Necroscope: The Touch
By Brian Lumley
()
About this ebook
A trio of bloodthirsty aliens have already destroyed one world and most of their own race; now they have their eyes set on earth. Their opponents: the men and woman of E-Branch and a brand-new Necroscope!
Malevolent aliens, the Mordri Three decide to become so evil that God himself will have to stop them. They can alter flesh with a simple touch, literally turning people inside out or seeding them with cancer. The Three have already destroyed an entire solar system and most of their own race. Their next targets: mankind and Earth!
On Earth, Scott St. John is mourning his beloved wife when he is struck by a golden arrow of light—a fragment of the soul of Harry Keogh, the original Necroscope—and gains powers he does not understand. A mysterious, beautiful woman appears, desperately trying to warn Scott about something . . . then vanishes mid-word. Scott dreams of a very unusual Wolf, who begs him—in human speech—for rescue.
A fledgling Necroscope, a telepathic Wolf, a beautiful woman from beyond the stars, the ghost of Harry Keogh, the best of E-Branch's psychic fighting forces, and a dead girl who is not yet ready to seek her just reward must defeat three impossibly strong, psychically gifted monsters whose touch literally melts flesh from bone.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Brian Lumley
Brian Lumley is a Grand Master of Horror and a winner of the British Fantasy Award. His many novels, including Necroscope, have been published in more than thirteen countries around the world. He lives in England with his wife, Barbara Ann.
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Necroscope - Brian Lumley
PROLOGUE
It was a transit hotel, ten minutes off the M25 and twenty from Gatwick Airport. Ideally situated, it was used by air crews and passengers alike as a sojourn and watering hole before, between, and after flights; a busy place usually. But at 4:30 on a misty November morning, normally it would be fairly quiet.
Not now, however, for the crying of a child—its piteous wailing and intermittent shrieking from one of the rooms—had warranted the night security officer’s investigation. Following which, and despite that he was in shock, shaken to his roots by what he’d discovered, he hadn’t been able to get to a telephone quickly enough.
Inspector George Samuels of the Metropolitan Police—twenty-seven years old, seventy inches tall, raven-haired, with large ears, piercing grey eyes, and a small cynical mouth; a man who preferred wearing his uniform to casual civilian
trappings—was referred to caustically by his fellow officers as a highflyer
and something of a whizz kid,
if not in the detection of crime. His father had connections,
and it was an accepted fact that having risen rapidly through the ranks—by what his peers generally considered suspect means or machinations—the young Inspector still wasn’t above blowing the whistle not only on police officers of like or lesser rank but also on his superiors, or taking credit for the work of his juniors, or greasing up to anyone perceived as a possible future rung in the ladder of his ambitions.
As a practical policeman, however, he lacked that certain something and would usually go by The Book
because his hours on the beat had been drastically curtailed by his accelerated promotions. But as anyone who did it the hard way would surely attest, The Book
(notoriously long on chapter and verse) is almost by definition short on experience. For example: blood,
probably the most important aspect of evidence, is referred to objectively and clinically, becoming just another word in The Book.
But as a physical, tactile reality blood is sticky, has a disturbing smell, and is invariably terrifying to victims and observers alike when it pulses in dark crimson spurts from the sliced arteries of warm, shuddering bodies . . .
Tonight the Inspector had tasked himself with visiting
(in fact spying upon) late-shift commanders in various police stations in the city’s suburbs and outlying districts, and had conveyed himself in an unmarked police vehicle as far out from the centre as Reigate, where moments after four-thirty he had entered the local station right on cue, albeit inadvertently, as the call for police assistance came in.
The mobile patrols and standby were already busy, dealing with two traffic accidents and a domestic dispute, and so the Inspector was obliged to cover the incident himself. The scene of the problem, whatever the problem was—about which the Desk Sergeant was uncertain, because according to him the telephone message had been badly garbled by the shocked, babbling, almost inarticulate caller; though Samuels suspected that this lack of pertinent information was more likely due to gross inefficiency on the part of the Desk Sergeant himself—was a transit hotel serving Gatwick Airport from a site only a few minutes away.
Since an ambulance had already been called by someone at the hotel, which seemed to suggest that the unknown problem had resolved itself in all but the business of an actual investigation, Samuels returned to his vehicle, clapped a strobing blue light on its roof, and set off into the night. Should the case turn out to be awkward
—more problematic than he would wish—he could always call in a Scenes of Crime squad to deal with the messy or intricate details. And finally, however it worked out and if there was anything of profit in it, he would ensure that he received all the kudos worth garnering . . .
