Harry and the Pirates_and Other Tales from the Lost Years

by Brian Lumley

  Harry watched him drive away, but at a bend some two hundred yards away the car stopped and Forester got out. The Necroscope wondered if perhaps the constable was intending to have a few more words with the thugs; seeing no sign of Jim and Kevin, however, something warned Harry to step into a gap in the hedge where he could watch Forester without himself being seen.

  And when he peered out along the road:

  There was the constable, standing tall on the top step of a stile, staring intently towards Hazeldene through his binoculars. At which Harry could only shake his head in wonder.

  What, yet another mystery? It would certainly seem so. . . .

  Most of the time, the Necroscope had no problem making use of a rather exotic means of transportation—in fact tele-portation—which he called the Möbius Continuum: something he’d acquired from another friend and mentor, the long-dead German astronomer and brilliant mathematician August Ferdinand Möbius of Leipzig. On certain fortunately rare occasions, however, when experiencing a mild form of paranoia, Harry would use the Continuum only sparingly; this was mainly out of fear of being observed during the operation of the thing. For it wouldn’t do to be seen quite literally disappearing out of this world, or for that matter to be witnessed reemerging out of nowhere back into it!

  Today, up until now, had been just such an occasion; Harry had so far avoided instantaneous mobility partly as a result of this paranoia, partly from a genuine sense of nostalgia. For he really had played in these fields and along these woodland ways as a child, and walking here again had conjured mainly friendly memories of his boyhood. The past, in which he had known little of the true horrors of the world—horrors he had now faced and must surely go on to face again—had felt far less threatening than the known present and unknown future. . . .

  But now there were things the Necroscope must investigate, tasks which he knew could be performed much more efficiently by means of the Möbius Continuum. First he wanted to know what had so fascinated a policeman like Jack Forester that he spied upon it in secret, and he knew that the object of that fascination—whatever it proved to be—lay to the west in the direction of the valley of Hazeldene.

  All well and good, for Harry felt sure that the source of the oh-so-faint voices—so very faint they might even seem to be calling from the stars—lay somewhere in that same sprawling expanse of gloomy, uncut woodland with its narrow paths and tracks known only to the gamekeepers . . . for the ancient forest was private now and belonged to a landowner.

  And who could say? Despite the seemingly long odds against such mysteries being connected, maybe the Necroscope would somehow manage to kill two birds with one stone. Except, Harry told himself wryly, where killing is concerned, I know the owners of those phantom voices are already dead. . . .

  As for how he would proceed:

  Forester had been gazing not only towards Hazeldene but also in the direction of a cluster of derelict barns and buildings known to the Necroscope from teenage times as Bellingham’s Farm. Now, in a short series of Möbius jumps, Harry would move as close as possible to the ruins and there, if only to satisfy his own curiosity, would try to locate the object of Constable Forester’s. Successful or not, he would then use the dilapidated farm as the first of three Möbius co-ordinates, employing triangulation to pinpoint the more or less precise location of . . . the location of—

  —But of what? Best start thinking of it, Harry supposed, as the unquiet grave of a number—very possibly a large number—of terrified dead ones. Because for the time being he had no other name for it. . . .

  The one known to the ancient Thing in the woods as the Searcher was close by. The Thing “sensed” the unmistakable essence of an enemy, a being bent on revenge: the Searcher!

  There had been others scattered down the lonely centuries; as time passed they had all wearied of searching for the Thing, or they had simply grown old and died. Their lives were of very short duration, after all. This one, however, was very persistent. Spring or summer, fall or winter, he would be there, sometimes on the rim of the forest, at other times deep within, his scent radiating from him as it had on that warm summer day when he’d fallen asleep at the edge of the woods after embracing with a companion, and the Thing had stolen her away. Then, following a brief hiatus—a pause that was at least brief to the Thing—this one had returned as the Searcher, his essence changed from a warm, benevolent flux not unlike the bodily wafts and emanations of lesser creatures, to a bitterly cold flow of implacable hatred. His underlying scent, however—which was of the blood and so unchanged—had been instantly recognisable.

