The Touch

by Brian Lumley

  “I don’t have a mountain stream,” Scott told him. “Just a bath—or better still a shower. Me, I’m hot and dusty. If you like we can take a shower together.”

  With “soap”? Having seen it pictured in Scott’s mind, Wolf sounded dubious.

  “With shampoo, and you’ll like it,” Scott tried to reassure him. “Well, you’ll like it afterward . . . probably. Anyway, we can give it a try. Meanwhile there’ll be a bowl of water for you in the kitchen, and something good to eat.”

  That sounds better! said Wolf.

  “And while you’re eating, Shania and I can talk. Then you and me, we’ll shower. It’ll do us both good.”

  If you say so, said Wolf . . .

  And while Wolf quenched his thirst and sated his hunger in the kitchen, alone with Shania in the living room, Scott said: “So then, why did you go back to Zek?”

  “It was something that I ‘overheard’ just before I knocked at her door,” Shania answered. “She had asked you what else you could do, and I wondered how much you had told her. You see, we can’t let anyone know what’s going on or what our strengths and weaknesses are; I thought you understood that.”

  “But I do understand,” said Scott. “And in fact I told her nothing.”

  “Still, I had to be sure.” Shania chewed her lip. “And now I’m glad I went back—I think.”

  “So then,” Scott nodded, urging her on, “what happened between you and Zek?”

  “I . . . I deemed it better that she shouldn’t remember that you had been there, so I sent my Khiff to erase her memories of your visit.”

  Scott’s jaw fell open. “You did what?”

  “Scott, please don’t be angry! If she remembered—if Zek was interrogated, perhaps by the Mordri Three—we would all be in trouble, Zek included. But if she knew nothing . . .”

  “Her memories? Erased?” Scott was horrified. “But how many of her memories; I mean, how much?”

  “Only of your visit.”

  “But there were others there! Greeks with dogs!”

  “Yes, my Khiff saw that,” Shania replied. “But Zek and her Wolf, they saw them off. That’s all she will remember of that.”

  Scott calmed down—then narrowed his eyes and asked, “She suffered no harm?”

  “It isn’t in my Khiff to do harm! Haven’t I explained that to you?”

  Scott took a deep breath. “Okay. But listen, before you do anything like that again—”

  “If it becomes necessary, I’ll check with you first.”

  Scott was silent for a moment, then frowned and said, “Now explain to me how it works . . . I mean the Khiff; erasing memories; things like that.”

  Shania came to sit beside him on the sofa. “You know how I told you my Khiff stores my memories? Well, she can also remove ones that are offensive. But they are always available to me if ever I need them. You see, I can’t keep all my memories; no one can. Do you remember everything? For instance, did you remember what was missing from your desk? It was there in your mind, but it took my Khiff to find it. With Zek . . . it has to be slightly different. She won’t, can’t remember you because my Khiff won’t be there to remind her. You are gone from her forever. But more importantly, so is her knowledge of a man with strange talents, who came to her Greek island on a secret mission. And so Zek is no longer in danger. Moreover, she cannot any longer compromise us . . .”

  Shania paused, and Scott saw in her lovely eyes that there was something else. And: “Well?” he said.

  “My Khiff saw other things,” said Shania. “Things close to the surface of Zek’s mind. Things that are always there. Memories that were best forgotten—monstrous memories—which she can’t ever forget.”

  “She mentioned nightmares.” Scott nodded. “But they’re her nightmares! Don’t tell me your Khiff—”

  Shania shook her head. “No. Only your visit, or our visit, that’s all that was erased. But as for what my Khiff saw: these were amazing things! Zek has knowledge of a different world—a parallel world—and she has even been there! Her experiences there were very terrible.”

  Scott’s frown was back. “A parallel world? I mean, parallel to what? Have I perhaps read of such in a handful of science fiction books?”

