Deadspawn

by Brian Lumley

  Just an … experience, Harry answered. In Darlington.

  Darlington? (The Necroscope could almost see the other’s eyebrows going up.) Now, there’s a coincidence! And did you find any Johnnys in Darlington?

  Harry was intrigued. Two, he replied. And one of them a real-life “Johnny.” That’s how he spells his name, anyway: Johnny Courtney. The other is called John Found.

  And now he pictured Jordan’s grim nod as the telepath said: Yes, and Dragosani was a foundling, too, wasn’t he?

  Harry said, Is that supposed to mean something? He knew it was.

  Better believe it! Jordan confirmed.

  See you outside the Laird’s Larder, Harry told him. Five minutes …

  He waited out the five minutes in a fever of anticipation, then made it six to be sure Jordan had got there, and finally Möbius-tripped to the steep, cobbled road just off the Royal Mile. He emerged from the Continuum on a crowded, bustling pavement where tourists and locals alike were clustered like bees in a hive, jostling and filled with purpose as they went about their various businesses. No one noticed that Harry was suddenly there; people loomed everywhere, from every direction, side-stepping each other; the Necroscope was just another face in the crowd.

  Jordan was in the doorway of the Laird’s Larder. He spotted Harry, grabbed his elbow, and guided him off the street into the shade. Harry was glad of that, for the sun was out and it had grown to be more than a mere irritation. He now actively hated it. “Buy three sandwiches,” he told the telepath. “Steak for me and rare as they’ve got it, whatever you like for yourself, and anything with plenty of bread around it for the third. Okay?”

  Mystified, Jordan nodded and went to the busy counter. He ordered, was served, and came back to Harry where he waited. Harry took his arm, said, “Close your eyes,” and ushered him through a Möbius door. To anyone watching it would look like they just stepped out of the coffee shop into the street. Except they didn’t arrive in the street. Instead, a moment later, they emerged two miles away by the lake on the crest of the vast volcanic outcrop called Arthur’s Seat. There was an empty bench where they sat down and ate awhile in silence, and Harry tore up the third sandwich into small pieces which he fed to the ducks and a lone swan that came paddling to the feast.

  And eventually, the Necroscope said, “Tell me about it.”

  But Jordan answered, “You first. What’s all this about an ‘experience’ in Darlington? You sounded like something had worried you, Harry. Something other than finding a couple of suspect Johnnys, that is. I mean, tracking this maniac down is important—no one would deny that—but there’s such a thing as personal safety, too. So you’d better tell me, are there going to be problems?”

  “Oh, yes,” Harry answered. “And soon. Something inside tells me that not even Darcy Clarke can do anything about that. But that’s not what this was about.” And as best he could he explained what he had felt, and told Jordan how his mother had reacted to the death of a small dog.

  “You think someone died this morning? Any idea who?”

  Harry shook his head. “Someone cried out to me, that’s all. I think so, anyway.”

  “And your deadspeak? Can’t you … make inquiries?”

  Harry gave a wry snort. “The Great Majority don’t want to know me,” he answered. “Not now. Not any longer. I can’t say I blame them.” He shrugged, then brightened a little. “On the other hand, if someone did die and still wants to contact me, then pretty soon he’ll be able to do just that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Through deadspeak,” Harry explained. “Except he’ll have to contact me in person, for I wouldn’t know where to start looking. And it will have to be by night. During the daylight hours the sun interferes too much. If not for this hat of mine I’d be in trouble. Even with the hat I feel tired, sick, unable to think straight. There were a few clouds earlier but they’re clearing. And the brighter it gets the duller I get!” He stood up and threw the last handful of crumbs onto the surface of the lake between the crags. “Let’s get out of here. I could use some shade.”

  They took the Möbius route to the gloomy old house on the outskirts of Bonnyrig, then telepathically probed the countryside all around. “Nothing,” Jordan declared, and Harry agreed.

  And finally: “All right”—the Necroscope threw off his hat and sprawled gratefully in an easy chair—“now it’s your turn. Just what did you discover up there at the castle? I can tell that something’s excited you.”

