by Jack Gerson
The woman who called herself Margaret Hitching spoke quickly, 'But we told you, Mr Crane, we don't know...'
"You know all right,' he insisted. 'And I know you know!'
'My dear Sir, Graydon was on his feet. 'My sister has told you...'
He faltered and his speech died like an actor who had dried on his lines. In the silence Crane felt assurance grow within him, an assurance he hadn't felt since before Julia's death, since before the dreams of the white room.
As he stood looking down at the three figures they seemed to diminish, to grow distant; they seemed to become as something ugly, as a trio of insects crawling in front of him. A feeling of his own power grew within him and, though he neither liked nor wanted the feeling, it was there and he knew it would be necessary to his survival.
From a distance he heard the girl's voice. 'It's no use. He knows.'
'Tell me where Drexel is,' he demanded, and the second he uttered the words he knew they were unnecessary. He could find Drexel without their help. Their impersonations had failed and they were of no further importance; discarded props in a play on which the curtain had fallen.
Down in the village, Anne stirred uneasily in the bar and walked across to the door, standing framed in it staring out into the street. Bright sunlight flooded the village but over to the east in the direction of Anscott Lodge a cloud had appeared, dark, almost black against the blue of the sky.
Turning, Anne looked back to the innkeeper.
What had he said about the Lodge. People kept coming and going. No permanency. A safe house? A refuge for the hunted. She was sure now that Oliphant was right, that Drexel was at Anscott Lodge. And Crane had gone there on his own. What had he said to her? Wait until four o'clock and then call Scott-Erskine. She looked at her watch. Five minutes past three. Fifty-five minutes. And then it might be too late.
She sat in the inglenook by the door of the inn. Too late for what, Tom had asked her. Too late to stop what had happened in Edinburgh happening again. She remembered Crane's description of the walk from Drexel's bookshop, the street lights going out one by one, darkness and twisting shapes around him. And she remembered the dead body of Margaret Christie; and the body of Julia covered by a sheet lying in the hospital morgue. Again she remembered the blankness of Margaret Christie's eyes as if the act of death was an eraser that obliterated humanity from the depths of the eyes.
But what was death? The oldest question in the world. The Omega Factor, this was the ultimate quest of Department Seven. Oh, they could talk about the powers of the mind harnessed to the defence of the realm but, to Anne, the Omega Factor was an understanding of the nature of death.
She thought, Tom Crane, if you are in danger from death, remember others who could help with their minds, their souls, if such an unscientific entity existed. And then the thought came to her, remember Julia. Remember the love she had for you.
Anne rose from the inglenook and started to walk out and along the road towards the Lodge. She walked slowly but determinedly. She was going to be near Tom Crane.
Now Crane stood in the hall of the Lodge, the walls covered with framed pictures, a history in themselves of cartoons from Hogarth to the present day. 'The Rake's Progress' lined one section of one wall, and opposite a framed series of cartoons of contemporary British politicians seemed to mock the humanity of the men they portrayed.
The woman who called herself Margaret Hitching and the man who called himself Charles Graydon were behind him, in the lounge, knowing their deception had failed and with its failure they were out of the picture.
The girl, Elspeth, had followed Crane into the hall. She tried to grip his arm, to pull him back, muttering to him as she did so.
'Leave it alone, Crane. You can't win. You can't destroy the old man. Stay with me and he won't touch you.'
Crane smiled. Her artifice was so obvious. Like a bad movie. A younger version of Judith Anderson as Herodias in Salome. Not quite good enough to be Rita Hayworth. He shook her hand from his arm. And he was walking towards a door at the end of the hall, a heavy oak door studded with ornamental nails, an old door, older than the house itself.
The girl fell back, standing in the centre of the hall.
'If you go through that door you will be a dead man,' she said coldly and then turned and went back into the lounge.
Crane came to the door, reached out and opened it. The door rasped as it opened outwards. Crane stepped through.