  Shania shrugged. “Except for some things I’ve seen on your television screens, I know nothing of science fiction. But I do understand some things about science. The theory is that parallel worlds exist in time-cones that commenced with the creation of the universe . . . in fact, the multiverse; because there may be many parallels, just as there are many gravity levels.”

  Scott nodded. “Yes. Science fiction.”

  “Fiction no longer!” said Shania. “For Zek has visited and lived in just such a world. Also her man—”

  “Jazz.” Scott nodded again. “Michael J. Simmons.” And this time he didn’t even wonder how he knew that without having been told it.

  “—And Wolf. I mean the older wolf. And . . . and others.”

  “Other men?” Scott queried, knowing it was so.

  “Men, yes,” said Shania, snuggling closer. “And one man in particular; one very, very special man. But there were monsters there, too! It was a world of incredible monsters!”

  “Sunside/Starside,” Scott murmured, as vague, alien scenes jerked and flickered like faded silent movies across the screen of his mind. “And did this very special man have a name?”

  “It was Harry,” Shania at once replied. “Harry Keogh—but in Zek’s mind you and Harry had somehow become confused. I find that very strange because . . . because she also knew that he was dead!”

  Harry Keogh.

  Hearing Shania speak that name it was as if a cool, gentle breeze had blown on the back of Scott’s neck—or the whorls of his brain—or in his mind. Harry Keogh, yes.

  He remembered lying on his back on a trolley half in, half out of consciousness. He was being pushed along a corridor in a strange building: E-Branch HQ, somewhere in London. Through his three-quarters shuttered eyes he saw that gaunt, mortician-like man, Xavier? Also his two companions. Another moment and he was being wheeled past a certain door. The sign on the door read:

  And Scott somehow knew it was the selfsame Harry. The one who Zek had known in a fearful parallel world. The one who had died there!

  “Scott?” (Shania’s cool fingers were on his arm.) “Scott, is something wrong?” Her concerned query startled him, drawing him out of the flow of previously unremembered things, lifting him up from the depths of extraordinary reverie.

  He looked at her, put an arm around her, and shivered. “A ghost just walked right through me!” he said.

  “What!?” She stared at him.

  “It’s just an expression.” He held her closer. “A déjà vu thing. You said that name and I . . . I felt a bit weird, that’s all.”

  “Weird?” She put her head in the crook of his neck. “Yes, I understand that. There are many weird things here. Like that question she almost asked you.”

  “She?” Scott breathed her hair, inhaled its perfume. “You mean Zek? What question?”

  “Just before I knocked on her door,” Shania replied. “Zek was talking to you about your telepathy. She asked you, ‘Is it only the living you can speak to like that, or—’ And that was when I knocked.”

  Scott shivered again. But Shania was so warm, so close, and so . . . so right. Almost without realizing what he was doing, his hand was fondling her left breast through the silky material of her blouse, feeling her nipple hardening under its influence. “I know,” he said huskily. “It’s something I’ve been trying not to think about.”

  Shania took his hand away, sat up, turned to face him more fully. “But I have thought about it. I heard Zek thinking about it. And I know what she meant.”

  “So do I,” said Scott, reaching for her, feeling her drawn toward him as if magnetically. “But right now I don’t especially want to talk about it. Instead I want to—”

  Where shall I sleep? said Wolf in the do
orway. My belly is full, and I feel I can sleep in safety here knowing that I have my One and my Two.

  “There’ll be a warm blanket outside my bedroom door,” said Scott.

  “Our bedroom door,” said Shania, as the two drew apart.

  “But not before we shower,” said Scott. And then, looking knowingly at Shania. “And anyway, it’s too early for bed.”

  Smiling, flushed, she shook her head. “I think not.”

  Wolf sighed. Then let’s get this showering done with. You can mate later.

  So they bathed; all three, in Scott’s walk-in shower. And Wolf actually did like it . . . eventually, when he was clean and dry and warm on his blanket.

  While in the room he guarded:

  Shania was quite right and it wasn’t at all too early for bed, but it was very late before Scott and Shania—Wolf’s One and Two—finished mating, slipped from each other’s arms, and slept. When finally they did it was the so-called sleep of the dead—

  —When at last the dead dared make their presence known . . .

