Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (36 page)

Well, you wouldn’t catch
me
eating them!
she said.
And anyway, you’ve

changed the subject. Because you know what’s coming next.

‘I should go and see a doctor?’ He hugged his overcoat more tightly to him, where he crouched at the rim of the bight, over the grey-gleaming, wind-ruffled water. But there had been something in the Necroscope’s voice (scorn, perhaps? impatience? or sheer obstinacy?) that caused his mother to bridle.

Huh!
She snorted.
And is that how you reward good advice? Wel, your grandmother used to say, ‘No one can help the man—’

‘—
Who won’t help himself,’ Harry finished it. ‘Yes, Ma, I know. And I also know you’re right. So I’l go and see a doctor - tomorrow.’

But why not today?

‘Because it’s late in the afternoon. Even if I could find a surgery open it’s an odds-on bet there’d be a queue. And, Ma, these days you’re not much appreciated if you call a doctor out for something like the ‘flu!’

No,
she said.
You wait until you die, right?
And before he could answer:
Harry, you’re living
alone
up here, and you don’t
have any close friends! Wel, not among the living. What if you should come down with something serious?

He shrugged. ‘But I do have a teleph … ” And he broke off.

And she said:
A telephone, yes … which you’re afraid of? But I can’t say I blame you. That was a very bad dream, Harry!

‘Or a warning, maybe?’ He wondered out loud … then shook his head, and said: ‘No, Ma, I’m not afraid of the ‘phone, just a litle wary of it… And I’l stay that way until I find out what al of this means.’

She picked up on the first part of what he’d said.
A warning? How do you mean?

‘Alec Kyle was a precog. That was his talent: he was able to catch these glimpses of the future. Usually in his dreams, just before waking. And I think he stil does. Or rather … ”

You do?
(Sometimes she was quick on the uptake).

‘Possibly. That dream wasn’t my first… what, warning?’

But isn’t that all to the good?
she queried. /
mean, surely it’s better to know
something
of what to expect than nothing at all?

‘Maybe,’ he answered. ‘But just to know that something unpleasant is coming doesn’t help me to understand it. Sometimes I do and other times I don’t. That was how it worked for Kyle, too. Also, he … ” And Harry paused again.

Yes?

‘I think that Kyle may have been an alcoholic,’ he blurted it out. ‘He kept it under tight control - or as tight as possible - but it was there nevertheless.’

Oh, dear!
His Ma said, slowly and sadly.
And you …?

Til have to control it the same.’

You’ve … experienced the need, the urge, to take strong drink?

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‘More than just the urge.’ Harry nodded ruefully, and knew she would sense it. ‘My thick head?’ he sighed. ‘Not the ‘flu, as you see.’ And quickly: ‘But I promise you I’l see a doctor anyway.’

She was suddenly thoughtful. So
your dream wasn’t necessarily poor MrKyle’s talent in action after all, then?

‘What?’ But since speaking with the dead often conveys far more than is actually said, the Necroscope had her meaning well enough. ‘You mean, some kind of delusion?’

Delirium tremens,
(the nod of her incorporeal head).
Well, possibly. So as you see, Harry, that makes a doctor imperative!

He hugged his coat tighter still, and sighed his agreement. ‘Yes, Ma, I suppose it does …’

It was coming in squaly again and Harry headed for home. Home: the old house where his mother and stepfather, Viktor Shukshin, had lived, until the maniac Shukshin had murdered her, drowning her under the river’s ice. Harry had been a smal child, but he ‘remembered’ that day wel enough - and from his mother’s point of view at that! So maybe this new ‘thing’ was just part of an older skill; maybe he was an ‘observer of times,’ like some Old Testament wizard. For if he was able to so vividly visualize a past he had never personaly known, then why not something of a future that
no
man had known - as yet? Perhaps these flashes of the future came to him via the Mobius Continuum and had nothing to do with Alec Kyle at al!

Thus Harry’s metaphysical mind ran in contradictory, ever-decreasing circles, while he continued to get nowhere.

