by Brian Lumley
Then … three things, happening almost simultaneously.
One: Darcy Clarke’s voice, which Harry recognised immediately, shouting, “Wellesley, get out of there. Get the fuck out of there!” And his footsteps coming clattering down the corridor, and his cursing as he collided with a plant pot and stand and knocked them over.
Two: Harry throwing himself over backwards behind the armchair as finally Wellesley’s intention became clear, and hearing the angry whirrr of the bullet as the first shot went wide by an inch. And levering himself up to make a grab for the crossbow again, just in time to see the look on Wellesley’s face turn from a mixture of incomprehensible rage and murderous intent to one of sheerest horror as his eyes were drawn to something behind Harry, which caused them to flash wide and disbelieving in a moment.
Three: the crash of shattering glass and snapping of thin wooden mullions inwards as something wet and heavy and clumsy came plunging through the locked patio doors into the room, something which drew Wellesley’s fire from Harry to itself!
“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” the head of E-Branch screamed, emptying his gun over Harry’s head, which he’d now turned towards the shattered glass doors. And there, staggering from the impact of the shots but somehow managing to keep its feet, Harry saw something—indeed, someone, though who exactly it would be hard to tell—which he’d thought never to see again. And even though he didn’t know this one, still he knew him or it for a friend. For in the old days, all of the dead had been Harry’s friends!
This one was bloated, wet, intact, not long dead—but long enough to smell very badly. And behind it came a second corpse, dusty, withered, almost mummified, stepping through the frame of the shattered door. They were in their crumbling burial sheets and each of them carried a stone, advancing on Wellesley where he stood pinned to the wall, still yanking on the trigger of his empty gun.
And Harry could only crouch there watching, mouthing silent denials, as they drew close to the frenzied, maddened boss of E-Branch and began to raise their stones.
That was when the corridor light came on and Darcy Clarke stumbled into the room. His talent for survival—unfelt except by Darcy himself—was shrieking at him to get the hell out of here, almost physically driving him back. But somehow he fought it; and after all, the hostility of the dead wasn’t directed at him but at his boss. “Harry!” he yelled, when he saw what was happening in the room. “For God’s sake call them off!”
“I can’t,” Harry yelled back. “You know I can’t!” But at least he could put himself between them. He did that now, jumped forward, and somehow got between the dead things and Wellesley where he gibbered and frothed. And there they stood with their stones upraised, and the soggy one seeking to put Harry gently to one side.
He might have, too, but suddenly suicidal, Harry cried out, “No! Go back where you belong! It’s a mistake!” Or at least he tried to. But he only got as far as “go back where—” For he was forbidden to speak to the dead. But fortunately for Wellesley, the dead weren’t forbidden to heed him.
As Harry clapped his hands to his head and cried out, jerking like a spastic puppet as he crumpled up, so the dead men let fall their stones and turned away, and went out again into the night.
Strangled until now, Wellesley found his voice again; but it was a deranged voice if ever Darcy Clarke heard one. “Did you see? Did you see?” Wellesley gibbered. “I didn’t believe it, but now I’ve seen for myself. He called them up against me! He’s a monster, by God, a monster! But it’s the end of you, Harry Keogh!”
He’d freed the spent magazine from his gun and dropped it to the carpeted floor, and was in the process of bringing a fully loaded one out of his pocket when Clarke hit him with all the force he could muster. Gun and magazine went flying, and Wellesley hung there in his makeup, suspended from the crossbow bolt.
Then there were more running footsteps, and in the next moment the two-man backup team was there wondering what the hell was going on; and Darcy was down on the floor with Harry, holding him in his arms as the agonised man clutched at his head and gasped out his unbearable pain, and slid down into the deep, dark well of merciful oblivion …
A great deal occurred in the nine hours it took Harry to sleep it off. A security-screened doctor was called in to look at him, also to give Wellesley a shot that would keep him down awhile; Clarke got in touch with Sandra because he reckoned she should be in on this and should have been from the start; and as dawn came and went and both Harry and Wellesley were beginning to show signs of regaining consciousness, so a call came through from the duty officer at E-Branch HQ.
