night in a row he’d worked late; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really read a book right through or entertained friends. Maybe Kyle was right to be concerned about him—and on a purely personal level at that—not from the point of view of an ESPer. Maybe it was time he took a break and left his second in command to mind the shop. God only knew he would have to sooner or later. And he made himself a promise that he would take a break … just as soon as he’d initiated young Harry Keogh into the fold.

  Keogh.…

  Gormley had given a lot of thought to Keogh, had considered some of the ways his talent might be put to use. Fantastic ways. All in the mind for now, but fascinating anyway. He would have started to go over them again, but just as it crossed his mind to do so the train pulled into St. James’s and Gormley found himself distracted by an incredibly pretty pair of legs in a tiny skirt that passed directly in front of his eyes and out of the twin doors. It was a wonder the lovely creature didn’t freeze to death, he thought—and wouldn’t that be a loss!

  Gormley grinned at his own thoughts. His wife, God bless her, was always complaining he had an eye for the girls. Well, his heart might be tricky but the rest of him seemed to be in working order. An eye wouldn’t be all he had for that young lady, if he were thirty years younger!

  He coughed loudly, returned to his newspaper and tried to get himself reacquainted with the world. A brave effort but he lost interest halfway down the second column. It was pretty mundane stuff, after all, compared with his world. A world of fortune-tellers, telepaths, and now a Necroscope.

  Harry Keogh again.

  There was a game Gormley played with Kyle. It was a word-association game. Sometimes it startled Kyle’s future-oriented mind into action, opening a window for him. A window on tomorrow. Normally Kyle’s talent worked independent of conscious thought; he usually “dreamed” his predictions; if he consciously tried for results they wouldn’t come. But if you could catch him unawares.…

  They had played their game just a few days ago. Gormley had had Keogh on his mind and had wandered into Kyle’s office. And seeing the ESPer sitting there he’d smiled and said: “Game?”

  Kyle had understood. “Go right ahead.”

  “It’s a name,” Gormley had warned, to which Kyle had nodded his head.

  “I’m ready,” he said, sitting up and putting down whatever he was working on.

  Gormley paced a while, then turned quickly and faced the other where he sat at his desk. “Harry Keogh!” he had snapped then.

  “Möbius!” answered Kyle at once.

  “Maths?” Gormley frowned.

  “Space-time!” Now Kyle went white, scared-looking, and Gormley had known they’d got something. He gave it one last shot:

  “Necroscope!”

  “Necromancer!” the other shot back at once.

  “What? Necromancer?” Gormley had repeated. But Kyle was still working.

  “Vampire!” he’d shouted then, starting to his feet. Then he was swaying, trembling, shaking his head, saying, “That … that’s enough, sir. Whatever it was, it … it’s gone now.”

  And that had been that.…

  Gormley came back to the present.

  He looked up and found they’d passed through Victoria and that the train was almost empty. Already they were midway to Sloane Square. And that was when he began to feel a strange depression settling over him.

  He felt that there was something wrong but he couldn’t just put his finger on it. It might simply be the train’s emptiness (which even at this hour was a rare enough occurrence in itself) and that he missed the bustle of life and contact with other human beings, but he didn’t think so. Then, as the train pulled into the station he knew what it was: it was his talent working.

  The doors sighed open and a middle-aged couple got out, leaving Gormley quite alone, but just before the doors hissed shut again two men got in—and their ESP-aura washed over him like a wave of icy water! Yes, and now he could put faces to feelings.

  Dragosani and Batu sat directly opposite their quarry, stared straight at him with cold, expressionless faces. They made a strange pair, he thought, not designed with any degree of compatibility. Not outwardly, anyway. The taller one leaned forward, his sunken eyes reminding Gormley yet again of Harry Keogh. Yes, they were like Keogh’s eyes in a way, probably in their colour and intelligence. And that was especially strange, for set in this face one got the impression that by rights they should be feral or even red, and that the intelligence behind them was barely human at all but that of a beast.

  “You know what we are, Sir Keenan,” the stranger said in a voice deep as it was dark, whose Russian accent he made no attempt to disguise, “if not who we are. And we know who and what you are. Therefore it would be childish simply to sit here and pretend that we were ignorant of each other. Don’t you agree?”