  “You’re right.” Jordan grinned. “It was my chance to pay you back, Harry, for what you’ve done for me. For my life, my resurrection. My God, I’m alive, and I know how wonderful it is! So I wanted things to work out. You could say I almost willed it to happen, and it did.”

  “You think you’ve found our man, or monster?” Harry leaned forward eagerly in his chair.

  “I’m pretty sure I have,” the telepath answered. “Yes, I’m pretty damn sure!”

  3

  JOHNNY … FOUND

  “I showed my E-Branch ID at the guardroom,” Jordan commenced his story, “and told them I was investigating the death of the girl who was found under the walls. I said we’d had our wires crossed the first time, because she wasn’t who we’d thought she was, which was why we were looking into it again from square one.

  “The squaddies on duty had read all about it in the newspapers, and anyway, I wasn’t the first investigator they’d seen. Not even the first today. They told me that in fact there were already two plainclothesmen in the castle, down in the Sergeant’s mess. That piece of information stopped me dead for a second or two while I considered it, but then I thought what the hell? For after all, I was E-Branch … wasn’t I? Well, I had been until very recently. Anyway, I never had any problem dealing with the law. In fact the police had always shown me, and E-Branch in general, a lot of respect. And vice versa.

  “So I asked directions to the Warrant Officer’s and Sergeant’s mess and made my way there.

  “Edinburgh Castle is a massive place, the greater part of which is never even glimpsed by the tourists and general public. Your average tourist knows that the Castle Esplanade is where they hold the Edinburgh Tattoo—with room to build a stadium of eight thousand seats, royal boxes and all, and a hardstanding that takes the military’s massed bands, motorcycle and other vehicular displays, shows from all around the world, you name it—but the vast stone complex beyond Mons Meg, the One O’Clock Gun, and Ye Olde Tea Shoppe (or whatever it is they’ve named that café in the crag) remains a mystery to most people. And where the way is roped off, that’s where the real castle begins. But you’ve been there, Harry, and know what it’s like: a maze of alleys and gantlets and courtyards … a fantastic place! And one that’s easy to lose your way in.

  “Eventually, I found the Sergeant’s mess and the two Jock plainclothes officers, who were talking to a Sergeant Cook and his civilian assistants and jotting down a few notes. I showed my ID and asked if I could sit in on their questioning, and they didn’t bat an eyelid between them. They knew how the Branch—in the shape of Darcy Clarke and yourself, Harry—had been helping out with the job.

  “Anyway, I’d arrived right on cue, because they were asking about the night of the murder, especially about any deliveries of refrigerated meat which had been made to the cookhouse that night. Apparently, forensic had alerted them to beast blood on Penny’s clothes, do you see?

  “Well, you can imagine how it felt, Harry, to be right there when the Cook Sergeant got out his register of deliveries to check details of the beast carcasses that had come in … yes, from Frigis Express! Naturally, I said nothing, just kept my ears wide open and my mouth tight shut, and took in as much as I could get. Which was quite a bit; because this overweight, red-faced, hot-and-bothered Sergeant’s mess cook was efficient to a fault. He not only kept a record of dates and times of all deliveries of foodstuffs—and copies of his own countersigned receipts, which bore the signatures of his suppliers—but he even had
the registration numbers of delivery vehicles, too! And naturally, I made a mental note of the number of the truck which had made the deliveries that night.

  “This is how the delivery system works:

  “During the day the esplanade gets crowded, and anyway, Edinburgh’s streets are no place for big articulated trucks during daylight hours. So Frigis Express delivers at night. Of course, big vehicles can’t make it under the arch of the guardroom and up the narrow gantlet, so they park down on the esplanade and the cookhouse sends down a driver in a military Land-Rover to collect the carcasses. The Frigis driver passes the meat straight out from the back of his truck into the back of the Land-Rover, which then conveys it up to the main cookhouse. And the Frigis driver goes up as a passenger in the Land-Rover to get his docket signed. And sometimes he’ll have a beer with the Cook Sergeant in his little office, before walking back down to his truck on the dark esplanade. By night, of course, the esplanade is empty and he has plenty of room to turn the big vehicle round and get out of there.

