Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer (12 page)

Late to bed, the Necroscope Harry Keogh had tossed and turned, sleeping only poorly after Bonnie Jean, vexed at how he’d gone off like that last night without a word of explanation, refused his advances between the sheets. It was only a fit of pique—of which B.J. was as capable as any other woman—and forgotten by the time Harry came awake and found himself forgiven, sucked into her where she kneeled astride him with her breasts tossing within easy reach. But later, when he was up and about, helping with tidying the bar, he blamed his unusual irritability on the fact that she’d rejected him in the night’s wee small hours.

Sex was and always had been important to the Necroscope. He was wont to excuse his lustful nature by telling himself it was how he coped with a very different kind of intercourse; for by regular use of this most basic human act, balancing it against his unique ability to converse with the dead, Harry could show himself to be very much alive. The French called love-making—the actual moment of ejaculation—the Little Death, but Harry had always thought of it as the Big Alive! To him it was cathartic, purifying in its insistence that
this
was the real life while his contact with the teeming dead was something else. In short, the sex act assisted in separating, distinguishing, and making acceptable his involvement in two very disparate worlds.

He knew, however, that this was only an excuse, that there was a reason for his irritability other than B.J.’s intransigence in bed last night. It was that his usually accurate intuition in the face of danger would seem to have failed him. For he had actually
felt
the immanence of something—he’d
sensed
it like the tangible heaviness of a gathering storm—and had known it was coming…which it hadn’t!

At least, not yet.

Harry supposed he should be relieved that indeed it had not come; but he had been prepared, and now felt off balance. There was a vampire in town, a plague-bearing monster, and last night the atmosphere had seemed tainted with its presence, its threat to B.J., her girls, even Harry himself. Yet this morning, after he had insisted that Bonnie Jean call each of her moon-children individually, all of them—with the exception of Zahanine, who had slept in a small downstairs back room overnight in order to be in early and assist with the cleaning—had been found to be fit and well, safe and sound.

And
then
B.J. had wanted to know why Harry was so concerned when to her knowledge nothing had changed since she’d spoken to him about the possible danger…and furthermore, where had he been last night that he’d stayed out so very late? And what was troubling him now?—for she could sense how irascible he was—and so on.

To which Harry had answered that nothing was troubling him, not really. Maybe it was simply because he’d slept so badly; he was sorry if he seemed a grouch; he would be okay once he’d had a second mug of coffee. As for last night: He had just wanted a little fresh air, and while walking the streets he’d lost track of time.

All of which had apparently, at least temporarily satisfied B.J., and the Necroscope had settled down in an easy chair with a coffee and the morning papers, which he’d scrutinized down to the last dot and dash. He was seeking further information about the murders—especially the results of the post mortem on that poor girl—but was disappointed. There was nothing there, not even a mention. When Harry thought about it, however, it wasn’t hard to see why not. If the Porton Down team had released their findings to the press, then at the very least there would have been alarm and despondency among the populace, and at the worst panic in the red-light districts and on the streets.

Harry decided to contact E-Branch again, this time speak to Darcy Clarke himself, but he couldn’t do that from the wine bar without Bonnie Jean knowing about it—or
wanting
to know about it; which meant it was time he took another walk. This time she made no fuss: it was a sunny mid-morning after all, meaning it was perfectly safe to be out and about.

Fifteen minutes from the wine bar he found a recessed shop doorway and stepped in…and instantly out again in the front room of his dilapidated old house outside the city—

—Where the phone in its cradle was already ringing! Synchronicity indeed, for it was Darcy Clarke at the other end of the line:

“Harry? Is that you? I mean, of course it is! But I’ve been trying to get you since eight, maybe nine o’clock this morning. I was just about to put the phone down.”

The Necroscope nodded if only to himself, and said, “I know why you’re calling. You’ve been speaking with Fred Madison, and maybe to Porton Down, right?”

For several moments there was silence, and then Darcy said, “Harry, do we need to have people up there in Edinburgh? Do you need our help? I can have a team up there in an hour if necessary. A locator, empath, whatever’s required. I suppose what I’m asking: Do you
know
what’s required? What’s going on, Harry?”

At which Bonnie Jean’s post-hypnotic commands at once surfaced, leaving the Necroscope stuck for an immediate answer. For the last thing he wanted was E-Branch involvement in Edinburgh! Locators, empaths—psychics in general—up here? No way! Out of the question!

Harry knew that B.J. and the girls
as individuals
were unusual in that their presence created only very small swirls in the psychic aether—knew that their moon-child nature caused little more than a trace of the telepathic phenomenon known by E-Branch’s mentalists as mindsmog—but gathered together as a group in B.J.’s bar, and with espers in close proximity: There would be no escaping the consequences of that! Their immundane signatures would be written clearly on the normally transparent metaphysical void. And:

“No!” he barked, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“No?” said Darcy, sounding puzzled. “Are you okay, Harry?”

The Necroscope coughed to cover his initial knee-jerk reaction, and said, “Excuse me, Darcy, but I’ve got a bit of a frog in my throat.” And after coughing again, as if to clear the imaginary blockage, he went on: “But did you ask me what’s going on? Well, that’s what I was going to ask you! Have you learned anything else from the Porton Down people? What’s their conclusion—that’s assuming they have one?”

For a moment there was no answer. Then, still sounding just a little concerned, Darcy said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, of course—” Harry answered “—well, with the usual caveats, if that’s the right word. But what the hell?—are
you
okay, Darcy? Oh, and by the way: good morning to you, too!”