At the Tangmore Transit Hotel Samuels found the night security man, a sixteen-stone, thirty-something bruiser in a uniform two sizes too small for him, shivering and wringing his hands where he waited under flickering white neons in the hotel’s entrance. That alone—the size and physical presence of the man compared to his state of funk—must surely have alerted most policemen to the likelihood that something was well out of order here . . . but not Samuels, who was checking his white gloves, setting his hat straight, and dusting down his uniform; while wide-eyed and pale as a ghost, the security man introduced himself as Gregory Phipps, and without offering his hand, in something of a hurry, made to usher the Inspector inside.
At which point the blaring klaxon of an ambulance sounded, its lights ceasing to flash and its siren growling into a lower register, then abruptly shutting off as it slewed to a halt at the curb. Two uniformed paramedics got out and threw open doors at the rear of their vehicle. Experienced and proficient, their senior member—a short, mature man with broad shoulders, sharp eyes and features, and a very abrupt manner—wasted no time in addressing the Inspector:
We must be on the same job, sir. So what’s happening?
I’ve only just got here,
Samuels replied. It seems that Mr. Phipps here has called us in to . . . well, to assist in whatever the problem is.
And turning again to Phipps: "So then . . . what is the problem?"
Phipps licked his lips, ushered the three into the almost empty foyer and toward the elevators, and finally said, I got some information from reception late yesterday evenin’. Nothin’ ter cause concern . . . so I thought. It was just that a nervous, ‘arassed-lookin’ bloke ’ad checked in wiv an infant—but wiv no wife or other woman—gone up ter his room, ’adn’t come darn again. This ’ad been a little arter 4:00 P.M.; I didn’t get ter know abart it until ten o’clock just as the girl was goin’ orf shift.
The elevator arrived; the four got in; Phipps’s finger was shaking as he pressed the button for the second floor.
Well then, go on,
said Samuels, examining his immaculate fingernails and adding, before Phipps could continue, Oh, and by the way, I’m of the same opinion as you: that there doesn’t seem to be too much out of the ordinary in what you were told. Surely it isn’t unusual for a man to check in with a child—even an infant—when he could simply be waiting for his wife, a girlfriend, or even a nanny, to arrive from overseas? I mean, he might have been expecting someone off a plane early in the morning. Or he could have made arrangements with a partner to meet up here before catching some outbound flight.
Shrugging, he looked to Phipps for an explanation.
Phipps’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he moistened his throat. Right, but this girl—I mean the receptionist—she’s the observant type, you know? She was worried abart this . . . well, this babe-in-arms, who she said was lookin’ pretty sickly. And no wife or woman on the scene, and nothin’ ’eard from room 213 right through the arternoon and evenin’. So I thought the same as you: bugger all ter worry abart. So I told myself, ‘Greg my lad, don’t you go lookin’ for trouble. If trouble’s in the air, it’ll find you.
And did it?
Samuels asked as the elevator halted with a slight jerk on the second floor.
Not entirely with it—having said his piece and then gone back to his own thoughts—Phipps blinked and said, It?
Trouble.
The Inspector sighed, doing his best to contain his impatience. Did it find you?
Phipps’s Adam’s apple bobbed again. Lord, yers!
he said, gruffly but quietly. Yers it did! Abart ’arf an hour ago, when I figured the kid ’ad been cryin’ long enough and banged on the door ter see what was goin’ on, got no answer and went in—and then called you lot.
Leaving the elevator, he pointed along the corridor with a scarred, big-knuckled hand that was still trembling like a leaf in a gale. And: Room 213, yers.
He nodded, indicating the way while yet holding back. It’s just along ’ere.
Lead the way,
said Samuels, who was only now beginning to feel or experience something of the security man’s anxiety, his trepidation . . . his fear? But a big man like Phipps? A man who could obviously take care of himself, as well as manhandle others? He was all that, yet now someone who seemed unmanned.
The receding string of subdued lights in the corridor’s narrow ceiling were flickering and buzzing; they seemed on the point of shorting out. It could be the same problem Samuels had noticed in the neons at the hotel’s entrance, but it loaned the corridor a surreal, almost alien dynamic where the walls seemed to shift in and out of perspective. It was an eerie strobe-like effect that had the Inspector blinking and feeling confused and dizzy. Moreover, the harsh, oddly wheezing or choked wailing of a child—one who had been crying for quite a long time—was now clearly audible.
The crying got louder as they approached room 213, where Phipps stopped short, handed a duplicate key to the Inspector, and stepped back a pace. That’s it,
he said. This is as far as I goes. It’s . . . it’s all yours now.
He shook his head, as if to deny all responsibility from this time forward.
Inspector Samuels, taking him by the elbow and giving him back the key, said, No, you open it.
But the senior paramedic said, Hang on, sir! Not so fast. First he must tell us what’s in there. We’re completely in the dark here!