A flight of stone stairs ran downwards, presumably towards the cellars of the Lodge. Crane went down calmly, surprised indeed at his own calmness and lack of fear. He knew he had to go down the stairs and he went, keeping his mind cool and unemotional.
At the foot of the stairs was another door. As he put his hand on the doorknob it was as if a current of electricity, not powerful but strong enough to cause a tingling sensation, went through his hand and up his arm. Crane knew it was not an electric current but something else, an outflow of power. Pushing the door open he went through.
He was standing now on an open landing looking down into a large, high-ceiling cellar. Bulkhead light fittings around the walls illuminated the entire cellar, and on one side Crane could see a long trestle table on which were various banks of electronic apparatus. Sitting staring into a cathode ray tube was the girl, Morag, her eyes staring at the green screen. It was as if she was monitoring her own Alpha waves.
'Of course I should have known those idiots upstairs would not mislead you, Crane,' said Drexel. He was standing at the centre of the cellar, staring up at Crane, a humourless smile contorting his lips.
'Come down, come down,' he went on.
Crane came down the thick wooden stairs from the landing. The floor at the foot was made up of heavy flagstones uneven with age. As he came down he became aware of the fact that Drexel, standing in the centre of the floor, was also at the centre of a diagram outlined on the flagstones. It was a pentagram.
As if reading his mind Drexel went on. 'Oh, yes, I am in the centre of the pentagram. It gives protection, you know. Or perhaps you only believe in the scientific side of research like this.' He nodded towards the apparatus.
'Protection against what?' Crane asked, reaching the foot of the stairs.
Drexel shrugged, running his hand across the halo of white hair that ringed his balding head.
'Of course deep down, Mr Crane, you don't really believe in magic, do you? Oh, you believe in certain forces which you think in time will be explained by your science, is that not so?'
Crane stared at him without replying.
Drexel went on. 'But do they explain what came to Oliphant and burned his brain to a charred cinder? Do they explain what pursued you on the night you left my shop in Edinburgh?'
'Something you placed in my mind,' Crane broke his silence.
'I'm flattered,' Drexel replied. 'But that's too easy. That's hypnotism and I'm not a hypnotist. No, no, my dear fellow, I am able to conjure entities from beyond the darkness. They call it Black Magic, but I prefer another appellation. An ability to tap powers in the outermost regions of the universe and bring them here to assist me in whatever task I set myself.'
'Such as murder?'
'Such as the removal from this plain of existence of those who stand in the way of my objectives. Of course it makes one sound quite villainous, doesn't it? And yet in my own terms I'm no villain, Mr Crane. I merely pursue certain objectives in the interests of myself or others.'
'An organisation called Omega?'
'Perhaps. If such an organisation existed. You will find it difficult to prove. I'm not even sure myself if Omega does exist. I only know I'm approached to obtain certain information with whatever powers are at my disposal.'
'Department Seven's computer?' Crane asked and was pleased to see Drexel's eyebrows rise in surprise.
'Oliphant must have talked quite a bit before he died. Ah, well,' Drexel shrugged again. 'One has to admire the amassing of information by Department Seven. They have stumbled upon
data I have struggled all my life to find. The power of the human brain analysed in case after case, itemised, taken apart and studied to a point where many of the old secrets, the magical secrets have been redefined in scientific terms. And the progress towards using them in... what would your Professor Scott-Erskine call it . V. the defence of the realm... becomes almost a practicality.'
'You've been able to tune into the computer?' It was more a statement than a question from Crane.
A smile from Drexel. 'Normally to plug into the information in a computer one needs the key... the sequence of numbers that allows one access to information stored in the computer. But you see I found that by the use of certain psychic energies, just as one can enter the mind of another, one can enter the mechanical mind of the computer, and reproduce it with my own equipment.'
'Julia knew you were able to do that?'
Your wife suspected something. When one uses energy, psychic or otherwise, it often registers on electronic cells, on electronic tape. Your wife knew something was happening within the computer she controlled.'