This sounded more like it: the Necroscope in an assertive, more confident mode, and Darcy’s voice at once lost its worried tone. “Quite right, too,” he said. “Good morning—and I’m just fine, thanks. With the usual caveats. But you know, Harry, even though it’s been a while since we had reason to talk, with shit as ugly as this happening it doesn’t leave much time for life’s little niceties, now does it?”

“And just how ugly is this shit?” said Harry.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I’m hoping—or maybe not—that you’ll corroborate what I
do
know, and what I more than suspect.”

And Darcy said: “I understand: It’s ‘you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine’ time, right?”

“Something like that,” said Harry.

“Okay,” said Darcy—fully aware that in the current situation the Necroscope had to be the first best man in the world to whom he should talk—“this is what we’ve got:

“That first girl they were working on: those poisons they found in her—which is to say those
synthetic diseases
—well that seemed nasty, ugly enough; but there’s a footnote. Harry, she’d been bitten on the neck, the jugular, and she was anaemic, missing three or four pints of blood! So then…isn’t it true that not so long ago those last two facts, if not all the facts, would have rammed this case right up your, er—?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Right up my, er, alley. And whether or not I like it, that’s still very true.”

“Obviously, because last night, when all this was breaking, you gave
us
a call! A rare event, which in happier times would have been welcome and much to our liking. But as for right now—well, there you go—I’ve shown you mine and now it’s your turn…”

“Hold on a minute,” the Necroscope replied. “You mentioned a
first
girl, so I take it you know about the second girl: the one whose roasted remains were recovered from a burning flat?”

He could sense the other’s nod as Darcy said: “I was about to get to that. They’re still working on her, but for now it’s looking pretty much like the same sort of thing.”

“And pretty much as I suspected,” said Harry.

“So you
are
on this, then?” said Darcy, his tone making it not so much a question as a matter of fact. And without waiting for an answer: “Of course, at the moment this is all very hush-hush, but we aren’t simply sitting on it. I mean, you’ll appreciate that we
can’t
just sit on something like this!”

Harry was at once alarmed, for B.J.’s sake, but he controlled his surging anxiety and said, “So, what are you doing about it? And whatever that is, I’m hoping it doesn’t mean you’ll be stepping on
my
toes…does it?”

“Harry, that will have to depend on what you might be about to tell me. But anyway, first let me bring you right up to date with what’s happening here at the HQ. For the last half hour or so I’ve had some of our best people working on it: our locator, David Chung, empaths, the usual team. But while the actual location is proving difficult, in fact impossible to pin down, the consensus is that there’s mindsmog in Edinburgh. It’s faint, so faint that it’s almost undetectable, and if not for these dead girls turning up—and then Porton Down being on the ball, getting in on it—it’s possible we wouldn’t even have noticed it. But now that it’s come to our attention we know it’s definitely there, and that it’s mobile, and that’s about it. The only good thing about all this—probably—is that you’re up there and that you are what you are.” Darcy paused for a moment, thinking things through, then went on:

“So, since you’re interested in what’s going on—maybe to the point of dealing with it?—I find myself of two minds. Do I take a back seat, stay in touch with you, and watch what goes down? Or should I send my team up there so that we can work together on this?”

The Necroscope’s anxiety immediately resurfaced, and again he managed to control it. Then, thinking very quickly, he said: “Darcy, since calling the HQ last night I’ve got much closer to this thing. I think I can probably deal with it but I need some space. And don’t get too hung up on this mindsmog thing. Please remember that ‘being what I am,’”—he paraphrased what Darcy had said of him a moment ago—“I sometimes have cause to use mindsmog myself. Which is to say I shield my thoughts, deliberately obscuring my psychic and telepathic presence. And if I’m going to deal with this it’s a sure thing I’ll be doing some of that between now and…and whatever is the outcome. It could get very confusing for everyone if your espers were to get me mixed up with whatever else is out there. Moreover, I’m aware of several entirely innocent ‘talents’ in my neck of the woods whose psychic signatures would only add to the confusion…”

As Harry paused, Darcy said: “So what you’re saying—?”

“—Is leave it to me,” Harry answered. “You can tell Chung by all means keep his eye on things, his mind on me, but not to worry about anything else. And he should only
start
worrying if or when I…well, if I were to disappear off his screen.”

“Huh!”
Darcy snorted involuntarily, then said, “You mean if you were to get yourself killed, don’t you!?”

“Hell, no!” the Necroscope instantly replied. “It was just a thought, that’s all. No, death is an issue I’ll do my damnedest to avoid, probably even more so than other men. Because as you may recall, Darcy, I was there once before—and I didn’t much like it…”

The call came just after midday, by which time Harry had been back at B.J.’s for a little over an hour. The day was warm and dry, and the throats of a handful of locals taking their lunch hour break similarly parched, and Bonnie Jean was busy serving drinks with Zahanine while being “chatted up” by their customers. The Necroscope couldn’t help but smile to himself, albeit wryly, as he wondered just how eagerly these drinkers would be attempting their various seductions if they knew who precisely they were targeting. It was a thought which—coming from way down deep inside—was at once set aside, forgotten, as B.J.’s post-hypnotic precept came into force, leaving Harry wondering where on earth his mind had been just then!

At which time, as he cleared away and washed empty glasses, the call came.

B.J. picked up the telephone in the bar, spoke enquiringly, frowned and turned to Harry. “It’s someone who wishes tae speak tae yeresel’. One o’ yere London friends, perhaps?”

And Harry thought:
It could be Darcy at that; perhaps with more news from the Porton Down boffins.
And so:

“It’s too busy down here,” he told her. “Okay if I take it upstairs?”

“Aye,” B.J. answered him, lifting an eyebrow. “Why not? Go on—be just as mysterious as ye like!”