Darcy had, of course, already put HQ in the picture. He’d contacted the DO right after the excitement had died down to report everything that had happened and what he’d done, and at the same time to tender his resignation to the minister responsible. Also he’d suggested that someone might like to start thinking about a replacement for Wellesley, who was obviously several kinds of flake. And looking back on Wellesley’s plan to scare Harry Keogh into using the Möbius Continuum—which he, Darcy Clarke, had gone along with—Darcy reckoned he might be just a little on the flaky side himself!
Sandra, when she’d arrived looking worried as hell and after he’d explained things to her, had said as much in no uncertain terms and probably would have said a lot more, except she could see that Darcy was taking it badly enough already. She didn’t feel the need to blame him because he was so obviously blaming himself; so instead of ranting and raving and generally going to pieces, she’d simply sat with Harry through what was left of the night and into the morning. And just a few minutes ago, when everyone was into his third cup of coffee, that was when the telephone rang and it was HQ asking to speak to Darcy Clarke. He took the call, which was a long one, and when he was through had to sit down a minute and think about it.
They’d stretched Wellesley out on Harry’s bed upstairs, with one of the men from E-Branch watching him; Harry himself had a leather couch downstairs in the study where everything had happened, and where they’d draped a blanket over the broken patio doors to keep out the night chill; Sandra, Darcy, and the other E-Branch operative were all there with him, with nothing to do now except wait for him to wake up.
Except that now, following this telephone call, Darcy had quite a bit more to do, and the speed with which circumstances had changed had left him breathless. But Sandra had seen the full range of rapidly changing expressions on his face as he’d talked into the telephone; and now, catching a glimpse of the confusion in his mind—and the relief, and something of the shock, too?—she felt prompted to enquire, “What was that all about?”
Darcy looked at her and his bleary eyes slowly focused. Then he turned to the other agent and said, “Eddy, go up and keep Joe company, eh? And when Wellesley wakes up, tell him he’s under arrest!”
“What?” The other looked at him incredulously.
Darcy nodded. “That was the DO on the blower, and he had our minister right there with him. It seems our pal Norman Harold Wellesley has been fooling around a little with a suspicious character from the Russian embassy! He’s suspended forthwith, and we’re to deliver him to MI5 ASAP—which puts me right back in the chair. For now, anyway.”
As Eddy left to go upstairs, Darcy told Sandra, “Yes, but that’s just part of it. It never rains but it pours. We have a big problem.”
“We?” she said, shaking her head. “No, for I’m out of it, whatever it is. And I thought you were, too. Well, your resignation may have been turned down, but not mine. I’m through with the branch, as of now.”
“I understand that,” he said, “and I meant I have a problem rather than we. It’s not only business but personal, too. And I’m afraid I can’t quit until it’s sorted out. But you don’t want to hear about it, right?”
“Hearing won’t hurt,” she said.
“It’s Ken Layard and Trevor Jordan,” he began to explain. “They were out in the Aegean, Rhodes, keeping tabs on a load of drugs b
eing run through the Med. And now it seems they’ve come unstuck. Badly.”
“How badly?” Sandra had met the two men—in fact Jordan, the telepath, had been her sponsor—and she knew something of their talents and outstanding reputations.
“Very badly.” Darcy shook his head. “And … it’s weird! Something I’m going to have to look into myself. These were two of my closest friends.”
“Weird?” she repeated him. “Were?”
He nodded. “Over the last few days Trevor’s had a couple of minor problems. They thought it was overeating or drinking or something. Now apparently he’s a raving madman … or would be if he wasn’t under sedation in a Rhodes asylum! And the night before last—no, the one before that; when I’m tired like this my body clock goes out of whack—Ken Layard was fished out of the harbour half-full of water and with a bump on his head where he’d collided with something. Concussion, that’s all. Except as yet there’s no sign of a normal recovery. All of which smells very fishy to me.”
