Necroscope: The Touch

by Brian Lumley

  As the third man got up and left the room, Garvey nodded and said, “That was unfortunate, yes, but it was deemed necessary. It was partly due to the nature of our work and partly to your CV. You’re a karate black belt, Mr. St. John. Outside this building we couldn’t tell you who we were; there are no IDs we could have shown you that you would recognize or accept. Also, the location of this headquarters isn’t known to the public at large; and last but not least there was a distinct possibility that you would resist us, perhaps violently.”

  “More than a distinct possibility,” Ian Goodly chimed in. “I myself, er, assessed the probability as very high.”

  “Well, you’re right,” Scott answered. “I wouldn’t have come with you without a damn good reason. In my job I’m occasionally privy to some pretty sensitive stuff, so I’m naturally watchful when it comes to strangers. Once in Riyadh, in Saudi Arabia—”

  “We know,” said Garvey. “You were approached by, shall we say ‘agents of a foreign power’ who wanted to know the details of a conversation between the Saudi oil minister and one of the diplomats at a meeting where you were the interpreter. You were offered a large sum of money, turned it down, and then reported the matter. Several Iraqi, er, diplomats were then sent packing back to Iraq. All very correct and laudable.”

  Staring hard at him, and thinking hard, Scott said, “Maybe you’ve just this minute verified your credentials. For who else would know all this stuff if not someone in intelligence? Okay, so I’m impressed. Now will you get these manacles off me?”

  The third man—a “spotter” called Frank Robinson, a man whose talent was the ability to detect other ESP-endowed people—had reentered the room carrying a can of soft drink. He also had the key to St. John’s shackles and looked to Goodly for his okay.

  The precog responded with a nod, but warned, “Scott, if we free your hands and you react contrary to our wishes, you’ll be shot . . . if only with a tranquillizer dart. In which case we’ll have to start over. Is that understood? You won’t try anything, well, too hasty?”

  When Scott reluctantly nodded his accord, Robinson went to him, put the drink on the floor, and freed his wrists. As he did so, Scott got a good look at him. The spotter was blond, looked young—maybe twenty-one or -two, Scott thought (albeit incorrectly, for his guess was four or five years short of the mark)—and wore an abundance of freckles on his fresh, boyish face. But young or not so young, as soon as he was done with Scott’s restraints he moved quickly away; experienced, he was taking no chances.

  Scott picked up his drink, took a sip, then refocussed on the men behind the desk. There was now a weapon—a tranquillizer gun, he supposed—in plain view on the desk in front of Goodly. And between sips, Scott growled, “Okay, now that you’ve established yourselves, can we do away with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? What are these questions you want to ask me?”

  It was Frank Robinson’s turn to speak, and as he regained his seat he said, “Scott, we sometimes recruit suitable people into our branch. By suitable I mean gifted people, people with special traits and talents. It has recently come to our attention that you might be just such a person.”

  “What, because I’m a patriot, take my job seriously, can’t be bribed?” Scott shook his head. “There must be a slew of men, British men, with those same qualifications . . . or maybe you’re making me the same kind of offer as the Iraqis in Riyadh—only this time I’ll be doing it for my country, right? I’ll be doing it for ‘the cause.’ ” He made no attempt to hide his scepticism, his sarcasm.

  “Scott, we don’t know what we may ask you to do.” Robinson shook his head. “We’ve no idea what you can do, not yet. That’s what we’re here to find out. But I should warn you now that our questions might seem rather odd . . . or maybe not. It depends on what you know about yourself, because we sometimes meet up with people who don’t even know they have these special talents.”

  Again Scott shook his head. “You’ve lost me,” he said. And before he could say any more Ian Goodly came in with:

  “I think that maybe the best way to proceed is to proceed. So as strange as these questions might seem, please think about them before answering, and then try to answer them truthfully.”

  And so the questioning began . . .

  3

  “Are you aware of anything strange in your life?” Goodly began. “Something you can’t explain, either previously or recently?”