Turning on him, Samuels snapped, What? Are you fundamentally deaf or something? Can’t you hear what’s in there? It’s a stressed child. A child in trouble. And—
—And,
Phipps at once cut in, his voice shuddering and almost breaking, there’s a lot more than just a kid in there. But don’t arsk me, ’cos I can’t rightly explain what it is that I saw. And ‘avin’ seen it the once, well that was quite enough, thanks very much. So I’ll just stay out ‘ere if you don’t mind. But as for openin’ ’er up: I should at least be able ter manage that for you, yers.
Reaching out, he turned the key in the lock in the silver metal doorknob, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
Wait!
said the senior paramedic a second time. What do you mean, you can’t explain what’s in there? Is it dangerous?
Dangerous?
Phipps shook his head. No, I don’t think so. Not anymore, if it ever was. But ’orrible? Oh, yers.
Right,
said Samuels with a curt nod. A crime scene. So in we go. But you two,
he spoke to the paramedics, don’t you go touching anything. We may have to call in Scenes of Crime.
And he pushed the door all the way open and stepped through it—into darkness.
The paramedics came close on his heels as the Inspector found the light switch to one side of the door just inside the room. A ceiling light flickered into being, but then continued to flicker, while from the corridor Phipps said, They’ve been like that for a couple of hours now—the lights I mean. Most of the rooms is okay, but it’s really bad in the corridors and just ’ere. Somethin’ must ’ave blown out at the mains. There’s a ’lectrician darn in the cellar right now tryin’ ter find and fix it . . .
His voice tailed into silence.
The main room was L-shaped, with the bathroom on the left and the long leg of the L containing a bed, bedside tables, and a telephone. The infant, a boy no more than fifteen months old, was sitting on the floor with his back to the bed sobbing, but quietly now. He’d filled his diaper and it had leaked onto the floor where crisscross trails told of his wet wanderings. His eyes were sore from crying, his face pink streaked with brown. There was a lot more brown in his hair and on his chubby little body. It looked as if he’d been trying to clean himself up and make himself more comfortable, but had only made things worse. At least he didn’t look ill or sickly, just tired, frightened, and very unhappy.
Samuels turned, shot an accusing glare out of the door at Phipps where he’d backed up against the opposite corridor wall, indicated the child, and asked, Why didn’t you take him out of here?
But the security man only shook his head. Didn’t want to touch anyfing. Reckoned it best to leave fings exactly as they was. Figured you wouldn’t be too long gettin’ ’ere.
And then, with a nod of his head: "You . . . you’ll find it just round the corner there."
Phew!
said the younger paramedic. Like, if that’s just baby shit, well God bless his poor little arse!
I’ll see if I can find a woman to see to the kid,
Phipps said from the corridor, and made to go off. But:
No, you’ll wait right there!
Samuels snapped. And moving along the foot of the bed—avoiding the dark-stained trails and small brown blobs on the carpet—he turned the corner into the short leg of the L. There he saw a writing desk, a glass-topped table, two chairs . . . and something on the floor in the farthest corner of the room.
The light in that sitting room was even worse than in the long L; flickering and buzzing, it made the room a kaleidoscope of changing shapes and shadows. But as the Inspector came to an abrupt halt, then started forward again around the table, closer to the thing slumped in the corner—and as the light flickered yet more violently before steadying up however briefly—Jesus Christ!
he choked the words out.
The paramedics came to flank him. The junior man carried a torch that he shone into the corner. At which Samuels stepped back on legs that were suddenly rubbery, bumped into the table, and croaked, "What the . . . what the hell is that!?"
Down on one knee, the senior paramedic looked closer. It can only be one thing,
he said, gaspingly. And in the light of the torch he stared at but didn’t touch a man-sized, almost man-shaped mass. These are human or large animal remains,
he went on in little more than a whisper. But what in God’s name . . . I mean, what could have done this to him, or it?
Pushing the glass table aside, Samuels forced his legs to move him forward again. But as his flinching gaze followed the torch’s beam where it moved along the length of the—body?—so his lips drew back in an involuntary snarl of horror.
Its upper half was propped against the corner walls where they formed a right angle, while its lower half, lying flat to the floor, radiated raggedly outward. The walls behind it and the carpet beneath it were soaked black, which would be crimson under more normal lighting conditions. Its skeleton of flensed white bones lay partly hidden in or under it while its innards and viscera in general slumped or dangled externally, hanging there like various lengths of sausage or so many red and purple loaves of meat. The pulp of its brain clung to the empty skull.
It . . . it’s a man!
said Samuels, staggering to and fro, and beginning to breathe faster as his gorge rose. It’s a man, and he . . . he . . . he . . .
He’s inside out!
breathed the younger paramedic, beating the Inspector to it. "And look! That pipe thing is moving!"