Home: a drab, unkempt sort of place at best. One day he’d find the time to do it up, starting with the garden that sprawled almost al the way down to the river.

Except to cal it a ‘garden’ was to lend it an unwarranted respectability; in fact it was an overgrown and weed-infested wilderness!

As it started to rain again, the Necroscope hurried along a crazy-paving path to the fly-specked patio doors, swearing a vow along the way that the thorny bramble creeper that whipped at his legs would be the first to go!

Leting himself in, he saw the sky darkening over again as the wind came up to bend the trees bordering the river. A great day for a nightmare, no question. But Harry didn’t believe that was al it had been. Despite its surreal quality, it had seemed
very
real at the time. And what if he’d ignored that other warning, down at E-Branch HQ in London? That had been a hel of a mess anyway, but if he hadn’t been able to use his Mobius door as ‘foreseen’ - it didn’t bear thinking about. At least he had
understood
that warning. Which made this other thing, about the old castle, the place on the cliff, seem doubly suspect; it was something he didn’t understand. Why, he could feel the hair on his scalp

moving again at the thought of it! As for this latest warning, the telephone nightmare: whatever else he did, Harry knew he couldn’t afford to ignore
that
one!

This time he locked the patio doors behind him and turned on the single ceiling light. And in the dusty jumble of his so-caled ‘study’, where a plywood packing case stood open in one corner, dribbling straw, and Harry’s handful of ‘worldly goods’ were strewn about willy-nilly, the mere fact that an easy chair still lay on its back where he’d left it in his rush to get out of here, and that the occasional table had been overturned,
and
that the telephone was still purring away to itself, where he’d spiled it onto the floor … these things would hardly seem to mater. They were just part of the general cluter, that’s al. Except that
wasn’t
al, for Harry knew that in fact they were the debris of his dream. Especialy the telephone.

He picked the ‘phone and cradle up and went to replace the receiver -and paused. What if it were to ring?

But how could it ring? No one knew his number, or next to no one. He hadn’t been up here long enough, and his name wasn’t even in the telephone book; and in any case, he’d asked for his number to be listed, ex-directory. B.J. had it, yes (though for his life he couldn’t think why he’d given it to her). But what the heck, she was just an innocent - if strong-headed, even wrong-headed? - young woman anyway. But fascinating, in a way.

And then there was E-Branch …

Was that it? Was he scared of geting a cal from E-Branch, frightened of learning something that he realy didn’t want to know? Such as the death of his wife, or his child, or both? Or maybe being caled in on something he couldn’t ignore? For the fact was, that as part of the country’s security services, the Branch had its own Dirty Tricks Department. And if they realy needed him … he knew they wouldn’t think twice.

Was
that it? That his dream had been symbolic, coloured by his recent experiences in London? That would explain this wolf fetish he seemed to be developing, which had combined with the warning to produce his nightmare. So it still remained his best bet that this was some sort of leftover of Alec Kyle’s talent. He
was
seeing something of the future; he
had
been warned about receiving a cal, most probably from E-Branch, that would prove to be dangerous; he
must
protect himself against it.

Wel, that was easy. And more determined now, he placed the ‘phone in its cradle and dialed the operator. But even so, and while he waited for her to answer, still he sweated and glanced al about the room. Until finaly:

‘This is the operator. How can I help you?’

‘I want to change my number, to ex-directory,’ he said.

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And after she’d checked: ‘But your number’s already listed, sir. It
is
ex-directory.’

‘I want to change it anyway.’

‘Fine. I’ll put you through to the service you require … ”

It was as simple as that. As for Bonnie Jean … he could always give her his new number, if the need should arise.

And then, generally feeling a lot better, the Necroscope shaved, tidied up his study, finished the unpacking that he’d started a month ago, and made himself an evening meal … And thought about Brenda and his baby son, of course.

