Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (27 page)

until he’d covered every angle, almost to the point of exhaustion. And after that? What did he do for relaxation?’ (Harry could almost sense the other’s grin). ‘Wel, I’m not sure if I should mention this, you know? I mean - speaking ill of the dead and al that - but… ”

‘… Did he like a drink?’ Finaly Harry forced the issue. And Darcy’s answer lit up his mind like the crack of dawn on a summer day:

‘Did Alec like a drink? Did he
ever!
When he was wound up, so tight it was the only way to unwind …
then
he would drink, yes! Usualy at home, because there he wasn’t risking anything and he didn’t have so far to fal into bed. I remember one time he invited me round to his place and between us we kiled a big botle of Jack Daniel’s. I stayed over, because I knew I wasn’t going to make it to anywhere else. And I paid for it for three whole days. But Alec was just fine! That body of his could soak up hard liquor like a sponge.’

‘He wasn’t an alcoholic, was he?’ (Something of alarm now, in the Necroscope’s voice).

‘God, no! Once in a blue moon, that’s al. But when he did it, Alec did it right.’

Thanks,’ Harry breathed, and put the ‘phone down.

And now he knew. Knew how to be himself again: by
not
being himself. Feelings of illicit atraction? Chemistry, that’s al. Alec Kyle’s chemistry. And the need to have a good stiff drink folowing a period of prolonged stress? Again, chemistry: the ex-precog’s body doing its own thing - or rather the thing it had
used
to do.

And there stood Harry smack dab in the middle, firm in his determination to get used to his new body, without giving a moment’s thought to the fact that it must get used to him!

So maybe a night on the town wasn’t such a bad idea after al. Maybe
then
he’d be able to get it al going - get body and mind working together - and figure something out. And come to think of it, he did know where to go to get a drink, and probably a free one at that. She owed him that much at least.

Alec Kyle’s personal body chemistry? Illicit atraction? Sheer loneliness? Maybe it was al of these things. And initials, certainly.

B.J.’s …

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137

II

BJ.’S

It was 3 p.m. and just as grey in London as in Edinburgh, and even darker for Darcy Clarke, who had been sitting at his desk for the last hour, ever since the Necroscope called him, still feeling bad about things in general and wondering what the hell this latest ‘thing’ was all about. Alec Kyle’s personal habits? Especially the fact that he’d liked a drink now and then? What in the world could
that
have to do with Harry’s search for his wife and baby son? Answer: nothing. Which meant that Harry was still dealing with the same basic problem, still getting used to the fact of his new body.

And as if that weren’t enough,
Darcy thought, /
had to go and fuck about inside his head! Or get someone to do it for me,
anyway.

The ‘had to’ part was the only tiling that let Darcy live with it: the fact that E-Branch and the security of the people, the country, came first above all other considerations. But it had been inevitable from the moment the Necroscope had let him know that he would probably be moving on. Then, even hating it, Darcy had been obliged to set the thing in motion. But all the time he’d been hoping against hope that it would never have to be brought into being, and he’d kept right on hoping until the moment Harry had said he was through, definitely.

From then on it had all been down to Doctor James Anderson, whose business address was a consulting room and a highly rewarding practice in prestigious Harley Street. One hell of a step up for a man who only three years ago had been working the nightclub circuits as a stage hypnotist! But E-Branch had found and elevated him, which was about the same as saying that they owned him. And certainly he
owed
them. That was why he’d come in that night a half-hour after Darcy called for him, and why he had done what he’d done.

Sinister? But in a way it might be argued that everything E-Branch did had sinister implications for someone. Except this time it was being done to a friend. And that was what bothered Darcy the most: that this

time the Department of Dirty Tricks had come down on Harry Keogh.

Yet for all that Darcy felt guilty about this thing, the fact was that he hadn’t initiated it. That had come from much higher up, from a grey, almost anonymous entity known only as the Branch’s ‘Minister Responsible’. It had been Darcy’s duty merely to let the Minister know how things stood, and the Minister’s to order counter measures.

