Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (60 page)

Ful moon, aye, in just a few days’ time. B.J. could even feel it, tugging at her mind. But these sudden complications in what were once long-established, uninterrupted routines. Harry Keogh; and Radu’s -what, churlishness? - his impatience, anyway; the changes taking place within herself, of which she was ever more aware. And the unknown watcher, this Drakul or Ferenczy thral. And al of it weighing on B.J. ‘s shoulders.

Upon a time, no problem. She could have dealt with al of this and much more. She
had
dealt with many problems, down the decades. But her system, thought processes, mutating emotions, were badly out of kilter. And even if Radu hadn’t detected it - even though he might deny it - still B.J.
knew
what was happening to her. But she, too, must deny it … or deny him! And after al this time, that last was unthinkable.

312

Brian Lumley

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She wasn’t giving her best concentration to the road, her driving; her hands were too loose, or occasionally too vicious, on the wheel; her speed was too great for the bends and uneven camber. When the front offside tyre blew it was as much as she could do to hit the brakes before the car skidded off the road, smashed through a fence, nose-dived down a grassy decline, and slammed to a halt in the pebbles of a sluggish beck.

On impact, B.J.’s head snapped forward, banged down hard on the centre of the steering column -

— And for quite some time that was all…

So
maybe Radu was right after all. For would a little knock like that have put a true Lady of the Wamphyri to sleep?
Even as B.J.

realized that the thought was her own, she felt a hand fumbling on her shoulder through the shattered mess of the driver’s window.

And as the hand went round her neck, seeking her pulse, she wrenched herself free and snarled,
‘What?’
And then, in a more reasonable, even a pained voice - feeling the aching in her neck and head, and turning the latter to squint into the early morning light

- ‘W-what?’ It had to be six or six-thirty in the morning. She must have been out for hours!

A policeman stood beside the car, ankle-deep in the cold water of the beck. His face was full of concern. ‘Dinna try to move, miss,’ he told her. ‘We’re calling help right now. Ye’ll be out o’ there in no time.’

He was right, and sooner than he thought! ‘I’m … okay,’ B.J. said, unfastening her seatbelt and wrenching at the handle of the door, which at once sprang open. ‘I’m all right. Just a bit shaken, that’s all.’

There were two of them, the second one leaving his vehicle to come scrambling down the bank. They assisted her back up to the road and into their police car. ‘How long were ye there? We would’nae hae known if not for the broken fence. We’ll take ye into town for a check-up,’ the driver glanced back at her. ‘That bruise of yours—’

‘—Is just a bruise,’ she told him, then smiled. ‘Look, the last thing I need is a check-up. I’m fine. As for my car: a tyre burst. But if you really want to be helpful, you can take me on to Perth where I can get a taxi. I’ve an important appointment in Edinburgh, and I’m late already.’

They looked at each other. B.J. dug in a pocket, produced documentation. ‘Details of the car,’ she said. ‘Insurance documents, for your notebooks. I hired the car. You could do me a favour and let them know. It’s their …
junk,
after all! Their problem to recover it. My name and address are on the agreement there if you should need to contact me later.’

One of the officers scratched his head. ‘Ye’re an awfy cool lassy, for someone just out o’ an accident.’

‘Accidents happen!’ B.J. snapped, then bit her lip. ‘Look, I realy am in a hurry. I’m sorry if I appear ungrateful Too late. Her attitude had been all wrong and sorry wasn’t going to put it right.

In the police station in Perth they recorded her statement and had a doctor look at her anyway, if only to cover themselves.

Which meant it was after ten before she could call a taxi and get under way again …

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Il

A PICTURE OF THE MIND, A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE FUTURE

In case her place was under observation, Bonnie Jean rode the taxi to within a quarter mile of ‘B.J. ‘s,’ paid her fare, then walked or was blown the rest of the way. It was a little after midday, raining, and blowing a gale. Buffeted along the slippery pavements, she thought:
The windy fucking city, indeed!

Furious by the time she arrived at the bar - mainly with herself, but also with the way things were or were not working out - she had to call one of her girls down from her bedroom, from where she was
supposed
to be watching the street outside, to let her in!