The pipe thing
he was pointing his torch beam at was in fact a convulsing alimentary canal whose puckered anus suddenly opened, voiding itself in a twenty-inch surge across the carpet. At which the heart—it could only be—started up and throbbed six times with a desperate, pounding beat before fluttering to a standstill as the upper half of the mess toppled and slopped sideways down onto the floor.
Hissing their mutual horror, the paramedics literally flew back away from the impossible thing they had witnessed, and the junior man gasped, That thing—that bloody unnatural fucking mess—it was alive?
Well, if it was,
the other found the strength to answer, there was nothing we could have done for it.
And backing out of the short L, he tripped on something—in fact on the prone, unconscious figure of Inspector Samuels—and almost fell. And regaining his balance, in more ways than one, he said, Get on down to the wagon. Take that security bloke with you and bring back a body bag and a stretcher. I’ll stay here, use the phone to call out a Scenes of Crime crew, and maybe a policewoman to look after the kid. But until they arrive we won’t be touching anything . . . well, except that.
And grunting his displeasure, he nudged Samuels’s sprawled figure with the toe of his boot.
Not much of a cop, was he,
said the younger man, making it less a question than a statement of fact.
He was all wind and piss,
the other agreed. The sooner we stretcher him out of here the better. We can just thank God he’s not typical of the breed.
Out in the corridor, security man Phipps was well pleased to accompany the young paramedic down to the ambulance. And no one noticed that throughout the hotel the lights were all back to normal.
As for the baby boy: he was fast asleep and snoring . . .
1
3:33—Again!
What the hell was it, Scott St. John wondered, about 3:33? And always in the morning. But actually he knew what it was all about, the reason he’d woken up at this time almost every morning for the last three months and three weeks . . . and yet again that bloody number! Three, and sometimes three of them! The top prial in three-card brag—if you were a gambler and incredibly lucky—or the number of a crowd. Or, in Scott St. John’s case, his personal version of 666. And he supposed (no, he knew) that it would always be a completely unnecessary reminder of his own very personal hours, days, and weeks of hell. No, he didn’t need numbers to remind him, because he simply couldn’t forget.
Just for a moment he looked for Kelly on her side of their bed, his bed now. But then again, he always looked for her when he woke up like this . . . even when he woke up unlike this; which is to say, normally. Not that that happened very often, not anymore.
God, he was lonely! He was lonely and lost, and he’d been this way ever since 3:33 A.M. on that terrible Sunday.
Scott’s mind immediately shrank away from the memory; and as an automatic reflex, hurriedly, unashamedly, knowing that he couldn’t succeed, still he tried to smother the memory and cast it out. But despite his best efforts, he knew he would never be able to cast it far enough. It had its hooks in him . . .
He knew he’d been dreaming again, the dream he’d first had beside her hospital bed as she lay dying. And how he had cursed himself afterward, after Kelly’s weak, shrunken little fingers tightened on his, waking him out of one nightmare into another. Cursed himself, yes—in the moment after her fingers slackened off for the last time—because he’d been asleep in his chair, worn out by his three-day vigil. Three: that bloody number! But Kelly had been dosed with painkillers; she wasn’t aware of his presence there; that sudden tightening of her fingers had been an involuntary spasm, a final constriction induced by . . . well, by what?
Perhaps, in her sedated, subconscious mind, she’d noticed Death’s stealthy approach and made one last effort to hang on to something before that grim Old Man stole her away. And feeling the pressure on his fingers, then Scott had woken up. Unthinkably painful now: to know he’d been asleep and hadn’t squeezed back to reassure her. But better Kelly’s tender-seeming, involuntary, unrequited squeeze than a death rattle. Scott had been an eight-year-old boy when his father died, but he could still remember that final, fluttering gurgle of stale, empty air. It would have been monstrously horrific to wake up to another one of those, this time from Kelly, and know that he’d remember it for the rest of his life!
God, you morbid, maudlin bastard! he thought, meaning himself, not God. Not that Scott had much time for God either, not any longer. For after all, what kind of God would let . . .
. . . But no, he mustn’t go there. Not again, and again, and again. Not like he’d been doing. For three months, three weeks, and (he checked his mental calendar) yes, three days! Not only that but three hours and thirty-three minutes, too! Except time had moved on and it was now 3:36.
Scott knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep again, and so got out of bed. It wasn’t unusual; he’d stopped counting the number of times he’d done this when he hit ninety (three times thirty, of course) because he’d suspected that he was only aggravating matters. If he surrendered to it like that, accepting it as his lot, he might have to suffer it forever. But for goodness’ sake, must he blame himself for the rest of his life for being asleep when Kelly died? Would he never, ever get a decent night’s rest again?
