Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (19 page)

Well, and maybe she was right.

Staring was causing his right eye to jump, both eyes to water. It was the poor light. Harry willed his left hand to move, stretched it out, pulled the cord that closed the window shutters—to shut out a little more of the faint, greeny-grey light. That left the room in near-darkness—thin dim green stripes on a black velvet background. And that was what she’d been waiting for.

Now she moved forward, olive-fleshed. She must be wearing stockings; a T-shirt, too, rolled up to show her navel. Sexy, dismembered by darkness, her thighs, belly and navel floated towards him, hips moving languidly, green-striped. She got onto the bed, kneeling, her thighs opening, and inched forward. The dark cleft was visible in her bush of pubic hair. She was so silent. And so light. The bed did not sink in where she crept towards him. Harry wondered:
how does she do that?

She began to lower herself onto him—slowly, so slowly—the dark cleft widening as her body settled to its target. He arched his back, straining up towards her … but why couldn’t he feel her knees gripping his hips? Why was she so weightless?

Then, suddenly and without warning, his flesh was crawling. Lust fled him in a moment. For somehow—instinctively, intuitively—he knew that this was not Sandra. And worse, he knew that he couldn’t rightly say
what
it was!

His left hand fumblingly found the light cord, pulled it.

Light flooded the room blindingly.

At the same time the cleft in her bush of pubic hair sprang open like a mechanical thing. White-gleaming, yawning jaws of salivating needle teeth set in bulging, obscenely glistening pink gums shot down from the gaping lips to snap shut on him in a vice of shearing agony!

Harry screamed, rammed himself backwards in his bed, banged his head savagely on the headboard. Galvanized, his hands stabbed out, striking murderously for a face, a throat—striking instinctively at features … which weren’t there!

Above the navel, nothing! And below the upper thighs, nothing!

She—it—was a lower abdomen, a disembodied vagina with cannibal teeth which were chomping on him! And his blood hot and red and spurting as the thing feasted on his genitals and munched them up like so much slop.
And a crimson eye that snapped suddenly open, glaring at Harry from the orbit which he had mistaken for a navel!

“And that’s it, Harry?” Dr. David Bettley, an E-Branch empath retired early for the sake of his shaky heart, gazed at his visitor from beneath half-lowered, bushy eyebrows.

“Isn’t it enough?” the other answered, with some animation. “Christ, it was enough for me! It scared the living daylights out of me. Yes, even out of me! I mean, don’t think I’m bragging but that’s no easy thing to do. It’s just that this damn dream was so … so real! We all have nightmares, but this one …”He shook his head, gave an involuntary shudder.

“Yes, I can see how badly it affected you,” said Bettley, concernedly. “But when I say “that’s it”, it isn’t to make light of your experience. I’m simply asking, was there any more?”

“No,” Harry shook his head, “for that’s when I
actually
came awake. But if you mean more reaction to it? You’d better believe there was! Look, I was weak as a kitten. I’m sure I was in shock. I felt physically sick, almost threw up. Also, I emptied my bowels—and I’m not ashamed to admit that I only just made it to the toilet! I don’t mean to be crude, but that dream literally scared the shit out of me!” He paused, slumped back in his chair and lost a little of his animation. He looked tired, Bettley thought.

But eventually he struggled upright again and continued. “Afterwards … I prowled the house with all the lights blazing, with a meat cleaver in my hand. I searched for the thing everywhere. For an hour, two, until full daylight. And most of that time I was shaking like a leaf. It was only when I’d stopped shaking that I finally convinced myself it was a dream.” He suddenly laughed, but his laughter was shaky even now. “Hey!—I nearly called the police. Can you picture that? I mean, you’re a psychiatrist, but how do you think they’d have taken my story, eh? Maybe I’d have been in to see you a day or two earlier!”

Dr. Bettley steepled his fingers and stared deep into the other’s eyes. Harry Keogh was maybe forty-three or -four (his body, anyway) but looked five years younger. Except Bettley knew that his mind was in fact five years younger again! It was a weird business dealing with—even looking at—a man like Harry Keogh. For Bettley had known this face and body before, when it belonged to Alec Kyle.