- ‘Didn’t you see me arrive?’

‘I… I was using your toilet,’ the girl told her.

Two other girls, who were in the vicinity and witnessed B.J. ‘s arrival, reported to her in the bar as she was towelling her hair and trying to dry out.

‘Any luck?’ She glared at them. ‘What of the watcher? Has he been back? And Harry Keogh? Have you found him?’ But seeing the negative look on their faces: ‘Let’s get this place tidied up, sorted out. We open tonight. If we stay closed any longer, it will only attract attention. I’ll make adjustments to your duties as soon as I get the chance.’ And finally, as she made to head upstairs: ‘Any calls?’

‘A few,’ the girl from her bedroom told her. They’re on your answering machine. I didn’t monitor them. You didn’t tell me to . .

B.J. rushed through the bar and up the stairs to her bedroom. There were three calls from regulars wanting to know when the bar would be open again, and two more from someone or ones who said nothing, but the next and last—

—Was from Harry:

‘B.J.?’ (He sounded unsure of himself, tinny, distant). ‘I said I would call you before I went off. So, I’m calling. Tried to get you twice already

- nothing doing. Too early, I suppose. Sorry about that. So, I’ll be away

maybe a month, I’m not sure. About a month, yes. I don’t know why I’m bothering you, really. That’s it, then … ” But after a long pause:

‘Oh, and by the way, that Greek wine of yours is … good stuff? Well, let’s say it’s an “acquired taste,” eh? But a damn good way to get to sleep nights, when your mind just can’t stop ticking over! Know what I mean? No, I don’t suppose you do …’

(Another pause, then):

Til be in touch … ” And. again a long silence before the ‘phone went dead.

And: ‘Damn!’ B.J. said under her breath, expelling all of her air in a heavy sigh before taking her first deep breath for what seemed like the first time that day.

She breathed in … and held it. Now what in all—?

Aftershave? Old Spice? Harry’s aftershave? It must be. But lingering on, all this time since he’d been here? Except…

he hadn’t been here, not ‘up’ here, not in her bedroom! Or was it just his voice that had set it off? But damn it all, she could
smell
him -
him,
and not just his aftershave! He was
that
real, that vivid, tantalizing, in her mind … And in her room?

B.J.’s eyes were suddenly feral in the gloomy quiet of her room, with the curtains drawn and the rain pattering on the window panes. Her nostrils gaped; she turned her head sharply this way and that! She sniffed, as she tracked the essence of a man, his scent, his odour. But
here,
in her bedroom … where he had never been.

Oh, really?

She flew down one flight to her living-room. Nothing! His scent wasn’t here - or if it was, it was just the merest trace.

He may have been here, but he hadn’t lingered here. He’d gone … up to her bedroom!

She bounded back up the stairs. And there it was again … like a familiar perfume, hanging on the air. His scent, and the sweet human smell of her girl. Hers, and his.

B.J. called for her, screamed for her, down the stairwell. ‘Moreen! Come up here! Come
now!’

She came, looking confused, frightened, astonished. B.J. took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘He was here! He was here - with you!’

‘He what? Who?’ Moreen was a stunning redhead, twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Her green eyes were wide, amazed, disbelieving. Finally she broke free. ‘B.J., no one was here. Not while I was here, anyway!’ And she shrank away from the other, especially from her looks. ‘You look like … like a wild thing!’

And B.J. knew that she did, that she was. But at least it was controllable. She pulled herself together, willed the thing hiding within her to subservience, then slumped on her bed. ‘He
was
here,’ she said,

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mainly to herself. ‘Maybe not with you, if you say so. But here, certainly.’

The watcher?’ Moreen was genuinely mystified. ‘You think I would invite—?’

B.J. shook her head. ‘Not the watcher, no. Damn, we don’t even know if the watcher exists, not for sure! I’m just taking Harry Keogh’s word for it.
He’s
the one I’m talking about. Him, Harry Keogh himself, who tossed Big Jimmy about like a sack of coal that night!’

‘The one we’re looking for?’

B.J. bared her teeth. ‘I can smell him, right here.’