And yet it wasn’t only memories of Kelly that caused Scott to start awake. It was also the dream, and the hour of darkness when he dreamed it: a time that had significance other than the moment of her death. He felt quite sure of that without knowing why. But occasionally, and always briefly, he would recall some small detail of the dream, only to have it slip away as soon as he was awake, like a word on the tip of his tongue that refused to come. Not that there was ever anything that might indicate a guilty conscience—nothing particularly frightening or morbid, either—and certainly nothing of the so-called supernatural, which in any case he didn’t believe in. And so, while he blamed himself for failing to maintain his watch as Kelly passed away, Scott was grateful that he couldn’t be censured for the unknown and therefore incurable wasting disease that had taken her from him.
And so his dream—this recurrent yet unremembered dream—wasn’t a guilt thing or even a genuine nightmare. But it was something weird, for sure. Weird enough to do this to him, this waking up at 3:33 thing, anyway.
And even as he mulled it over, there it was yet again, or at least a part of it: like that word on the tip of his tongue, or more properly a scene on the rim of his mind:
A splinter or shaft of light—a dart of golden light, yes—speeding through a dark place, the darkest place imaginable, toward . . . what? Was that a face? A clock face, maybe? A clock showing 3:33, just hanging there in a dark void? Or could it be a dart-board, with the dart speeding home to (what else but) the triple three? Ah, but then, in another moment, the dart slowing down—swerving to and fro, this way and that, oddly curious—before finally directing itself toward Scott. Seeking him out, yes, and sentient!
Scott twitched involuntarily, started, and broke the spell. And as quickly as it had come the memory slipped from his mind, leaving him frowning, frustrated, and asking himself, as he had asked so many times before: Now what the hell is this? A total breakdown of my short-term memory, or what?
Or was it just that he was still half asleep?
He went into the bathroom, put the light on, stared at his face, all haggard in the mirror. Running the cold water tap, he splashed himself more surely awake, then watched the water drip from his chin into the bowl. And: Lord, what a mess! he thought. Scott, my lad, you’re one totally fucked-up mess! You should see a counsellor or a shrink; or, since you never believed in such, you should do it yourself: simply pull yourself together and go back to work while there’s still a job waiting for you.
Well, if the job was still waiting for him . . .
The local newsagent opened up at 5:45, so Scott must do without cigarettes until then. Good, because lately he had been smoking far too many. Accepting and yet despising his addiction, it had become a trick of his to string a pack out through the evening, so that he smoked his last one before going to bed. Which meant he couldn’t smoke in the morning until he could buy more. Which also meant that he could usually be seen walking the streets at all kinds of ridiculous hours—like now.
He must look like a bum, he thought: bleary-eyed, unwashed and unshaven, his collar turned up and his hands thrust deep in his overcoat pockets, trudging through a North London shopping district, with pages from yesterday’s newspapers flapping down the wind tunnel of dreary-looking facades. Worse still, he felt like a bum, or what he imagined bums felt like. Self-pity? Well, probably. But he hadn’t turned to drink yet. Not yet, anyway.
The dawn chorus had started up just as he’d left his house in a pleasant residential area maybe half a mile farther north. There were trees, shrubs, and tall hedges there, where the birds had built their nests in March and raised their young in April. The newcomers, full grown now, were as active as the young of whatever species; always first awake, they were ever hungry. Scott’s house (just his now) had luxuriant ivy clinging to the front wall as high as the upper windows. Several house sparrow families were in residence, and the young ones had just commenced chirping themselves awake as he’d shut the door behind him.
Scott and Kelly hadn’t had any chicks. She wasn’t able and had blamed herself. It had seemed a real shame at the time, but it hadn’t hurt their love. And as it now turned out . . .
But there he went again. His thoughts had a life all their own and seemed uncontrollable, venturing where he really didn’t want to go. But it was unavoidable. And damn, he felt even more like a bum because he’d been thinking how fortunate it was that they’d had no kids! Yet surely it was fortunate because he knew he could never have coped, not without Kelly. Or maybe he would have coped, knowing they were parts of her. Of course he would. God, how he wished he could stop thinking!
But suddenly, a welcome distraction: the newsagent’s shop, where Scott the automaton had ended up almost without noticing. And it was open. He entered and found a frazzled-looking woman, her hair still in curlers, behind the counter. She was checking accounts while her tubby, bald-headed husband separated out the morning delivery of magazines and daily newspapers onto shelves that divided the floor space into twin aisles.
The woman, recognizing Scott and knowing his needs, had calculated the cost even before he’d picked up a newspaper and named his brand of cigarettes. Of course she knew him; this was probably his twelfth, or more likely his thirteenth (that three again), morning in a row. Paying up, he was about to leave when he noticed another customer in the back of the shop: a smartly dressed young woman who had stepped into view in his aisle.