  And so the cat and mouse game had commenced. . . .

  The theft of the Searcher’s companion that time was only the most recent example of the Thing’s occasional requirement: the abstraction of sustenance of that nature. And it had taken place a good many summers ago; not very long at all to a Thing of numberless years for whom the very concept of time scarcely had meaning; in whose perceptions the seasons of Earth came and went like so many days and nights. But as for the Thing’s periodic urge to satisfy certain needs in that fashion: it was only an “occasional” requirement, yes; for while it might feel tempted to indulge itself whenever the opportunity arose, a certain event remembered from the past warned of the potentially lethal cost of such feasting, if or when currently quiescent creatures should find a reason to rise up in anger and come searching in the depths of the woods for an ancient Thing.

  And so, because even one Searcher was too many, the Thing knew to keep itself hidden away. The difficulties it would face if there were more of them—and the vengeance they might wreak if its hungers got out of control—simply did not bear contemplation. For the ancient Thing remembered the terrible heat and awful stench, and the crackle and whoosh! of the fire which had taken each and every other member of its species, offering them up to the stars in the form of so much smoke and drifting ash!

  Which was not the way to go!

  Ahhhhh! But it also remembered how very sweet it had been on those occasions when it had given in to its needs and urges, and it kept these memories fresh by prisoning its dead victims’ souls so that it might listen to their undying cries of outrage and horror! Which to the Thing’s way of thinking—in its cognizance or consideration—was by no means an act of monstrous cruelty. For emotionless except for those aforementioned “pleasures,” it probably wouldn’t even recognise the concept of malevolent intent. Does an octopus consider the ingestion of living molluscs cruel? No, it doesn’t consider it at all except as the taking of sustenance. It is simply octopus evolution: a requirement necessary for the survival of species, the renewal of like kind.

  And so, in the near future, when the Thing would reproduce and bring about the renewal of its like kind, then, Searcher or no Searcher—with all possible terrors set aside—its needs must be satisfied and another sentient creature taken.

  But ahhhhh! It would be sweet again, and when all was done . . . yet another trophy voice adding to the chorus of those gone before, crying into the void that lies beyond life. And only an ancient Thing to hear and enjoy that chorus and the memories it brought—

  —Or so the Thing thought. . . .

  From the top step of the stile where Jack Forester had used his binoculars to gaze toward the ruins of Bellingham’s Farm, Harry scanned the horizon in all directions and made sure that he was quite alone. Then, stepping down into the field on the far side of the fence, he moved behind the hedge.

  It had been quite a while since the young couple he had saved from their awkward, even threatening situation had moved on, and Harry had allowed yet more time since the departure of Constable Forester’s police car. Until at last, satisfied that he couldn’t be spied upon, he shuttered his eyes, conjured Möbius math, and set the dead scientist’s incredible metaphysical formulae scrolling and mutating down the screen of his mind.

  A moment more and a Möbius door, invisible to anyone else, took shape before him. It was like a patch of utter darkness,
a black hole framed by the real or physical universe; except this immaterial door—this portal on a “place” that lay parallel to all space and time which Harry had named the Möbius Continuum—was also very real, and he knew how to use the weird dimension that it guarded.

  Harry had gazed across the fields at a near-distant hedgerow which he would use as a co-ordinate. Now he stepped through the door preparatory to going to the hedge, and saw that within the Continuum it was as it had always been: a nowhere and nothingness that yet held the secrets of everywhere and everything, the original and selfsame Totality that existed before ever God demanded, “Let there be light!” It was a “place,” yes, which was the simplest and the only way to describe it; a place where the absence of physicality was utter, where thoughts had weight and time was nonexistent, so that not a single moment of the Necroscope’s personal time passed between his entering the Continuum and his leaving it.

  Now he stood beside a hedge which, the last time that he’d looked at it, had been a third of a mile away! While across the fields the derelict old farm buildings were of course that much closer. . . .