  And again Scott felt that inexplicable, eerie sensation of being observed—or of someone feeling, listening—but on the inside. Moreover, he was fully awake now, alert, refreshed, not quite so confused. And from nowhere, suddenly he remembered the girl in the newsagent’s shop, her weird warning: If anyone asks strange questions, try not to say anything.

  That had been strange in itself: some sort of presentiment or foreknowledge of things to come? Whatever, Scott immediately shielded his mind . . . then asked himself: What . . . ?! But he knew what, knew instinctively that he had somehow reinforced his own mental privacy, denied access to his mind! And across the room, behind the desk, both of the gaunt one’s colleagues had at once straightened in their chairs; they’d become far more attentive, their gaze rapt upon him, as if suddenly he’d said something of real importance. But Scott had said nothing at all. He’d merely thought it, and then to himself. And once again: What?! For now he was thinking things that even he didn’t understand.

  “Well?” said Ian Goodly, whose demeanour seemed unchanged.

  And Scott answered, “What kind of strange? I’ve had my ups and downs like anyone else—recently more down than up—but as for strange: no, I don’t think so.” A lie! Their first question and he’d lied to them like a criminal who has something to hide! What the hell was going on with him? Why was he accepting and complying with the warnings and advice of a total stranger, a woman he’d never met until this morning? But then, he’d never met these people either; and at least she hadn’t stuck a needle in him! She had only touched him—touched his hand—and now, just thinking about it, he could still feel the tingle.

  While Scott was turning these things over in his mind, the three behind the desk had huddled together to converse in whispers. When they drew apart Goodly continued with his questions:

  “You appear to be . . . well, a very private man, Scott. And we think you could be holding back, resisting us, not answering entirely truthfully. Is that a fact? Are we right to make these assumptions?”

  “I like my privacy, yes,” Scott answered. “You can definitely take that for a fact. Also this: if or when your questions get to be too intrusive, I’m not going to answer them.”

  “Oh? And did you consider my question about strangeness in your life intrusive?”

  Scott decided to throw them a red herring. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to admit to his “three” fixation. Also, there were things he would like to know about his mystery woman before telling anyone else about her—if ever. And so he said:

  “Listen—you want to know about strangeness? Okay, I can tell you about strangeness. The whole world is full of scumbags: crazy, murdering, psychotic scumbags. Terrorists, drug-addicted sociopaths, total weirdos, pedophiles, and fanatical fundamentalist fuckups of all kinds who would cut your throat as soon as look at you. They live their lives, and nothing much happens to them. They may be out on the streets, in prison, in hell, or some junky’s paradise, but still they’re living lives of sorts. And then there are the decent people, like my wife, who caught a freak bug, wasted away, and died just like that. So I ask you, if that isn’t strange—that my wonderful Kelly is gone, while all this shit is still floating down our gutters—what is? If that’s what you mean by strange, then I’m with you. Other than that, no, there’s been nothing strange in my life.”

  A red herring, perhaps, but at the same time it brought a feeling of relief. It was something he’d wanted to say, to get off his chest, for a long time. And now he’d said it, and with feeling, and it was real because he’d meant it.r />
  Goodly glanced along the desk at Garvey, then at Robinson. Both men shrugged and looked bewildered, and Scott sensed that while they remained attentive they were no longer quite so rapt upon him. Perhaps in some small measure he’d managed to satisfy their curiosity. But Goodly wasn’t finished yet.

  “Scott,” (he was obviously trying to choose his words with care) “we know that you gamble from time to time. You’re not a habitual gambler, but—”

  “But—” Scott cut him short, “sometimes the people I’ve worked for—Russians, Arabs, various others—sometimes they’ve wanted to visit casinos, and then I’ve been called upon to help with the language, or to explain the games, or simply to accompany them. Yes, I’ve played in London’s casinos now and then—always in the course of my work—but I’ve never lost a fortune and I certainly haven’t won one.”

  And Goodly said, “You’re not especially . . . lucky, then?”

  Frowning, Scott answered, “No, but neither am I especially unlucky. So what?”