'So you killed her? You killed her and I thought you were trying to kill me.'
'Both of you, Mr Crane. Julia was of course the imperative but you too were dangerous. You have an ability I admire. A psychic ability almost as strong as my own.'
A thought struck Crane. Or was it a glimpse into Drexel's mind. Crane glanced across at the girl, Morag, who sat, back to them, staring at the cathode ray tube.
'Almost as strong as yours?' Crane asked. 'And yet you need that child. Just as you needed Mrs Devereaux. Possibly Margaret Christie and Lawson. Because you need a psychic to work through. You can't do it on your own!'
A fleeting expression of alarm crossed the old man's face. It was quickly dispelled. The smile returned.
'Anyway, Crane, now it's over. The searching, the ideas of revenge. Because now I can finish what I began when your wife was killed. Don't think too badly of me. It's simply the expedient thing to do.'
He glanced around at Morag. The girl turned from the bank of instruments and stared at Crane. For a moment Crane felt uncertainty and saw, across the girl's face, a hesitant expression and with it a look of regret.
Then it started.
Like black ink seeping across his vision, an aura of evil seemed to gather in front of his eyes and move towards him. He felt the hairs on the back of his head prickle and inside his head there came a feeling of pressure. Through the blackening haze the figure of Drexel seemed to grow larger.
'From beyond the great star, Sirius, it comes, Crane. The conjuration of the Dog invokes one of the great elementals, one of the demons upon whom it is death to look. Of course you will prefer to believe I'm planting something in your brain. But you'll see...'
Crane rejected the words as a fantasy from the man's sick mind. Yet he knew, at the same time, that something evil was being released against him and to survive he would have to fight.
The throbbing in his head increased and then suddenly a massive blow struck him from the front, as if some giant surface had slammed against him. He was thrown back against the stone wall at the foot of the stairs and as he lay, back against the wall, legs sprawled out on the stone floor, he felt, not a relaxation of pressure but an increase against his spine.
He heard a sound and realised it was his own voice moaning with the pressure and the pain.
'Only the start, Crane, only the beginning. When it's finished, the moment before you die, you'll wish you'd been killed in that car smash with your wife.' Drexel's voice seemed to come from a great distance.
It was the mention of Julia's death that made him realise he had to begin to fight. But first he had to rid himself of the pressure on his spine and of the pounding in his head.
At first he squirmed ineffectually against the wall, hoping that with movement he would somehow evade the pressure. It was to no avail. It was inside his body and gaining strength. He knew, and the thought was as agonising as the fact, that if he did not ease the pressure his spine would snap. And he knew too that if that happened the paralysis that would ensue would not kill him but leave him immobile and open to further torment.
The room was spinning around him now and he was aware that there was only one way of escaping. He had to project himself from the tormented shell that was his body.
He tried to relax, to accept the pain without fighting, without straining every muscle to fight it. As he did so he was aware of a brief easing of pressure as if whatever he was fighting was surprised at this new reaction. Almost immediately the pressure started to build up again but it had given Crane enough time to do what had to be done. Physically relaxed, he concentrated mentally.
Then he was above the room, looking down on the exhausted body that he knew was his own.
Drexel knew too because he looked around, baffled by a change in circumstances that he had not expected.
'A man of many talents, Crane. But it won't help you,'
Drexel shouted against the sound of a great wind which blew around the awareness of himself that was Tom Crane. The cellar dissolved and Crane seemed to be standing on the perimeter of the great dark plain that stretched to infinity. Shapes broke the view of the horizon, twisted clumps of darker quality intersecting the middle distances.
And across the plain it came.
A form that was almost formless, a shape that changed shape every second of its existence; the visible invisible manifestation of the elemental, of the very evil of the nature of the elemental.
The shape embraced the awareness of Tom Crane.
Anne Reynolds reached the open door of Anscott Lodge. She had walked up the drive, feet crunching across the pebbles, walked slowly at first but as an awareness that something was wrong in the house came to her she started to run.