The doctor shook his head and blinked, then deliberately avoided Harry’s eyes. It was just that sometimes they could be so very soulful, those eyes of his.

As for the rest of him:

Harry’s body had been well-fleshed, maybe even a little overweight, once. With its height, however, that hadn’t mattered a great deal. Not to Alec Kyle, whose job with E-Branch had been in large part sedentary. But it had mattered to Harry. After that business at the Chateau Bronnitsy—his metempsychosis—he’d trained his new body down, got it to a peak of perfection. Or at least done as best he could with it, considering its age. That’s why it looked only thirty-seven or -eight years old. But better still if it was only thirty-two, like the mind inside it. A very confusing business, and the doctor shook his head and blinked again.

“So what do you make of it?” Keogh asked. “Could it be part of my problem?”

“Your problem?” Bettley repeated him. “Oh, I’m sure it is. I’m sure it could only be part of your problem—unless of course you haven’t put me fully in the picture.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“About your feelings towards Sandra. You’ve mentioned a certain ambivalence, a lack of desire, even a slackening of potency. It could be that you’re taking your loss out on her—mentally, inside your head—blaming her for the fact that you’re no longer …” He paused.

“A Necroscope?” Harry prompted.

“Possibly,” Bettley shrugged. “But … on the other hand you also seem ambivalent towards your loss. I have to tell you that sometimes I get the feeling you’re glad it’s gone, glad you can no longer talk to … to …”

“To the dead,” said Harry, sourly. And: “Well, you’re half-right. Sometimes it’s good to be just normal, ordinary. Let’s face it, most people would consider me a freak, even a monster. So you’re half-right. But you’re also half-wrong.” He lay back in the chair again, closed his eyes and stroked his brow.

Bettley went back to studying him.

Grey streaks, so evenly spaced as to seem deliberately designed or affected, were plentiful in Harry’s russet-brown, naturally wavy hair. It wouldn’t be too many years before the grey overtook the brown; even now it loaned him a certain erudite appearance, gave him the look of a scholar. Ah, but in what strange and esoteric subjects? And yet Harry wasn’t like that at all. What, a black magician? A 20th-century wizard? A necromancer? No, just a Necroscope, a man who talked to the dead—or used to.

Of course, he had other talents, too. Bettley looked at him sitting there, so tired-looking, his hand to his brow. The
places
this man had been! The
means
he’d used to go there, and to return. What other man had ever used an obscure mathematical concept as a … a spaceship, or a time-machine?

Harry opened his eyes and caught Bettley staring at him. He said nothing, merely stared back. That’s what he was here for: to be stared at, to be examined. And Bettley was good at his job, and discreet. Everybody said so. He had many admirable qualities. Must have, else INTESP would never have taken him on. And again Harry wondered:
is he still working for them?
Not that it would matter a great deal, for Bettley was easy to talk to. It was just that Harry so hated subterfuge.

The doctor continued to stare into Harry’s eyes. They were soulful as ever, and somehow defensive; but at the same time it seemed that Harry needed this close contact. Honey-brown, those eyes; very wide, very intelligent, and (strange beyond words) very innocent! Genuinely innocent, Bettley knew. Harry Keogh had not asked to be what he was, or to be called upon to do the things he’d done.

Bettley forced himself back to the job in hand. “So I’m half-wrong,” he said. “You would like your talents back, to be a “freak” again—your words, Harry. But what will you do with those talents if they do return to you? How will you use them?”

Harry gave a wry smile. His teeth were good and strong, not quite white, a little uneven; they were set in a mouth which was usually sensitive but could tighten, becoming caustic and even cruel. Or perhaps not so much cruel as unyielding, single-minded.

“You know, I scarcely knew my mother,” he dreamily answered. “I was too young, just a baby, when she died. But I got to know her … later. And I miss her. A boy’s best friend is his mum, you know? And … well, I have a lot of friends down there.”

“In the ground?”

“Yes. Hell, we had some good conversations!”

Bettley almost shuddered, fought it down. “You miss talking to them?”

“They had their problems, wanted to air their views, wondered how things had gone in the world of the living. Some of them worried a lot, about people they’d left behind. I was able to reassure them. But most were merely lonely. Merely! But I knew what it was like for them. I could feel it. It was hell to be that lonely. They needed me; I was somebody to them; and I suppose I miss them needing me.”