The way he worried about them, he could have set off right there and then, heading off aimlessly into the Mobius Continuum on some wild-goose chase that might easily last him the rest of his life. A wild-goose chase? Now why had he thought that? But of course he knew why: because his son had powers the equal of his own, and if he didn’t want to be found, then Harry didn’t stand much chance of finding him. His one trump card was that he knew more about the world and its ways; he was experienced as only an adult who has lived (and died?) can be experienced. While the baby … was a baby.

But in any case he wouldn’t be going anywhere for, oh, at least three weeks? … He would need that long to work
out his plan of campaign, surely? … And meanwhile he would stay here, warm and comfortable despite all the bad
weather, safe in this big old house.

Harry shook his head and frowned. God, he was starting to think like his mother! Starting to worry about himself - promising to see a doctor and such! But, three whole weeks to plan some kind of search campaign? He shrugged, blinked watery eyes, rubbed at his sore throat.
And
the mental fluff was back, right there where his brain should be. So much for a rapid recovery!

As for geting a plan together: if three weeks was what it took, then that’s what it would get. Al he had to work out now was what to put
in
it!

But his throat was
so
sore! And his eyes: hot, and itchy as hel … probably through sleeplessness, or a night spent in a drunken stupor, tossing and turning on Bonnie Jean’s lounger. At which he remembered her wine. It had been on the table—

—And was now on the floor, having skitered against the skirting board under a bookshelf when he’d knocked everything flying. He went scrambling for it without realizing how desperately he needed it, trying to convince himself that it might be just the ticket, just what the doctor ordered. Its warm, resin-laden, sleep-inducing glow, al ruby-red and swirly-deep in his glass. It would ease his throat, for sure.

A sip, that’s al. Just this one smal glass. After al, it wasn’t
his
addiction he was pandering to, but Alec Kyle’s. Except this time it realy was for curative or medicinal purposes. He was just
so
tired! Damned if

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he didn’t intend to get a good night’s sleep tonight, at least! And doubly damned if he did, too …

Two and a half weeks later, when B.J. could no longer resist it, and when she had decided that she couldn’t afford to wait any longer, she did try to call the Necroscope - only to discover that he had given her the wrong number! But she knew he couldn’t possibly have done it deliberately. Checking with the switchboard, she then found that he’d changed his ex-directory number. But since she’d given him no instructions to the contrary, why shouldn’t he? She had simply failed to consider the possibility that he
might
do such a thing, that was all.

But all was not lost. He
had
been ordered to stay in touch with her, and B.J. knew he would and even when he would: just a few days before the full moon, Harry would contact her. He had damn well
better!
And meanwhile she had decided to do a little searching of her own, for him. For in the glaring light of the possibility that he might be more than a mere mystery man and in fact
the
Mysterious One—

—Harry Keogh had become very important to her. So important that perhaps it was time B.J. took a short ‘holiday.’

She had already closed the bar down and split her five girls into two teams: one pair of girls searching for Harry locally, and the second team staking-out the wine bar in its immediate vicinity to see if they could sight this watcher Harry had warned her about and discover his business with her. Which left B.J. herself and one other girl. Well, now she had somewhere to go, with or without Harry Keogh, and couldn’t risk being followed. And she knew exactly how to employ the last of her girls …

In the wee small hours of a wet and windy Sunday morning some four days before B.J. was due to hear her Master’s call, she headed north. She felt sure that once she’d explained why she was early, Radu would understand her zeal in this respect.

She drove a hired car, a cheap, old, reliable but unspectacular model that wasn’t likely to attract unwanted attention.

Even so, she wouldn’t drive it directly from the bar but took a taxi to the home of one of her girls who had picked the car up for her. The girl lived in a northern district of the city.

It was a well-timed operation: Bonnie Jean left the taxi and paid the driver, got into the hired car and drove it away.

And in the mirror she saw the girl - one of her ‘lieutenants’ - following close behind in her own car. The girl wasn’t just acting as a decoy; she would
become
a physical obstruction if B.J. should be followed. She would simply put herself and her vehicle in the way of the pursuer! But it was 2 a.m. and the weather was bad, and with the precautions B.J. had taken, she didn’t think it likely that she’d be tailed.