  “So … the plainclothes officers wanted to know if this had been the routine on the night of the murder, and it had. In fact the Cook Sergeant knew this delivery man quite well; he worked for Frigis out of Darlington (yes, Darlington, Harry) and made deliveries to the castle every three or four weeks. And when the Sergeant was around they’d usually have a pint together in his office.

  “As for his name: well, his signature was a scrawl, quite unreadable, possibly even disguised … all except for the ‘F’ which started his surname. But the fat Sergeant was willing to swear that he referred to himself as—that’s right—‘Johnny!’

  “Well, that was about it. When the officers were satisfied with what they’d got I came out with them. Along the way I made mention of how they seemed to be doing okay without E-Branch on this one. It was pretty obvious they weren’t exactly sure what the Branch is all about—hell, who is, except Branch members?—but that they guessed we were some sort of higher echelon intelligence organization which ‘fools about,’ however successfully, with psychic stuff: table-rapping and divining and such. And I suppose in a way they were right at that.

  “Then we spent a little time looking over the wall in various places and down on the gardens towards Princes Street, and sure enough there are places you could dump a body without breaking its bones. The Jocks seemed especially interested in looking down on one spot, and I guessed that’s where Penny had been found. A peep inside their minds told me I was right.

  “Finally, as I parted company with them on the esplanade, I said, ‘We’ll be in touch, and if this Johnny bloke doesn’t work out the way you—’

  “But one of them broke in on me: ‘Oh, we’re pretty sure he’s the one. And we can wait a few days longer. Actually, we’d like to catch this bastard in the act of picking up some girl before we move on him. He’s been doing these jobs of his thick and fast, so we think he’ll try it on again the next time out. Another day or two at most. And you’d better believe we’ll be right behind him … ’ Then he shrugged and let it go at that.

  “So I told them good luck, and that was it. I felt great—great to be alive, and even better that I’d made a dent in the case—and so had a beer on the Royal Mile. Following which I just waited around for you to contact me. End of story …”

  The Necroscope seemed a little disappointed. “You didn’t get a general description of this man, or discover when he’s driving for Frigis again?”

  “These things weren’t in their thoughts,” Jordan answered, shaking his head. “And anyway, if I’d had to concentrate on scanning their minds I might have slipped up, done something stupid, given myself away. Remember, you and I are both telepaths. When we read each other and it comes over strong and true, that’s because we’re doing it deliberately. But reading the mind of an ordinary person is different. They’re cluttered things, minds, and rarely concentrate on anything for more than a moment or two.”

  Harry nodded. “I didn’t mean to put you down. What you’ve done is wonderful. It’s worked out perfectly—so far. But now I want to find out something about this man’s background, like why he’s the way he is. Such knowledge might be of use, that’s all. If not to me, to E-Branch after I’ve gone. Also, I’m curious about his name. You said something about Dragosani also being a foundling? Well, maybe there’s more to that than you thought or intended. So … I have one or two things to learn about this Johnny Found. And of course, I want to get to him before the police. He’d be charged with murder, I know, but what he’s done and would still do is worth a lot more than that. He came on very cruel. And that’s how he should go out.”

  The Necroscope’s voice as he finished speaking was a deep growl sinking deeper all the time. Jordan was happy to keep out of his mind, but he couldn’t help thinking to himself: Mr. Johnny Found—who or whatever, or whyever, you are—I wouldn’t be in your shoes for all the gold in Fort Knox!

  Ben Trask had called his briefing for 2:00 P.M. and all available E-Branch operatives were present. The Minister Responsible was there, too, accompanied by Geoffrey Paxton, who Trask really hadn’t expected to see. But he made no fuss about it; it had dawned on him that the job was too important to let personalities interfere. It just struck him as incongruous that while a low-life specimen such as Paxton was safe and legitimate, the good stuff such as Harry Keogh had crashed foul of fate and was about to become a victim of his own methods.

  Sure, for it had been Harry who showed the Branch how to do this sort of thing. How to set it up, what weapons to use—the stake, the sword, the fire—and how to strike. In order to kill vampires.