“What?” said Harry Keogh, fumbling the word out of a mouth that tasted highly toxic as he tried to sit up.
They sprang to his side, Darcy supporting him and Sandra hugging his head. “Are you all right, Harry?” She stroked his hair, kissed his forehead.
He freed himself, licked his lips, and said, “Be a love and make me a cup of coffee.” And as she left the room he focused on Darcy.
“Names,” he said.
“Eh?”
“You mentioned the names of some people,” Harry said again, seeming to find some difficulty in getting his tongue round the words. “People I’ve heard of, and met, in E-Branch.” He pulled a face. “God, my mouth tastes vile!” And then, suddenly remembering, his eyes went wide. “That idiot was trying to shoot me! And then—” Abruptly, he struggled upright, his eyes searching every corner of the room.
“All that was last night, Harry,” Darcy told him, knowing what he was looking for. “And … they’ve gone now. They went when you told them to.”
Some of the anxiety went out of Harry’s face, replaced by the bitter look of a man betrayed. “You were here,” he accused, “with Wellesley.”
Darcy didn’t deny it. “Yes,” he said, “I was, but for the last time. I was following orders, or trying to, but that’s no excuse. I was here, and shouldn’t have been. But from here on in … I have one more job to do, and then I’m out of E-Branch for good. I don’t think spying’s my style, Harry. And I know that shitting on my friends isn’t! As for Wellesley: I don’t think he’ll be much trouble from now on.”
“What?” Harry went deathly pale in a moment. “Don’t tell me they … ?”
Darcy shook his head. “No, they didn’t hurt him. You told them to go and they went. And then you folded up.”
Sandra was back with Harry’s coffee. “What’s this about names?” she said.
Harry took a mouthful of hot coffee, gave his head a tentative shake, and said, “Ow! God, my head!”
She took pills from her bag and gave them to him. He accepted them and washed them down. And: “Names, yes,” he said yet again. “The names of people in E-Branch. You were talking about them as I came to?”
Darcy told him about Layard and Jordan, and as he talked Harry’s face grew drawn, even haggard. Finally, when Darcy was done, Harry glanced at Sandra. “Well?”
She shrugged, looked mystified. “What are you getting at, Harry?”
“Tell him about the stones,” Harry said, “in the garden.”
And seeing his meaning at once, she gasped, “Ken L! And T. Jor!”
Now it was Darcy’s turn to look dumb. “Do you want to let me in on it?” he said.
Harry stood up, swayed a little, then headed for the patio doors. He was still in his pyjamas. “Be careful!” Darcy cautioned him. “There’s still a lot of glass there. We didn’t do much of a job of tidying up, I’m afraid.”
Harry avoided the glass and took down the blanket, and they followed him into the garden. In his bare feet he crossed the lawn, pointed to a fresh series of stones where they’d been laid out on the grass. “There,” he said. “That’s what they were doing when Wellesley jumped me—which, incidentally, you might like to try explaining sometime when you’ve a week or two to spare!” This was directed at both of them.
“Harry.” Sandra was quick to protest. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“But you do work for the branch.”
“Not anymore,” she said. And then, because she was afraid of losing him, she let it all out in a breathless rush. “Try to understand, Harry. At first you were just a job, but different to any other they ever gave me. Also, what I was doing was for your benefit; that’s what they told me. But they didn’t plan—and I didn’t plan—on my falling in love with you. That just happened, and now they can stuff their job.”
Harry smiled in his wan way, then staggered a little. She at once caught him, held him up. “You shouldn’t even be on your feet! You look terrible, Harry!”
“I’m still a bit dizzy, that’s all,” he answered. “Anyway, what you were saying: I heard all that, too, when I was waking up. And what the hell, I think I’ve always known that you were one of theirs. You and Old Man Bettley. So what? So was I, once. And let’s face it, I can use all the help I can get, right?”
Darcy was still looking at the stones, his forehead creased in a frown. “Does this mean what I think it means?” he asked. They all looked at the incomplete word:
RHODF
“Rhodes,” said Harry, nodding. “They didn’t have time to finish the E and the S, that’s all. And now it all adds up.”