The entrance hall was deserted. The lounge door was open and there was a girl half lying across a sofa, eyes open but glazed as if in a state of shock. Although Anne didn't know it, the girl was Elspeth.
Anne lifted her and shook her. The eyes focused, glazed and focused again. She stared at Anne.
'Where is Tom Crane?' Anne demanded.
The girl looked around vaguely.
'The others... they've gone. They were afraid...' the girl giggled inanely.
'Crane! Where's Crane?' Anne repeated.
'Crane... Crane... oh, he'll soon be dead. If he isn't already...'
'For God's sake, where is he?' Anne's voice was filled with desperation. It was a desperation that came from deep within her; from the realisation that she needed and cared for Tom Crane.
'Below... underneath the house,' the girl giggled again.
Anne left her and went into the hall. The door at the end of the hall was open. She went towards it and as she did so a blast of ice cold air greeted her. She started to shiver but knew it was not the cold that was causing the shivering but the fear that possessed her.
Then the house started to shake with a low rumbling sound, the woodwork on the walls creaking in protest, the stones of the building shifting imperceptibly and grinding against each other.
Anne went through the door and down towards the cellar.
Crane was struggling. He was fighting against the shadow of the darkness that was closing around him. Within the darkness tongues of fire licked out at him, and pain stabbed into him from all sides. And within the darkness he was beginning to perceive the nature of the elemental. Malformations of the human body joined to other malformations, created shapes of an ugliness that seemed to grow and feed upon itself. Eyes, white to yellow, peered towards him, a multitude of eyes around him. Images came into his vision.
A skull stared up at him from the dark sockets that had contained the eyes, maggots crawled, spilt out onto the bone of the cheeks. A hand, thin to the point of being skeletal, covered in filth clawed up at Crane's face. And then he saw the face was the face of his own body lying against the wall in the cellar and the hand was on that face crawling up, fingers curved towards the eyes wh
ich were open and staring.
He knew then that if he did not return to his body it would be destroyed and there would be no return.
He pulled back from the dark cloud and it seemed as if an abyss opened beneath him and he knew, even without the body he couldn't alone fight the thing that Drexel had conjured up. Then through the darkness he thought he heard a shout, a cry directed towards him. And the darkness seemed to move swiftly away as if seeking the source of the sound.
Crane was back against the wall, half-sitting, feet spread in front of him. The agonising pressure was still on his spine and pain throbbed again through his skull. He forced his eyes open and Drexel came into vision, almost crouching, staring across the cellar towards him.
'You're finished, Crane! You'll kill yourself as Margaret Christie did, to save herself from greater agony!' The old man's stare was one of intense curiosity rather than any kind of sadistic pleasure; the scientist studying his experiment.
'Tom! For God's sake, Tom, stand up and fight back!' It was Anne standing on the landing above the cellar looking down at him.
Drexel looked up. He seemed for a second surprised. Then he smiled.
"You'll see him die, Dr Reynolds. But you'll testify I was never even near him,' Drexel shouted with a note of satisfaction in his voice.
'No! Tom, stand up and face him. You can do it. You can fight him!'
Anne's voice rose and fell with the pulsing in his head. He struggled, his hands scrabbling on the stone, trying to stand and face Drexel. It seemed that the effort would be too much; he had no strength in his arms and the agony in his spine grew.
Anne stood, looking down at Crane, every emotion, every instinct directed towards trying to give him what little strength she had. And then, as if by instinct, she knew there was something else she had to say to him, something she had to stir within him. Later, alone, she might have pondered that it was more than instinct but a message conveyed from only God knows where.
'Julia!' she called. 'Think of Julia, Tom! Call on Julia!'
Crane rose. He stood erect against the stone wall, staring across at Drexel. In the second before he rose he knew he wasn't alone. Against the blackness that had surrounded him there had come light. In his nostrils he savoured again her perfume. And she was with him.