Scott knew her, at least by sight: he had seen her before, and not only here in this shop. What’s more, there was a certain something about her. She had the kind of looks that, before he met Kelly, would have turned his head . . . but that on the other hand would as quickly have caused him to think twice. Because a woman like this was surely not alone in the world. She couldn’t be said to be beautiful, but attractive? Oh, yes—albeit in an indefinable way—and there was definitely mystery, and a sort of magnetism, too, in her every movement.
And she was looking at him, at Scott the bum.
Suddenly aware—reminded of his unkempt if not actually disreputable appearance—Scott turned up his collar more yet, sank down into his coat, left the shop, and paused in the street to light a cigarette; where a moment later he felt the touch of a hand on his arm. A very gentle touch that brought with it the merest hint of some unrecognized, subtle perfume. Or perhaps it was simply her breath when she said, I’m so sorry. I know it’s none of my business and I really don’t mean to intrude, but . . . she must have been a very wonderful human being.
Scott’s jaw fell open; he also dropped his cigarette, felt himself beginning to bend to pick it up, caught himself just in time. That much of a bum he wasn’t. But looking at her standing so close, he wondered: was it really that obvious? He had heard about psychics who could read you like that. Your aura or something.
It’s very obvious, yes,
she said, as if she were reading his thoughts. To me it is, anyway. It’s very clear, written in your face, your . . . demeanour? You are—how do you say it?—radiating your sorrow. I can feel it washing outward from you.
Finally he found his voice. Do I . . . do I know you? Maybe you knew Kelly? Have I met you before somewhere? I’m sorry, but I don’t seem to remem—
No,
she quickly, quietly cut him off, then glanced nervously up and down the street. We’ve never met face-to-face and shouldn’t be speaking even now. But I sensed you from afar, and I found you here and watched you. Your pain has spoken for you; so much pain that I felt I must make myself known, perhaps too soon.
What?
said Scott, drawing back from her until he came up against the newsagent’s window. What are you saying?
We’ve never met,
she said again, but you do know me, or you should, or you will.
And moving closer she whispered, You are One, I am Two, and soon we’ll be Three. Can you understand? I can see in your face that you can’t. I don’t quite understand myself, so perhaps we both still need time.
A crazy woman! Scott thought.
The early morning traffic was starting to move now. A taxi pulled up at the curb; the driver wound down his window, leaned out, and said, Miss?
Scott’s crazy woman nodded, half turned away from him, and then turned back. "If anyone asks strange questions, try not to say anything. If you sense anything strange, keep your distance but try to explore it. Do think about what has happened to you, your loss, but think coldly, without anger, pain, or passion. Do not search for me; when it’s time, I’ll find you. As for Three: it only seems to be a question, but might just as easily be the answer."
Before Scott could say anything in return, she touched his hand, this time his flesh and not just his coat sleeve. He felt an almost electric tingle—static electricity, obviously—at which he jerked a very little and blinked. And still speechless he watched her cross the pavement to the taxi.
But as she seated herself and before closing the door, she looked at him one last time and said, Scott, promise me you’ll be very careful.
With which she closed the door and was gone . . .
His mind a complete blank, a well of astonishment, Scott stayed right where he was, chain-smoked two cigarettes, and might have made it three but that would have meant surrendering to both of his bad habits. Finally he snapped to, strode into the shop, and looked for the woman in curlers. She was up on a stepladder behind the counter, replacing a dead bulb in its light socket. As she got down she was grumbling, ". . . That’s the fourth time in a bloody week! Cheap bloody . . . ! I keep putting them in; they keep blowing! And they cost a bloody fortune! I—"
The young woman who was just in here,
Scott cut her off. She left a minute ago, just after me. Would you happen to know who she is, where she lives, or anything about her?
Why he was bothering to ask after a crazy woman he couldn’t have said, and especially since she’d asked him not to.
Dusting her hands off on a rag, the woman said, Eh? That girl you were speaking to outside?
And then, cocking her head on one side and cackling like a crone, "Oh, yes? Fancy her, do you? Well, I’m sorry, love, but I can’t help you. She’s been in here three or four times, but hasn’t said very much. Has to be an early bird, though, ’cos I never see her except in the mornings. And after a further bout of cackling, closing one eye in a lewd gargoyle wink, she continued.
But never mind. P’raps if you come in again tomorrow—and chat her up a bit, you know?—maybe you’ll get lucky, eh?"
Scott left the shop and headed for home. And for the first time in what felt like a very long time his brain had something to work on other than his misery.