  “Your logic leaves little room for argument,” Gormley nodded, imagining that his blood was already beginning to cool in his veins.

  “Then let us continue to be logical,” said Dragosani. “If we wanted you dead, you would be dead. We have not lacked the opportunity, as I’m sure you know. And so, when we leave the train at South Kensington, you will not attempt to run or make a fuss, or bring unnecessary attention to yourself or to us. If you do, then we will be forced to kill you and that would be unfortunate, of benefit to no one. Is this understood and agreed?”

  Gormley forced himself to remain calm, raised an eyebrow and said: “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. er—?”

  “Dragosani,” said the other at once. “Boris Dragosani. Yes, I am very sure of myself. As is my friend here, Max Batu.”

  “—For a stranger in this country, I was about to say,” Gormley continued. “It seems to me that I’m about to be kidnapped. But are you sure you know all you need to know about my habits? Mightn’t there be something you’ve overlooked? Something your logic hasn’t taken into account?” He quickly, nervously took out a cigarette lighter from his right-hand overcoat pocket and placed it in his lap, patted his pockets as if he searched for a packet of cigarettes, finally started to reach inside his overcoat.

  “No!” said Dragosani warningly. As if from nowhere he produced his own weapon and held it before him at arm’s length, pointing it directly into Gormley’s face, so that the older man looked straight down the rifled barrel of the stubby black silencer. “No, nothing has been overlooked. Max, could you see to that, please?”

  Batu got up, eased himself on to the seat next to Gormley, drew the other’s hand slowly back into the open and took the Browning from Gormley’s trembling fingers. The safety catch was still on. Batu released the magazine and pocketed it, gave the automatic back to Gormley.

  “Nothing at all,” Dragosani continued. “Unfortunately, however, that was the last wrong move you’ll be allowed to make.” He put away his gun, folded his slim fingers into his lap. His posture was unnatural, Gormley decided: very sinuous, almost feline, very nearly female. He didn’t know what to make of Dragosani at all.

  “Any more heroics,” Dragosani continued, “will result in your death—immediately!” And Gormley knew he wasn’t bluffing.

  Carefully, he pushed the useless automatic back into its holster, said: “What is it you want with me?”

  “We want to talk to you,” said Dragosani. “I wish to … to put some questions to you.”

  “I’ve had questions put to me before,
” Gormley answered, forcing a tight smile. “I imagine they’ll be very searching questions, eh?”

  “Ah!” said Dragosani. Now he smiled, and it was ghastly. Gormley felt physically repulsed. The man’s mouth gaped like a panting dog’s, where elongated teeth gleamed sharply white. “Ah, no. There’ll be no bright lights in your eyes, Sir Keenan, if that’s what you mean,” said Dragosani. “No drugs. No pincers. No hose to fill your belly with water. Oh, no, nothing like that. But you will tell me everything I want to know, of that I can assure you.…”

  The train was slowing as it pulled into South Kensington. Gormley’s heart gave a little lurch in his chest. So close to home, and yet so far. Dragosani had a light overcoat folded over his arm. He showed Gormley the silencer of his weapon, let it peep out of the folds of the overcoat for a moment, and reminded him: “No heroics.”

  There was a handful of people on the platform: young people mainly, and a pair of down-and-outs with a bottle in a paper bag between them. Even if Gormley looked for help, he couldn’t find much here. “Just leave the station by the same route you take every night,” said Dragosani at Gormley’s shoulder.

  Gormley’s heart was hammering now. He knew full well that if he went with these men it was all up with him. He was an older hand at this game than the two foreign agents. When Dragosani had told him his and his squat little companion’s names, that had been as good as saying: “But it won’t do you any good, for you won’t be around to tell anyone!” And so he must escape from them—but how?

  They left the underground onto Pelham Street, walked down the Brompton Road to Queen’s Gate. “I cross here, at the lights,” Gormley said. But as they reached the parking lanes straddling the central reservation Dragosani’s grip tightened on his arm.

  “We have a car here,” he said, drawing Gormley to the right and along the line of parked vehicles towards an anonymous-looking Ford. Dragosani had bought the car second-hand (tenth-hand, he suspected) and cash down, no questions asked. It would last only as long as his and Max Batu’s visit. Then it would be found burned out in some suburban lane. But it was then, as they approached the car, that Gormley saw his chance.