“But none of this explains your dream,” the doctor mused. “Maybe it has no explanation—except fear. You’ve lost your friends, your skills, those parts of yourself that made you unique. And now you’re afraid of losing your manhood.”

Harry narrowed his eyes a little and began to pay more attention; he looked at Bettley more piercingly. “Explain.”

“But isn’t it obvious? A disembodied female Thing—a dead thing, a vampire thing—devours your core, the parts of you that make you a man. She was Fear,
your
fear, pure but not so simple. Her vampire nature was straight out of your own past experience. You don’t like being normal and the more you have to endure it the more afraid of it you get to be. It’s all tied up to your past, Harry: it’s all the things you’ve lost until you’re afraid of losing anything else. You lost your mother when you were a child, lost your own wife and child in an unreachable place, lost so many friends and even your own body! And finally you’ve lost your talents. No more Möbius Continuum, no more talking to the dead, no more Necroscope …”

Harry was frowning now. “What you said about vampires made me remember something,” he said. “Several things, in fact.” He went back to rubbing his brow.

“Go on,” Bettley prompted him.

“I have to start some way back,” Harry continued, “when I was a kid at Harden Modern Boys. That’s a school. I was a Necroscope even then, but it wasn’t something I much liked. It used to make me dizzy, sick even. I mean it came naturally to me, but I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was very unnatural. But even before that I used to … well, see things.”

Bettley was an empath; now he felt something of what Harry felt and the short hairs began to rise at the back of his neck. This was going to be important. He glanced down at a button on his side of the desk: it was still red, the tape was still running. “What sort of things?” he asked, hiding his eagerness.

“I was an infant when my stepfather killed my mother,” the other answered. “I wasn’t on the scene, and even if I had been I wasn’t old enough for it to impress me. I couldn’t possibly have understood what was happening, and almost certainly I wouldn’t have remembered it. And I couldn’t have reconstructed it later from overheard conversations because Shukshin’s account of the “accident” had been accepted. There was no question of his having murdered her—except from me. It was a nightmare I used to have: of him holding her there under the ice, until she drifted away. And I saw the ring on his finger: a cat’s-eye set in a thick gold band. It came off when he drowned her and sank to the bottom of the river, and fifteen years later I knew where to go back and dive for it.”

Bettley felt a tingling in his spine. “But you were a Necroscope—
the
Necroscope—and read it out of your dead mother’s mind. Surely?”

Harry shook his head. “No, because it was a dream I had from a time long before I first consciously talked to the dead. And in it I “remembered” something I couldn’t possibly remember. It was a talent I’d had without even recognizing it. You know my mother was a psychic medium, and her mother, too? Maybe it was something that came down from them. But as my greater talent—as a Necroscope—developed, so this other thing was pushed into the background, got lost.”

“And you think all of this has something to do with this new dream of yours? In what way?”

Harry’s shrug was lighter, no longer defeatist. “You know how when someone goes blind he seems to develop a sixth sense? And people handicapped from birth, how they seem to make up for their deficiencies in other ways?”

“Of course,” the doctor answered. “Some of the greatest musicians the world’s ever seen have been deaf or blind. But what …?” And then he snapped his fingers. “I see! So you think that the loss of your other talents has caused this … this atrophied one to start growing again, is that it?”

“Maybe,” Harry nodded, “maybe. Except I’m not just seeing things from the past any more but from the future. My future. But vaguely, unformed except as nightmares.”

It was Bettley’s turn to frown. “A precog, is that what you think you’re becoming? But what has this to do with vampires, Harry?”

“It was my dream,” the other answered. “Something I’d forgotten, or hadn’t wanted to remember, until you brought it back to me. But now I remember it clearly. I can
see
it clearly.”

“Go on.”

“It’s just a little thing,” Harry shrugged again, perhaps defensively.

“But best if we have it out in the open, right?” Bettley spoke quietly, clearing the way for Harry without openly urging him on.

“Perhaps.” And in a sudden rush of words: “I saw red threads! The scarlet life-threads of vampires!”

“In your dream?” Bettley shivered as gooseflesh crept on his back and forearms. “Where in your dream?”