Then you’re mistaken.’ The girl tossed her head almost defiantly, and sat down beside the bed on a chair.

B.J. sat up, took hold of Moreen’s shoulders again, more gently this time. ‘Look, this is important. Were you here all the time?’

‘Why, no, of course not. How could I be?’ the other said, and gave a defensive shrug. ‘I mean I had to eat, sleep, attend to various other things. But when it was important to be here, then I was here.’

‘When it was important? When, exactly?’

‘I sat at that window,’ the girl pointed, ‘oh, until two or half-past two each morning, just watching the road outside. And you have no idea how boring that can get to be, B.J. But I did it anyway, for you.’

‘And then you slept? Where, and how long?’

‘Wrapped in a spare blanket, in the barroom beside one of the big radiators.’

‘Downstairs, you’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if someone had got in?’

‘But that’s
why
I slept down there!’ Moreen was close to tears. ‘Any burglar or intruder would have had to get past me. I’m usually a light sleeper and would hear him. But I was up each morning by six-thirty, so as to come up here and check if anyone was watching us in the early mornings - this morning especially … ”

B.J. was quick to catch that one. ‘Why? What was so special about this morning?’

There were two calls. I heard the ‘phone ring before your answer machine took over. I seem to remember checking the time; the first call was, oh, about five-thirty I think, and the second maybe fifteen minutes later. That one woke me up more yet. I tossed and turned a bit, then must have dozed for a few minutes. But about six o’clock, I thought I heard something.’

‘What did you hear?’ B.J. tightened her grip.

‘I heard the boards creak, somewhere up here. But it was windy and raining; it was just the old house protesting.’

B.J. thought about it. Harry could have called from any telephone. A telephone box in the street, even. He’d called twice, got no answer,

given up and come here personally. But how had he got in past Moreen? And more importantly, what did he want? Suddenly the answer was clear in her mind.

As clear as his voice on her answering machine …

‘Go down and help the others,’ she said, standing up. ‘I… I’m sorry I was so excited, sorry I shouted. Things could be working out better, that’s all. You understand?’

The girl looked worried now. ‘B.J., are we in trouble?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ she shook her head. ‘Do as I say, and don’t worry about it.’

But as soon as the girl was gone she turned to her bed, stooped and reached underneath, and drew out a three-by-four cardboard wine crate. There were three bottles of her ‘Greek’ wine sitting neatly in their sockets in the last row. Three, yes. But B.J. knew there should be four!

Oh, she’d weaned him on, all right, this oh-so-talented Harry Keogh, this ‘mysterious’ Mr Keogh! And the longer she knew him the more talented and mysterious he got to be …

It wasn’t quite a month before Harry was back; in fact, it was twenty-five days. And B.J. needn’t have worried about weaning him off her wine - Radu’s wine, actually - for Harry had been doing that, or trying to do it for himself, and fairly successfully. A single shot on a night, before sleeping, was all he’d allowed himself. And he’d tried tempering the stuff with other brews. Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 had been one such: a top-quality liquor whose potency should leave any mere wine standing at the post. But that stuff of B.J.’s was definitely … oh, something else! It was very much to Harry’s taste - or Alec Kyle’s taste, whichever. Its only drawback was what it did to him: his stinging eyes, dry throat, fluffy head; all the symptoms of a heavy cold, for which
it
seemed to be the only cure! There was a word for it: addiction, which Harry realized well enough. It was why he would only take it on a night, and then only one small shot.

Even so, it interfered with his search. Except (as he had come to realize by the end of his three weeks and four days in Seattle, Washington, USA), his ‘search’ was a joke. And a joke that he was playing on himself.

Of course, with the Mobius Continuum at his fingertips - his to command - he hadn’t needed to
stay
in Seattle. He could come and go as he wished; spend every night at home in Bonnyrig if he so desired. But he hadn’t desired.

Truth to tell, the old house where his beloved Ma had died and his murdering black-hearted bastard of a stepfather, Viktor Shukshin, had continued to live - until his past and Harry had caught up with him, at least - was a cheerless sort of place, ominous and full of evil memories.

Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I