That girl, woman, person, who could be twenty-two going on thirty-five—who the hell was she? And how did she know about Kelly, and about Scott? Well, not so much about him, because it really must be obvious. His sorrow was written in his face, and in his demeanour; in fact, it radiated from him. Her words, yes. But what else had she said? And what the hell was it that she’d said about Three, which he’d sensed had a capital T? She’d said he was One, she was Two, and soon they’d be Three . . . also that Three wasn’t just a question but could as easily be the answer. Now what was that supposed to mean? Or maybe he wasn’t hearing things right and it was him who was crazy!
As for her looks: if he had to describe her, how would he go about it? Damn it, he couldn’t remember! She never seemed to look the same twice! And now, thinking about it, Scott believed he’d seen her maybe a dozen or more times; not only in the newsagent’s but in various places in the city. Her face, mirrored in a shop window; her figure, glimpsed across a busy street or on a crowded tube train; her perfume, lingering in the air, whose fragrance he had forgotten until she touched him. So then, was she some kind of stalker? But whatever, she had touched him—the merest touch—and his hand was still tingling.
And he felt . . . he felt alive again!
Was she Russian, Italian, American? Maybe a cross between the three? (God, that number!) Scott—whose knowledge of languages, accents, and dialects was way above average; who had to know at least something about them, because he was an interpreter—had never before heard anything like hers. But there yet again, maybe it was him. Maybe he really wasn’t hearing things right. Yet he felt sure he’d heard her well enough when she spoke his name—without ever being told it!
And what about those weird warnings? About people asking strange questions, and him keeping his distance from something unspecified, and not trying to find her? Oh, really? Well, he’d be seeing her again tomorrow morning, that was for sure!
By which time he was home, in through his gate and up the garden path to his porch . . . which was where they were waiting for him: those men in their grey, half-length overcoats, their grave-seeming eyes looking him up and down, sizing him up like so many hungry undertakers—especially the very tall, extremely gaunt, and dour-seeming one—and tucking him away in their individual mental pigeonholes.
And somehow, while Scott was registering his surprise at their presence here, and wondering about their purpose, one of them got behind him and he felt a tiny spider bite on his neck just above his upturned collar. Except that even as he reached up an oddly rubbery hand to slap the thing, he was fairly sure that it hadn’t been a spider.
Then, as his legs turned to jelly and their faces began to swim, they grabbed and steadied him, and kept him from falling; one on his left, another on his right, and the third one—the gaunt one—telling the others he’d go fetch the car, his high-pitched voice coming as if from a thousand miles away. Three of them, of course. But then, what else should Scott expect?
Following which there was only the darkness and a sense of floating, drifting, sinking . . .
2
The mind-spies of E-Branch in the heart of London were enjoying a quiet period.
The duties of the agents in that most secret, strangest of all the United Kingdom’s Secret Services were just about as routine as they would ever get. Yes, they continued to listen to the minds of others, monitored the suffering planet’s ecology, tracked the movements of nuclear vessels and munitions across the world’s most remote terrains and beneath her oceans, maintained the status quo and when they could improved upon it, and generally did their utmost to shield humankind from terrors that a majority of the world’s inhabitants couldn’t conceive of and certainly wouldn’t believe in; but all of that was routine, even habitual at E-Branch HQ, and the ESPers were enjoying what was for them a comparatively quiet period.
Ben Trask was the Head of Branch. A mousy-haired, green-eyed man in his middle to late thirties, he was about five feet ten, just a touch overweight and somewhat slope-shouldered, and normally wore what could best be described as a dismal or lugubrious expression. This was as a result of his talent; for in a world where the plain truth was so often hard to find it was no easy thing to be a human lie detector. White lies, half truths, frauds, facsimiles, and utter falsehoods smacked into Trask from all directions, until he frequently felt he wasn’t able to take another hit. His team knew this, and while they might sometimes embroider the facts in casual conversations with other E-Branch colleagues, they invariably told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to Ben Trask.
This morning, feeling the need to clear up a growing backlog of paperwork, Trask had come into town early. But he wasn’t going to be on his own. Despite that it was only a few minutes to 7:00, already there was no lack of activity in E-Branch HQ, on this private and mainly inaccessible top floor of a building that to all intents and purposes was a quality but by no means ostentatious central London hotel. The weary Night-Duty Officer was making ready to hand over his duties, and the members of an early shift of Trask’s agents were organizing an interrogation.
In the main corridor, on his way to his office, Trask came to a halt to look down at an unconscious man on a wheeled trolley. The man was maybe thirty-five, blue-eyed, and a very light blond. While he wore his hair unfashionably short, he wasn’t at all bad-looking, but at six feet tall he didn’t appear to have the weight to go with his height. He was either lithe and athletic or he wasn’t looking after himself too well . . . probably a mixture of the two, but more likely the latter. He might well have been sleeping in his clothes; his hair was awry; he hadn’t shaved for a day or two, and so looked more than a little worse for wear.