And
(Darcy was pleased to remind himself) they could very easily have been much harsher measures, except he’d been able to advise in that respect, too. So Harry had suffered a degree of minor, or maybe not so minor, interference: so what? He was still functioning, wasn’t he? Darcy gave a small shudder as he put what might have been to the back of his mind.

As for why it had had to be done:

Harry Keogh was potentially the most powerful force in the world, for good
or
evil. He was the Necroscope, and Sir Keenan Gormley had ‘spotted’ him almost from scratch, and homed in on him with unerring instinct, recruiting him to E-Branch. But if Sir Keenan had ‘discovered’ him, so to speak, couldn’t a far less friendly agency just as easily find him?

For example the Russians. By now they must be keenly interested (to say the very least) in Harry’s kind of ESP. It was a weapon he had used against them to devastating effect. Even though Harry ‘himself was or might appear to be dead and gone, still the atention of al surviving members of the Soviet ESP-organization would be riveted upon their British counterparts’ every move from this time on.

It was even possible (barely, but possible) that the Russians already knew about British E-Branch’s ‘new’ Necroscope! And wouldn’t
that
be causing them some concern! ? What, the ex-Head of Branch, Alec Kyle, back in business? Not brain-dead, or physicaly dead and blown to bits along with the Chateau Bronnitsy, but alive and wel and living in England? Not drained of al inteligence on a slab in some necromantic ESP-experiment, or pulped in a holocaust of almighty proportions, but sound as a bel and consorting with his old coleagues in London? Good God! By now they’d probably be thinking that
every
Englishman was indestructible … and they’d be wanting to know why! And how …

Darcy found himself grinning at his own flight of fancy, but of al men he knew that there had never been so fanciful a flight as that of Harry Keogh, Necroscope.

And the grin died on his face as he considered other possibilities.

Assuming that the Russians knew nothing - that they were still recovering from the Necroscope’s onslaught - still there were other ESP-agencies in the world and Harry could conceivably fal into their hands.

And not only mindspies but crime syndicates and terrorist organizations, too. What a thief he’d make, what an assassin or terrorist!

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Barriers, borders and brick walls couldn’t stop him; he could disappear almost at will; the teeming dead were in his debt and would go to any lengths, literally, to advise and protect him. And all the knowledge of Earth had gone down into the soil or up into the air, where it was written like lore in some mighty volume in an infinite encyclopedia for Harry to open and read. If he had the time, but he didn’t because of his search.

Oh, yes: Harry would be invaluable in the hands of any one of a score of criminal elements. And it was still possible that his wife and child’s disappearance was connected in some way to just such an organization. Which was why the Branch was indeed working flat out to discover their whereabouts. Oh, they were doing it for Harry, too, who had done so much for them and for the world, but they were also doing it for themselves, for ‘the common good.’ And it was for that same common cause that Darcy had called in Doctor James Anderson.

Anderson was the best, the very best there was: a hypnotist without peer in all the land, as far as was known.

Working without anaesthetics on patients lulled to a painless immunity under the weird spell of Anderson’s eyes and systems, surgeons had carried out the most delicate operations; women had given effortless birth in exceptionally awkward circumstances; mentally traumatized and schizoid cases had shed their delusions and extraneous personalities to emerge whole and one from his healing gaze. And far more importantly where Darcy was concerned, Anderson was a master of the post-hypnotic command.

Darcy remembered how it had gone that night…

By the time they had entered Harry’s room using a master key, the Necroscope had been dead to the world, and probably to the dead, too! The drug Darcy had given him had been a sleeping pill, but a pill with a difference. Distilled from the oriental yellow poppy - and as such an ‘opiate’ - the principal active ingredient had the effect of opening the mind of the subject to hypnotic suggestion while he slept on. The hypnotist would then insert himself into the subject’s dreams, his subconscious mind, implanting those commands which the subject would act upon and accept as routine long after the drug had dispersed and he was awake.