  “Let me be more plain-spoken.” Goodly sat back a little. “Do you understand the word ‘telekinesis’?”

  “I’m an interpreter!” Scott replied sourly. “I don’t speak Greek, no, but I know how its roots are buried in our language. Are you trying to insult my intelligence? Of course I know the meaning of telekinesis!”

  Goodly nodded. “My apologies. But you’ve never wondered if perhaps you could, er, move something? With your mind?”

  “What?” Scott half stood up, sat down again as Goodly took up the dart gun. “What did you say? Move things with my mind? I mean, is this some kind of weird joke?”

  But now it was Paul Garvey’s turn. “Scott, look at me,” he snapped, his face twisting and his tone brooking no denial. And as Scott looked at him he continued. “Now tell me, can you read my mind?” Can you? Are you doing it even now, Scott?

  Scott tightened his shields—was amazed that he could do so—and thought, What the hell is happening to me? What in the name of all that’s . . . ?

  But he’d kept his thoughts shielded (how, he didn’t know!) and now, managing to control himself, out loud he said, “That’s it. We’re all done.” And then, getting to his feet, “I’m out of here!”

  Aiming his dart gun, Goodly said, “No, we’re not done. And you’re not going anywhere, not yet. Now sit down!”

  Scowling, angry, unsure of his ground but quite certain of the weapon in Goodly’s hand, Scott slowly sat down again.

  But by now the young-looking, freckle-faced Frank Robinson was on his feet. And leaning forward with his palms flat on the desk, he said, “Scott, we know you can do something. So what is it? Is it mesmerism, telepathy, second sight, clairvoyance, ESP of a sort we don’t understand? Maybe you can kill things with a glance: we’ve come up against that before! Perhaps you can find lost or missing people, locating them with your mind alone. But we know you can do something. Maybe you can wish people lame or even dead. Why, for all we know you might even have killed your own wife!”

  That last was deliberate, of course, designed to get Scott to react without thinking, perhaps to display his secret talent in an act of blind insensate fury. And again Scott was reminded of his mystery woman’s words of advice: Think coldly, without anger, pain, or passion.

  But too late for that now.

  Scott was on his feet, weaving, making for Frank Robinson, reaching for him over the desk and causing Goodly to reposition himself, redirect his aim. And Robinson’s face a mask, as white as snow with a gaping “O” shaped mouth and black blob eyes that were fixed on Scott’s bunched fist and craggy knuckles—

  —And then the damp-squib phut! of Goodly’s gun, even as Scott hauled Robinson across the desk and aimed a crushing blow at his face, but a blow that was never launched. Because out of nowhere, suddenly Scott was floating, drifting, sinking in this lake of inky darkness that he was sure he’d known before . . .

  The darkness didn’t last; or it did but became sleep as opposed to total unconsciousness. “Ordinary sleep.” Or in Scott’s case, about as ordinary and as normal as it had ever got to be in the three months since Kelly’s death.

  There were three of them, of course: three black dots on a vast white plain that was awesome in its immensity, blinding in its intensity . . . a plain that went on forever. The three stood out like meteorites on some Antarctic snowfield, one close, the second near-distant, and the third three-quarters of the way to the horizon.

  The closest one was Scott—so close that suddenly he was in him, squinting out across the vast, white, blinding plain at the other two.

  At that distance there was no way to tell who or what they were, only a sure knowledge that they were looking at (or maybe looking for?) him. He desired to draw closer to them across the snow, sand, salt—across the brilliant surface of this place, where- or what-ever it was—but seemed rooted here, immobile, because he hadn’t been enabled. Or he had, but that had been in another dream, in many dreams, always unremembered. It was very frustrating.

  He looked left, right, and over his shoulder on both sides as far back as he could see. But in every direction except one, forward, there was only the dazzling white plain. And forward there was only the endless glare and the dots, one near-distant and the other far away.

  Then it came, a shaft or splinter of light, a dart made of golden light! Usually it came in the dark . . . this was the first time it had come in the light . . . but in the light of what? And Scott thought: It will enable, empower me. It has empowered me! This is a reminder, because it knows I forget. And also because I don’t know how to use what it has given me . . .