  Still unseen, Harry conjured and used the Continuum again, and yet again, until he arrived at his destination. Except this last time, upon emerging as from nowhere, he saw how very fortunate he was that his coming had not been observed.

  Constable Jack Forester’s police car, parked with its door standing open, was the first thing to inform of the presence of others, followed by shouting and wild cries of pain or protest. Hurrying round a corner of fallen farmhouse wall, where a stone chimney stuck up from the debris like an obscene gesture, Harry stepped into the open. His sudden arrival, however, went unnoticed by the two who were there; they were concentrating on what they were doing: Jack Forester, sitting on and apparently beating a yelping, struggling, shabbily dressed younger man on the ground, and the latter fending off the policeman’s blows while protecting his face and wincing eyes with his forearms.

  “Hey!” Harry called out, moving forward. “What on earth is going on? Is that you, Jack Forester?” He knew full well it was the constable, of course, but felt he really ought to intervene in what seemed a very unequal fight where the young tramp—who or whatever he was—was sure to get the worst of it. Also, in Harry’s judgement and from what he already knew of Forester, he was fairly sure that the policeman wasn’t by any means a brutal man; which meant that some sort of explanation seemed in order. As he drew closer to the pair on the ground, however, it became clear that Forester wasn’t so much punching the other as trying to slap him. Not only that but the constable was actually sobbing!

  Coming to a halt in the dusty, rubble-strewn farmyard, the Necroscope said, “Oh!” because he didn’t know what else to say. And Forester stopped his unproductive attack on the man beneath him, got slowly to his feet, and brushed himself down with shaking hands. Looking at Harry, he saw the Necroscope staring back at him; at his gaunt, dusty cheeks streaked with tears. And:

  “The dust is . . . it got in my eyes,” the constable lied by way of explanation, his voice close to breaking.

  “So I see,” said Harry, seeing nothing of the sort. “But I still don’t know what’s going on.”

  Forester stooped, picked up his hat, and positioned it carefully on his head before answering. Then, scowling at Harry, he snarled, “Just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Mr. Keogh? I’m not one of your colliery thugs that you can practice your karate on. I’m the law around here and nobody questions me or talks to me like that!”

  “No,” said his younger victim, as he propped himself up on one elbow, “and nobody can talk sense to you either, that’s for sure!”

  “Why you filthy, twisted, lying—” Forester turned to him again, and for a moment Harry thought he was going to kick him. But then the policeman spun around and without another word set off towards his car. The Necroscope remained silent, watched him out of sight around the corner of the derelict building, waited until he heard the police car driving away. Then he went to the man on the ground, offered a hand, and helped him to his feet.

  “What happened here?” he enquired. “What is going on? What does he have against you? And if it’s that bad, then why didn’t he arrest you?”

  “Arrest me?” said the other bitterly, as he dusted himself off. “Oh, he’d like to I’m sure. But no, he can’t do that. It’s this double jeopardy thing, you know? And anyway, the way he is—the state his mind is in—it isn’t his fault. I don’t . . . I mean I can’t blame him.” And he shook his head.

  Harry thought: This man is quite obviously intelligent. He may look like a tramp: unshaven, attired in old, secondhand or charity-shop-soiled clothing, but that’s just part of the overall jigsaw puzzle. Just another part that doesn’t seem to fit.

  Now he studied the man more closely, albeit as unobtrusively as possible. Five ten or close to; lank, mousy hair; gangly limbs and a somewhat unbalanced or lopsided stance; and a long, oh-so-sad, deeply lined face—even an old face on his youngish body. So maybe he wasn’t so young after all. Whichever, it appeared that he was aware of the Necroscope’s scrutiny, and as if he’d read Harry’s mind he said, “I don’t fit the picture, do I? I don’t look the type that policemen go around beating up on.”

  “No, you don’t.” Shaking his head, Harry again offered his hand. “I’m Harry Keogh. I lived in Harden and grew up here, but right now I’m just a visitor.”