“But to what?” Sandra and Darcy said together.
Harry looked at them and made no attempt to hide his fear. “To something I’ve been praying wouldn’t happen, and yet half expecting ever since I returned from Starside,” he said. Then he shivered and added, “Let’s get inside.” And for the moment that was all he would say about it …
When Wellesley woke up and Darcy told him it looked like he was in big trouble, at first he was full of bluster. But then he had to face down Harry, too, and that was when he caved in. He knew how lucky he was that he wasn’t a murderer, knew, too, that Harry hadn’t let his dead friends kill him, even though he’d had the right and couldn’t have been blamed for it. What’s more, he knew what it had cost Harry to call them off. And so he told everything, the whole story: how he’d been recruited by Gregor Borowitz because of his negative talent (the fact that his mind couldn’t be read) and how he’d been a sleeper until they tried to activate him.
Harry had been their chief interest—though doubtless they would have got around to the rest of E-Branch, too, when they were satisfied that he was no longer a player—and so Wellesley had been feeding them details of his progress. But when it had seemed that Harry might be on the verge of new things, they’d wanted rid of him. Harry, with his old powers returned to him, or maybe new talents they hadn’t even heard of, would be just too dangerous …
Then Darcy had given his men their orders, to take the ex-head of the branch back to London and hand him over, and finally he’d spent a long session on the telephone talking to the minister responsible. One subject had been Nikolai Zharov, Wellesley’s Russian contact. He was still loose somewhere, and, alas, would stay loose for the time being. Since he was diplomatically immune, they couldn’t even pick him up. Eventually a protest would be made to the Soviet embassy, requiring Zharov’s expulsion for the usual “activities inconsistent with …” etc.
By the time Darcy was through, Harry had a lot more coffee inside him and a bite of brunch, and was looking more his usual self. Not doleful, Darcy thought, just sort of placid and not entirely with it. He reminded him of nothing so much as a powerful hand torch minus its batteries. Fully charged, he could really shine, but right now there wasn’t even a spark.
Or maybe there was.
“When are you going to Rhodes?” Harry asked him.
“Now, as soon as I can get a fl
ight out. I’d be out of here right now but I wanted to be sure you were okay first. I reckoned I owed you that at least, and probably a lot more. But I want to arrange to get Trevor and Ken out of there, if they can be moved. Also, I have to see if I can discover what they came up against. Their Greek liaison man is still out there and might be able to help me on that.” He looked at Harry speculatively. “And I had hopes that you might be able to help me, too, Harry, what with these … messages you’ve been getting, and all.”
Harry nodded. “I have my suspicions,” he said, “but we’d all better pray I’m wrong! See, I know the dead wouldn’t harm me; they wouldn’t deliberately risk hurting me. And yet this thing is so important to them, or to me, that it’s almost as if they’ve been tempting me into conversation! But my son did a hell of a good job on me. I don’t remember my dreams in any detail—not the ones which they send me, anyway—and I can’t try to clarify them. And as for the Möbius Continuum … God, I can’t add two and two without it comes out five!”
Darcy Clarke had personal experience with the Möbius Continuum. Harry had taken him there once, taken him through it. From here, this very house, to E-Branch HQ in London over three hundred miles away. And that had been a trip Darcy would never forget, and he hoped never repeat, all the days of his life. Even now, these years later, it was printed on his memory in vivid detail.
There had been darkness on the Möbius strip, the primal darkness itself, as it was before the universe began. A place of negativity, yes, where darkness lay upon the face of the deep. And Darcy had thought that this could well be that region from which God had commanded Let There Be Light, and caused the physical universe to split off from the metaphysical void.
There had been no air, but neither had there been time, so that Darcy didn’t need to breathe. And without time there was likewise no space; both of these essentials of a universe of matter had been absent. But Darcy hadn’t ruptured and flown apart, because there’d been nowhere to fly to!