  The darkness was above him—the Darkness of Ignorance—like a black sky over the achingly white Plain of Discovery, of Learning; and Scott knew that his mind was a blackboard waiting to be written upon and that the dart was a stylus. The darkness was his: his ignorance or naivete. And the vast empty plain was a lack of knowledge, a mind unfulfilled. His mind.

  Simultaneous with the dart, a word came to Scott. The word was ‘allegory’; he was dreaming in allegory, symbolically. And he watched the dart zigzagging in the darkness clouding his mind, searching for him as he knew it had searched before. But all of this was only a reminder, and Scott also knew, remembered, when it had found him: on the day, at the hour, the very second when his wife, his Kelly, had died!

  That was what had awakened him—and he suspected in more ways than one.

  And here it came again, speeding down out of the darkness, slowing down, swerving to and fro, this way and that, eager and curious, and finally striking for his head, or maybe his heart, or perhaps his soul.

  It entered him, melted in him, became a part of him.

  There was momentary fear—for after all, he had been invaded—but there was no real sense of shock, no pain, nothing to distinguish the after from the before . . . except . . . perhaps . . . a certain awareness? The knowledge that he was now enabled? But with what? And why? And by whom—or by what?

  Scanning the shimmering white plain again, he saw that the black dots were no closer but at the same time felt an ability, a mobility, stirring within himself. He could now move forward. Again it was allegorical: here, in his dream, Scott could “move forward” in a linear sense, while in himself—in his life—he could simply move forward. In both cases toward his future.

  Making an immense effort—but of will as opposed to physical strength—he began slowly to traverse the surface of the dazzling plain toward the black dots, which now he saw had only seemed black against their brilliant backdrop. And as he gained in proficiency, stilling his straining arms and legs and allowing his mind to drive him, so the dots drew closer and began to take on more definite shape and colour.

  Scott slowed down, approached more carefully, fought the dazzle to bring the first of the shapes (actually the second of them, for he had been the first) into clearer perspective. What he saw was bipedal, upright, vaguely anthropomorphic: manlike, or more properly womanlike. But by no means a hu
man female. It looked anything but human, and he slowed more yet.

  Or maybe the shape was human after all. It must have been the glare that had confused him—much like the sun masking its corona, or any strong light source throwing an abstract silhouette onto an object to distort its true outline—for as Scott drew closer he saw that indeed it had the figure of a woman . . . and what was more, that he knew which woman.

  He had seen her before (kaleidoscopic, flashback images of the newsagent’s shop; of walking the night streets of Highgate, Finsbury Park, Crouch End; of a trip into town on the tube: all of these scenes incorporating that same—never quite the same—barely remembered face, and even now remembered only because of the compassion in its eyes). Dim, blurred, obscure until now, that face; because he hadn’t been focussed, not then. His mind, fogged by misery, had too often wandered through happier times, brighter memories; he could have bumped into friends of a lifetime without recognizing them until they spoke to him, and even then couldn’t have spoken back with any degree of coherency.

  But she, this woman, had been there—often and in diverse places—and Scott knew now that while he had only ever caught glimpses of her, she had been watching him.

  As she was now.

  He brought himself to a halt and stared at her wide-eyed, mouth agape, incapable of speech. What was she doing here? Had she been waiting for him? Were they in some way connected? And if so, what was the nature of their affinity?

  Scott hadn’t spoken, and neither did she when she answered him: You are One, and I am Two. Her lips hadn’t moved, not by a fraction! Then, turning her head, she looked toward the horizon at that third spot on the brilliant white surface, and said: He is Three.

  Scott looked where she looked, at that hunched, immobile, unhuman (but by no means alien) shape halfway to the horizon. In that same moment, with his attention diverted, Scott sensed motion and transferred his gaze back to the woman . . . too late, for she was gone! But this time her image—the way she looked—stayed with him. Previously he had failed to remember her or remembered her differently; he could never have described her. But now she was fixed firmly in his mind’s eye.