  “Greg Miller.” The other took his hand and shook it. “I do still live here, and some people resent it: Constable Forester, for instance. But, as I believe I already mentioned, he has his reasons. Anyway, I’m thankful for your timely intervention. Not that he would have hurt me too much. He never does.”

  “Really?” said Harry, feeling utterly baffled. “Well look, er, Greg?” (But Greg Miller? A name that rang certain bells out of the past? It seemed possible.) “While I know it’s none of my business, would you mind . . . I mean do you think you could perhaps explain some of that? You mentioned double jeopardy, which hints of a crime. Your crime, maybe?”

  “You’re dead right, Harry,” the other told him, “it’s none of your business. And as for explaining my ‘crime’: well yes, I do mind! So please excuse me, but if you don’t already know the story I’m not about to enlighten you. It was a long time ago and . . . look, I’ve been called a lunatic far too often already! But just wait and see. Eventually it will happen again, and when it does they’ll all . . . huh!” Pausing abruptly, Miller gave a massive start and glanced anxiously at the green wall of Hazeldene some hundred and fifty yards away. And as a puff of cotton-wool cloud passed unhurriedly over the face of the sun and the shadows grew longer in the ruined farmyard, so the colour seemed to drain from his face and he quite visibly shivered.

  “Greg?” said the Necroscope, suddenly aware of an ominous darkening—not only of the light but of the atmosphere—and of an oppressive weirdness here. “Now what in the name of . . . ?”

  But as the cloud passed and the farmyard was flooded with sunlight once more, so the other looked at him, shook his head, and in a husky dust-dry voice said, “That’s right, Harry, don’t ask—because you just wouldn’t understand. You have to be able to feel it, to have known it, to understand it. Which is why no one else understands or believes in it. It’s too . . . it’s just too . . .”

  He broke off, shook his head as if lost for words, turned away, and set off determinedly if unsteadily out of the farmyard in the direction of near-distant Hazeldene.

  But while Miller couldn’t know it he was in part mistaken in what he’d said, because Harry had definitely felt something. On the other hand he was also right in that Harry didn’t understand it . . . at least not yet. But for a fact Miller’s name had found resonance in the Necroscope’s memory, making a connection that only served to increase his curiosity. And so:

  “You think I wouldn’t understand?” said Harry, following a few paces behind the other. “So why not try me? I’m no stranger to fantastic st
ories, Greg. I’ve heard—and done—some rather odd things in my time, and I’m a pretty good listener.” (All of which was an absolute understatement if ever there was one.)

  But as for Greg Miller: he wasn’t listening at all. And as Harry came to a halt so the other carried on, his gaze fixed on Hazeldene’s green border rising up unbroken beyond a field that had lain fallow for too many years.

  The Necroscope watched him until he merged with the rim of the woods, then shook himself mentally and thought to return to the other half of his original plan: to triangulate the phantom voices. But alas when he concentrated, when he tried to tune in on them with his esoteric talent, they were no longer there. It felt almost as if . . . as if they had deliberately shut down. In fact he might even take it one step further and say he believed that they had been shut down, and that whatever it was that had controlled or restricted their volume previously—causing them to be so faint—that same power was now blanketing, smothering their cries to total silence. . . .

  Back in the farm ruins Harry hid himself away in the shell of a roofless room, conjured a Möbius door, and used it to return to the co-ordinates of Jimmy Collins’ garden just inside the gate. The high walled garden was exactly as he’d left it: with a pair of deck chairs facing each other across five feet of neatly cropped grass. Somewhere inside the house Jimmy was whistling as he worked, breaking off now and then as he remembered the words to various parts of a song by Elvis Presley, and singing them. Not a bad impersonation at that, thought Harry, wondering what kind of songs Elvis was doing now. Having been dead for a while, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll would have settled in with many of his own kind, musicians who had gone that way before him. But one thing seemed certain: whatever music they were playing and songs they were singing now, they wouldn’t be dirges!

  “Hey!” Harry called out—at which the whistling and singing at once stopped. “Jimmy, I’m back.”