Demogorgon

by Brian Lumley

  Now he thought about tonight: the job he’d just pulled in Radlett. The entire thing had gone without a hitch. Hadn’t it? But something niggled. Trace found and held down the niggling thing, examined it closely.

  It was a car, shiny-black, quiet, squat on the roads and strangely menacing, like a creature rather than a machine, whose eyes were hooded yellow lights. In the eye of his memory Trace saw the car again. He saw it in his bike’s mirrors, like a big mechanical woodlouse tracking him one hundred and fifty yards to his rear. Foreign, French maybe. It had picked him up almost immediately after he left Carter’s place, following him (or seeming to) almost half-way home. He’d worried a little about it. An unmarked squad car? An off-duty copper, suspicious about night-riders? Or worse still, some watchdog of Carter’s … ?

  But then the car had accelerated to pass him like a shadow and just as silently, and the shadowy driver hadn’t even looked at him, just sat there staring straight ahead. And in a little while Trace’s nerves had stopped jumping.

  Then, on the North Circular just this side of the Golders Green turn-off, at a junction where the lights were just turning against him … that car again, or one very like it. Crouching there at right-angles to his path. Its eyes half-lidded. Its driver a soft black blot behind the sheen of glass, the brain of the beast. It was funny how the car had seemed more important than its driver. And yet not funny; it had struck Trace that quite obviously the machine was merely an extension of its driver; he would be a most mechanical man, a cold man, whoever he was. Trace remembered thinking that just before the light turned green for the car and it surged forward, inches away from his front wheel, crossed and disappeared into darkness. And again the driver hadn’t so much as glanced at him, and once more his nerves had been left leaping …

  Trace poured himself another drink and sipped at it, ran the sequence of events through again in his mind. Coincidence, that was all. And an overactive imagination. The car had been a Citroen or some such, a recent model or at least one with which Trace wasn’t familiar. And in all likelihood there had been two cars and not just one. The thing had seemed sinister because of the circumstances: an uncomplicated case of conscience. Trace dismissed it from his mind.

  He finished his drink, put a well cared for, old but unscratched Ray Charles blues long-player on the turntable with the sound turned down low, hid the loot from his motor-cycle’s panniers in a compartment behind a loose polystyrene ceiling tile and then had a hot shower. Towelling himself dry just as the record was finishing, he put it carefully away, switched off the lights and went to bed …

  … And came awake in an instant. After being asleep for only a moment or two. Or so it seemed.

  For a moment chaos.

  He had been dreaming.

  About last night.

  About gold.

  About the black car.

  And then … the telephone.

  It rang again, its jangling voice demanding that he pay attention. Trace sat up in his bed. 9 A.M., and someone ringing him? At this hour? What the hell … ?

  His friends knew he was never out of bed before 10:00.

  So, if not a friend … who?

  He swung himself out of bed and went unsteadily to the telephone, resisting the impulse to snatch it from its cradle. ‘Yes?’ he growled.

  ‘Charles Trace?’ enquired a male voice Trace didn’t know, whose accent was possibly Greek. Or maybe he did know him; there was a Greek smelter he sometimes used in Dockland.

  ‘Who wants him?’ he asked, stifling a yawn.

  The voice seemed to sigh – in relief? – then said: ‘You don’t know me – but I know you. Something of you, anyway. Can we meet?’

  There was an ill-concealed urgency in the voice; however cryptically, silently, nevertheless it begged that there be no questions, no arguments. Trace felt his heart pick up a little speed, knew that this was important. ‘Do you know where I live?’

  ‘Yes, you’re in the directory. It’s where I got your number – but no, not there. Somewhere else?’

  Trace considered it. ‘Close to where I live there’s a pub – a big one – on the corner. It’s quiet and I know the landlord. We can meet there if you like. When?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure. I’m at Gatwick Airport. How long will it take by taxi?’