Darcy had obtained the pills from Anderson, who used them when he was treating mental cases. Not that Harry was a mental case, but it had provided an easy method of bringing him under Anderson’s control without the Necroscope himself knowing what was happening. Since he wasn’t a patient as such, it was imperative that he did
not
know what was happening. For rather than being a curative treatment, this was to be preventative.

Darcy had been present throughout and remembered the entire thing in detail. Especially he remembered his only partly covert, his almost suspicious examination of Anderson himself: the way he’d considered

the hypnotist’s attitude to be far too relaxed, too casual… well, in the light of what he was doing and who he was working on. Didn’t he know who this man was? But then he’d had to remind himself: no, of course Anderson didn’t know who or what Harry was. He was only doing what he’d been asked to do.

Anderson was young, maybe thirty-five or -six years old, tall, and good-looking in a darkly humourless sort of way; or perhaps more attractive than good-looking. But maybe that was residual of his stage days, when he’d used to portray himself as some inscrutable deity of inner mind. If so, then he’d succeeded very well indeed. With his high-arching eyebrows, full, sensual lips - that seemed
too
full and sensuous against the pallor of his face - and the sunken orbits of his eyes, dark as from countless sleepless nights; why, only give him a pair of horns and Anderson would be the very epitome of the devil! ‘A handsome devil,’ yes.

His hair was a shiny black, swept back and, Darcy suspected, lacquered into place. His chin was narrow, almost pointed, and sported a small neatly trimmed goatee; his sideburns were angled to sharp points mid-way between the lobes of his small flat ears and the corners of his mouth. And as if to underline or emphasize his looks, he wore a cloak, which to Darcy’s mind was about as theatrical as you could get. Anderson’s eyes, of course, were huge, black, and hypnotic. And his voice … was velvet.

Inside Harry’s room, the doctor had wasted no time. Darcy remembered how it had been: first Anderson sitting by the Necroscope’s bed, and lifting each of his eyelids in turn to check the dilation of his eyes. Then, when Harry’s eyes stayed glassily open, the classic technique: a crystal pendant swinging on a chain, and the doctor’s soft, smoothly insistent voice, commanding Harry that he:

‘Watch the lights, the sparkle, the heart of the crystal. Feel the heartbeat as the crystal swings to and fro, and match it with your own …’ Then Anderson’s hand seeking and checking the pulse in the Necroscope’s wrist, his nod of approval, and the pendulum’s swing gradually slowing as the doctor’s marvellous voice continued:

‘Harry, you can close your eyes and sleep now. You
are
asleep … you are asleep but you will continue to hear me. I am your heartbeat, your mind, your very life and soul. I control you; I
am
you, and because we are one, you will obey me. You will
obey you,
for I am you. We are one, and we’re asleep, but we hear our mind speaking to us, and we obey.

Can you hear me, Harry? If you can hear me, you may nod … ” The Necroscope had closed his eyes at Anderson’s command. As he slowly nodded his head, so Darcy had found himself holding his breath.

‘Harry Keogh, you are a rare man with rare powers … you are a man with rare powers … rare powers, yes. Did you know that? That you’re a man with rare and wonderful powers?’ Anderson hadn’t known

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what Harry’s ‘rare powers’ were; only that he was following Darcy Clarke’s instructions. And again the Necroscope’s nod.

‘If others knew of your powers, they would want the use of them. Others might want the use of these strange powers. Others might even use them against us, to harm you and me and the ones we love. Do you understand?’

(Harry’s nod).

‘Now listen,’ Anderson had leaned closer to the man in the bed, his voice more deep and sonorous yet. ‘We can only be safe so long as others know nothing of our powers. We are safe only so long as we protect our powers. Others must never know what we can do. We must never speak of our powers.
You
must never ever
mention
your powers to anyone. You must never
disclose
them to anyone. You must never
display
them to anyone. Do you understand?’

(Harry’s slow, uncertain nod).

‘You may use your powers as is your right, Harry, but you may
never
speak of them, or display them or otherwise disclose them to others. You may never,
ever
speak of them, or disclose or display them to others, no matter what the provocation, not even under the stress of extreme pain or torture. Do you understand?’ (Harry’s nod, more positive now).