And who is this?
Trask inquired as one of the three-man team opened the door to the interrogation cell.
Ian Goodly, a very tall, thin, gangly man—but a man with an exceptional talent, his occasionally unruly ability to sense something of future events—paused to blink owlishly at Trask, and said, Good morning to you, too, Ben. As for him
—he indicated the unconscious man—you okayed and signed the paperwork yesterday.
Nodding wryly, Trask replied, Yes, I’ve been signing lots of things lately. Which is why I’m in so early this morning: so that the next time I write my name on something I may even have read it first!
As always, you’re overworked,
said the precog, smiling a rare smile. Ian Goodly’s expression was usually grave; only his eyes—large, brown, warm, and totally disarming—belied what must otherwise constitute an unfortunate first impression: that of a cadaverous mortician. Sure enough, his smile vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, and he continued:
This is Scott St. John, who was ‘spotted’ by one of ours at an OPEC conference in Venezuela . . . he’s a freelance interpreter: Arabic dialects, chiefly. We might have checked him out at that time, around three months ago, but since he’d recently lost his wife we allowed him time to recover; not long enough, apparently, for it doesn’t look like he’s fully recovered even now. In fact, he still looks very much down. He’d contracted for the Venezuelan job months prior to his wife’s sudden, terminal illness, and soon after she died he flew out to the conference where he tried to fulfill his commitment. He stuck it out for a day or two, then had to quit. It was then, when he really began to go to pieces, that our man spotted him.
Trask nodded. And his talent, if indeed he has one?
That’s why we brought him in,
Goodly replied. Whatever it is he’s got, whatever it is he can do, if anything, we can’t pin it down. We’ve been watching him—well, from a distance—but while there’s definitely something about him it isn’t ringing any bells just yet. So it could well be something we’ve not seen before. And as I know you’ll agree, we can always use new talents. Right, Ben?
Scott St. John, eh?
Trask moved aside, allowing Goodly’s colleagues to wheel St. John into the interrogation room out of sight. So why did you knock him out? Do you think he’s dangerous or something?
It’s his curriculum vitae,
Goodly answered. His father, Jeremy St. John, was a diplomat; for some seven years he served as British Ambassador at the embassy in Tokyo. Divorced, he was also a single parent, but he didn’t have much time for the boy. So Scott spent a lot of time with a Japanese minder, a reformed Yakusa-type with a penchant for the martial arts. Result: Scott St. John is a karate black belt, with qualifications in several other lethal oriental, er, pastimes.
The precog paused, shrugged, and continued. Since it seemed possible he might not want to come with us . . . well, we weren’t taking any chances.
Hmmm!
said Trask, frowning. What do you think, Ian? Are we maybe a little too heavy-handed sometimes?
We might occasionally seem to be, I suppose,
the precog agreed, but sometimes we’ve had to be. I think we get it right more often than we get it wrong.
Trask nodded and said, "You’re right, of course. But being in a job like this—more or less autonomous, with the power to do just about anything, right or wrong—it occasionally gives me pause. You know what they say about absolute power?"
Goodly’s turn to nod, as gravely as always. "But we’re not that powerful, Ben, he said.
And personally, I’ve never known a group of individuals less prone to corruption than our people in E-Branch. Which, as you’d know better than any other man, is the plain and simple truth."
Trask smiled wryly and said, But it wasn’t always so, now was it? What about Geoffrey Paxton? Wasn’t he one of ours, too? And let’s not forget Norman Wellesley—a former Head of Branch and my immediate predecessor!
Goodly shook his head. No, I can’t entirely agree. Geoffrey Paxton was mainly the Minister Responsible’s man, let loose among us to keep an eye on Harry Keogh. As for Norman Wellesley . . . he was the exception that proves the rule. With that closed mind of his we couldn’t read him. But being what we are now, we don’t need watchers to watch us, Ben. With us it’s instinct: we watch each other, and we watch ourselves. And, if I may say so, having got rid of those two we do so quite needlessly. E-Branch and its members, we’re just fine, Ben.
Again Trask smiled, and said, Ian, if you’re ever in need of a job you can be my conscience.
And over his shoulder as he started off again along the corridor toward his office, But do let me know how it goes with St. John, right?
Of course,
Goodly answered, before following his friends into the interrogation cell . . .
Scott St. John snapped awake to the stinging smell of ammonium carbonate. Seated, he at once tried to get to his feet, only to discover that he was tied down, his wrists manacled to the arms of a chair. Then, all mush-mouthed, he commenced an instinctive response to his situation: What in the name of . . . ?
And immediately gagged on an acrid bitter-aloes taste, before swallowing sour spittle in order to moisten his bone-dry throat. And still gulping, his eyes watering, he looked dazedly all