  ‘Eh?’ Still not fully awake, Trace was now intrigued. ‘Jesus, I don’t know!’ He shrugged. ‘An hour, hour and a half. Look, when you get there just sit tight. I’ll let the boss of the place know you’re coming and he’ll give me a ring. Just tell him you’re waiting for Charlie, right? Hey, and are you sure you’ve got the right Charles Trace?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure. See you soon …’ And the phone went dead in Trace’s hand. Just like that. Weird …

  He phoned The Ship and spoke briefly to the landlord, then half-heartedly breakfasted on a poached egg, toast and coffee. After that he splashed cold water in his face, shaved, got dressed. And he wondered.

  A Greek, at Gatwick – probably just off a plane – who didn’t know London but knew him, and wanted to talk to him urgently. About what? Trace hadn’t wanted to ask on the phone. There might be something he didn’t want to hear – not without knowing who was saying it. He had no connections in Greece, did he? No, he didn’t. What then?

  What about last night and the black car? Someone putting the squeeze on him? But if so, why call from Gatwick? And wouldn’t there have been just a hint of dirty-dealing in the other’s voice? The suggestion of a knowing sneer?

  Trace wasn’t given much longer to think it out, however, for as he finished dressing the telephone rang again, causing him to start. He wasn’t used to a lot of traffic on the phone.

  ‘Charlie?’ This time the voice was female, soft and mildly seductive.

  ‘Jilly? Hi!’ Jilly was his current lady. Great fun but a little short on grey matter. She had picked him up in a bar a month ago. They would see each other two or three times a week and later spend the night either here or at her place, whichever seemed right at the time. He wasn’t serious about her and hoped it was mutual. Too heavy would be too much and he would have to get out. He hadn’t the time for permanent relationships; or rather, that sort of relationship didn’t appeal to him. Certainly not with Jilly. A beautiful body is great, yes, but there should be something of a mind in there, too. Trace didn’t consider this a cynical attitude. If he used her, it was no more than she did to him.

  ‘I gave you a ring last night,’ she said, and he could picture her pretty mouth forming a meaningless pout, ‘but you were out. And I couldn’t sleep so I phoned you again at half past twelve – and you were still out!’

  Trace sighed. This sounded a lot like he had feared might happen. Heavy. ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘I mean, I do go out, you know?’

  ‘OK,’ she said airily. ‘I’m not prying. Shall I come over?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Well it is Saturday! I thought we’d go out.’

  Trace tossed his head in annoyance, said: ‘Look, Jilly, I’m busy this morning. Why don’t I give you a call tonight, eh?’

  ‘Oh!’ she sounded disappointed.

  Trace nodded to himself, felt himself starting to turn sour. It would soon be time to get out. But sweetly, if that was at all possible. ‘I’ll book us a meal,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll go on to a casino for an hour or two. And finally back to your place. OK? We’ll use your car.’

  She brightened up. ‘OK. About 8:30?’

  ‘Fine. See you.’

  As he put the phone down he heard her blow him a kiss. Normally he’d respond to that in like fashion, but now he didn’t. A slow breakaway was the answer. Anyway, right now Jilly was the least of his problems.

  He phoned a fence in the Holloway Road, a ‘used bookshop’, and when he heard the familiar voice said: ‘Joe, this is Charlie. I told you I’d have some books later. I have them. There’s no real urgency but I’d like to get them to you soonest anyway.’

  “Ow many books, Charlie?’ Joe Pel
ham’s voice was all Cockney, gruff as gravel, just a trifle cautious.

  ‘Almost four kilos.’

  ‘Phew!’ said Pelham. And: “Oo’s been a naughty boy, then? You must’ve raided a bleedin’ library!’

  ‘When?’ said Trace, unable to keep back a grin.

  There came a scraping sound as Joe scratched thoughtfully at his permanent stubble. ‘Tuesday’s about the earliest I can take ’em, mate. Depends on the books, really. I mean, will I ‘ave any bovver shiftin’ ‘em? Are they first editions, mint, or what? Are they the sort of fings people will be on the lookout for?’

  ‘No,’ Trace answered, ‘not immediately. But I shouldn’t think you’d hang onto them too long. They may have a bit of worm and you’d want to avoid contagion. I got them job-lot from the widow of a collector. Maybe you’d like to speak to someone in the trade, split them up, like … ?’