  When everyone was present Trask wasted no time but got right down to it:

  “By now all of you know what Harry Keogh has become,” he began. “Which is to say, he’s the most dangerous creature who ever lived … partly because he carries this plague of vampirism, which could consume all of us and for which there’s no cure. Well, there have been others before Harry and they all succumbed—usually to the Necroscope himself! And that’s the rest of what makes him so dangerous: he knows all about it, about us, about … just about everything. Now, don’t get me wrong: he isn’t a superman and never has been, but he is the next best thing. Which was great when he was on our side but isn’t quite so hot right now. Oh, yes, and unlike the other vampires the Branch has dealt with, Harry will know we’re after him.” He let that sink in, then continued:

  “Some other things that make him dangerous. He’s become a telepath, so from now on all you thought-thieves keep a close watch on your minds. If not, Harry will be in there. And if he knows what we’re doing as we’re doing it, then he won’t be waiting around for it to happen, right? He’s a teleport, too, and uses something called the Möbius Continuum to come and go as he pleases. He can be literally anywhere he wants to be, instantaneously! Think about that …

  “Last but not least—that we know of, anyway—Harry is now a necromancer no less than Dragosani was; no, more than Dragosani was. Because Dragosani only examined his victims. Harry on the other hand can bring them back from the dead, even from their ashes, we think as vampires. And as such, obviously they’d be working for him. So, what I’m saying is that everything he’s previously achieved has now been totally reversed: he is our target! Harry, and anyone who works with him.

  “A lot of you will be wondering about Darcy Clarke, so let me put you in the picture. Darcy died … by accident.” Trask at once held up a restraining hand, because he’d seen faces beginning to tighten and mouths opening questioningly. “It was an accident of sorts,” he repeated, “and in its way understandable if not entirely acceptable. Now, I’ve had to do a lot of soul-searching myself in order to come to terms with this, and so I can readily understand your confusion. But Darcy had been changed. He must have been, else we couldn’t have killed him. That’s right, I said, ‘we,’ the Branch. If he’d lived he would have been our weakest link, and sooner or later we’d be obliged to deal with him, anyway. But he isn’t aliv
e and can’t be brought back or … interfered with, not where he is now. For we’ve had him cremated—already, yes—and even now his ashes are being scattered. If he was one of Harry’s people, which it has to be said seems likely, then he isn’t anymore.

  “Okay, I’ve said it was an accident. But the real accident—or more properly, the tragedy—was that Darcy Clarke and Harry Keogh were friends, and that they’d had a lot of contact with one another. It’s as simple as that. Harry’s own ‘accident’ happened to him out in the Greek islands, or more likely in Romania, just a few weeks ago. Since when it’s taken him over completely. And conceivably unknown to Darcy—and just conceivably unknown or unrealized even by the Necroscope himself—the thing, disease, contagion, whatever and however you think of it, somehow passed between them. That’s the way we see it, anyway.

  “But the fact is that Darcy had a very bad case of mind-smog, and he’d lost his guardian angel, the talent which had kept him secure through everything the Branch has thrown at him all these years. As for Darcy working with Harry: well, we knew that he’d been passing him information, even before we knew for sure that he’d been changed. Just when these changes occurred isn’t easy to tell. They might have been in the wind for some time, but they came to light just last night. For that was when Harry visited Darcy at home. He didn’t stay long but after he left … then Darcy had mind-smog.

  “So that’s what I meant when I said Darcy had been changed. When he died … he just wasn’t Darcy Clarke anymore, not the one we all knew. And now he isn’t anyone. But more important, he isn’t, and can never be, a threat to the Branch or to the world.

  “Harry Keogh very definitely is, however, and so are the people we believe he’s already contaminated. There are at least two of these: a young girl called Penny Sanderson, and … the telepath we knew as Trevor Jordan.” Again he held up his hand. “Yes, I know, Trevor was my friend, too. And hell, he was also dead! But he isn’t anymore. Harry Keogh has resurrected both of these people from their ashes—which in itself must surely confirm what they’ve become. Undead!