  ‘You let me ’andle that end of it, my son,’ said Pelham. ‘Incidentally, ’oo was the deceased? A collector, you said? Anyone I’d know?’

  ‘You really wouldn’t want to know that, Joe,’ said Trace. ‘It’s morbid. Anyway, what will you give me?’

  ‘The usual: 60% face value. Best I can do in the circumstances – probably too good, in fact. What wiv worm and wotnot. But in any case that’s a fair bit, which is mainly why I can’t do it till Tuesday.’

  ‘OK. Tuesday, then. Give me a buzz when you’re ready.’

  ‘Too right, son,’ growled the other. ‘S’long …’

  The Ship’s upstairs rooms and bar were done out like the interior of a galleon, allegedly. It had always looked wrong to Trace, however, and he preferred to drink downstairs where there were four-seater booths which allowed something of privacy. When he walked in off the street in answer to the proprietor’s telephone call, he saw half a dozen regulars at the bar where the boss pulled pints, and an elderly, but sprightly, tall and rugged type sitting in one of the booths nursing a virgin pint. From behind the bar the boss caught Trace’s eye, nodded toward the man in the booth. Trace ordered a beer, took it with him and slid in opposite the stranger.

  They stared at each other for long moments, and Trace got the impression that the other sought for some mark or sign in his face, some pointer to his identity.

  Trace saw a Greek, but darker than the average London variety, whose handsome, leathery features were no strangers to strong sunlight. His aura was all Mediterranean; there was only one exception to a general impression of yellow walls, olive groves and donkeys hauling water, and that was his hair. His hair was white. There was no trace of black about it at all. It couldn’t be more white if he’d been an albino. Even for a man in his late sixties, which the Greek must be, still that snowy whiteness was somehow unnatural …

  Other than that … the Greek could easily pass for fifty. For his eyes were brown, very alert, almost anxious. In fact they were very nearly feverish, with a sort of trapped animal awareness about them. Young, worried eyes in an old face. A young spirit in an old body. That was how Trace saw him.

  In the coolness of the booth and under Trace’s close scrutiny, the Greek shivered a little. His suit, despite being very lightweight, was expensively cut; the ring he wore was heavy, solid gold; when he lit a cigarette from a fresh pack of Karelias, Trace saw that his lighter was also of gold. Obviously he wasn’t short of money. Obvious, too, that he’d come here straight from Greece. To see Trace. But why?

  What the Greek saw was this:

  A man he knew to be about twenty-five years old, but one like himself who looked younger than his years; a long, slim man, narrow-hipped and sinewy; a man quick to frown and very slow to smile, with some great, invisible weight on his narrow shoulders, seeming huge out of all proportion to his strength, but which he yet carried uncomplainingly. A pale man with a brush of fine, light-brown hair and thin brown eyebrows over intelligent green eyes, and a nose very slightly hooked, but not so as to spoil the generally clean lines of his features. A young man, yes, but entirely self-sufficient and far, far wiser than his years might allow. Or perhaps far more foolish. And a man who didn’t much like being studied like this.

  ‘I’m Charles Trace,’ Trace abruptly introduced himself without offering his hand. ‘And you – ?’

  The other shook his head. ‘For the moment my name is unimportant. Indeed, just knowing my name could place you in great danger. And you already have problems enough.’

  Trace’s thoughts and emotions whirled but he allowed no external sign of his agitation. This could only be the squeeze, blackmail. The Greek had something on him and was about to threaten him with exposure. That must be it. What else could it be?

  He forced a smile, said: ‘I have no problems, Mr, er, Unimportant? You have the problems, or else you wouldn’t have come to see me. And since I’m not much of a one for other people’s problems, it sort of looks like you’re on a duff mission. Or at best acting on duff information. But just for laughs, who sent you and what is it you want from me?’

  ‘I want nothing from you. I bring you something. A warning. And you think I’m on a mission, like a messenger? No one sent me, Charles Trace. Indeed I must be crazy just to have come here – because by doing so I may well have put my own life in jeopardy.’

  He was in earnest, Trace could see that. But a warning? And all this talk of danger and lives in jeopardy … ?’

  ‘Look,’ Trace said, ‘this is getting us nowhere. Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or am I going to walk out of here?’

  The stranger leaned forward across the table, drew back his lips from clenched teeth and glared at Trace. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me,’ he hissed. ‘My life is on the line just being here! Be grateful I’ve come, you English bastard, or I might be the one who walks out!’

  Trace made to stand up but the Greek grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, drew him back down with surprising strength, hit him with a sudden burst of information – about himself:

  ‘Your name is Charles Gordon Trace and your mother was evacuated out of Cyprus in early 1958 to give you birth. Her name was Diana Trace. She was unmarried, a nurse in the QARANCs, a very lovely girl. I know because I saw her, just once, on the night you were conceived. I also saw your father – and vowed to kill him! Since when it’s been as much as I can do to avoid being killed myself! Soon your father will come for you, and I know why. That’s why my life is on the line, and it’s why you’re in such danger. I mean it, Charles Trace – terrible danger!’ He released Trace’s arm, sat back, visibly calmed himself. ‘And now if you want to walk away – ’ and he nodded curtly toward the door. ‘Go on, walk.’

  Trace remained motionless but glanced toward the bar. They were too far from it – too insulated by the booth – for their conversation, however heated, to attract much attention. That was good, for now he could feel his own blood rising a little.

  ‘See,’ he said to the Greek, ‘I don’t like being kept in the dark. A little knowledge is not enough, not for me. I don’t want to know just part of it but all of it. And I’m only interested in the truth, for lies only lead to confusion. Up to now you’ve been both secretive and a liar. It doesn’t inspire much confidence.’

  ‘Mr Trace,’ began the other at once, ‘I assure you, I – ’

  ‘You lied about getting my number and address out of the directory. Oh, they’re in there, all right – along with God-only-knows how many other C. Traces! So how could you be so sure you had the right one, eh? Is it likely that you’d have come all the way from Cyprus or wherever without first doing a little homework? No, I think you’ve been interested in me for some time. You’ve had me watched, checked out’ (the black car?) ‘until you think you may have something on me. I think that right now you’re building up to some sort of blackmail demand, and that the rest of it – the “danger” and “lives in jeopardy” bit – is just so much shit!’

  ‘Mr Trace,’ the other started again, ‘I – ’

  ‘– But so far you’re not doing too well. For one thing your
homework has let you down. You say my father will come for me? But my father died out there in Cyprus, in a car crash in the Troodos Mountains in September 1957. At the time he was my mother’s fiance, a young lieutenant in the RAMC. That’s why she was unmarried when I was born. His name, incidentally, was – ’

  ‘– Lt Gregory Solomon, RAMC, wasn’t your father,’ said the Greek, which stopped Trace dead in his tracks. ‘Your real father’s name – ’ he paused, shook his head, brushed back suddenly damp white hair from a leathery brow. ‘Your real father has had many names. Look, the story’s a long one. It will take me all of an hour, maybe two, to tell it all. But be sure I’m not here to blackmail you, and I’m not a liar. Oh, I admit I knew about you before I came here. Certainly I’ve done my homework – I’ ve been doing it for quarter of a century! – but I couldn’t let you know too much too soon, for that might scare you off. So please believe me now, Charles Trace, that you have nothing to fear from me. But that soon, very soon, you will have much to fear. And I am the single person on the face of this entire world who can help you.’

  Trace was feeling more and more uncertain with each passing moment and it was beginning to show. Seeing this, the Greek urged: ‘Let me try to find some small but significant item which might convince you, something which no other man might reasonably be expected to know about you.’

  Trace narrowed his eyes. ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Such as this: the fact that you are not physically … perfect?’

  Trace felt a sympathetic tingle in his left foot, fought himself not to glance down at it. ‘Is anyone physically perfect?’ he asked.

  The Greek seemed to have expected a stronger reaction. He was sweating profusely now. ‘Look, we can’t stay here. This is almost as bad as being out in the open. He may be having you watched even now.’