  26

  Earlier, in the late afternoon of that same day:

  Alerted to the advent of something new, a strange or even stranger element having entered the “usual” scheme of things—which was rarely less than bizarre at E-Branch HQ—Ben Trask had called several of his agents to a meeting in the Ops Room. It was the locator David Chung who had brought this most recent of various developments and findings to Trask’s attention, and it was Chung who was now speaking; his opening statement was at once simple and utterly baffling:

  “This morning Scott St. John boarded a flight to Zakynthos in the Ionian. It seemed he was taking a package holiday, maybe to enjoy a little Mediterranean sunshine, though we thought not. Rather, we expected St. John to make contact with someone called ‘Wolf.’ He reached his destination and was there on Zante until midafternoon; I can guarantee that—not his exact location, because the island is small, has many small towns and villages, and its arc is narrow in my probe. But I can definitely guarantee that he was there.” Chung paused to glance uncertainly at Trask.

  Trask nodded. “Go on.”

  Chung took a deep breath and continued. “Well, two hours ago he was back home, just a half hour’s drive from where we’re sitting. So, what had happened? Had he cut his ‘holiday’ short? I’ll say he had! I’d checked his location around 4:00 P.M. Mediterranean time and he was there, on Zante. But fifteen minutes later when I checked again, then he was home!”

  Trask looked at the faces of his assembled crew. “Explanation?”

  Ian Goodly shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, and said, “There can be only one: that David is wrong. Something has gone awry with his scanning technique. Er, my apologies if I offend, David, but there’s no way a man can get from Zakynthos—some, what, twelve hundred miles away?—to London, England, in just fifteen minutes.”

  “No offence taken,” said Chung as Goodly fell silent. “And I fully understand your reservations. But I assure you, there’s little or nothing wrong with my scanning technique, which is to say my locating talent. As for the time interval: it could even be less than fifteen minutes. For don’t forget that while there was a quarter hour between checks, I still don’t know just when he commenced his return.”

  At which point Trask cut in. “You’re saying he might even have returned, er—?”

  “—Instantaneously,” said Chung as Trask faltered. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  Paul Garvey spoke up. “Can I get a word in before I leave? I have an appointment with my neurologist.”

  “More surgery?” said Trask at once. “That’s very important to you, I know, Paul. But I’d hate to lose you right now. I can feel things coming to a head, and quickly.”

  The other shook his head. “No, sir, no surgery. More tests, that’s all. They’re still looking for a way to get my face back in working order again. But as for what I wanted to say:

  “David’s right—at least about St. John being home again. Or rather, I think he’s right. Just let me explain. After David had checked St. John’s location that second time, he came to me for corroboration via telepathy. Using a small-scale map, David located St. John’s house approximately. Then he used St. John’s paperweight, pinning down the location more accurately yet; and after he’d done that, I worked in tandem with him, homing in on the house along David’s probe.

  “Now, I know how careful we have to be with regard to this fellow, so I took a very quick look, just a peep, along David’s line of contact, seeking out St. John’s mind, his thoughts; and then I at once withdrew and called in Frank here.” He nodded to indicate the spotter Frank Robinson, seated close by. “I wanted to see what he would make of it.”

  By way of explaining or reminding the others in the group of the sequence of events, Trask said: “Frank was with you when you first brought St. John in, right?”

  “Correct,” said Garvey. “So it was entirely possible he’d be able to recognize St. John’s psychic presence, even through a curtain of—”

  “Mind-smog!” the youthful Frank Robinson cut in, and immediately held up a calming hand. “No, not that clinging shit that the Wamphyri used to put out. This was cleaner, even as ours is cleaner, but there’s no doubt that it was mind-smog. Which means that we were bang on target when we first pulled Scott St. John in. St. John, and whoever else was in the house with him—all three of them, in fact—are highly skilled people. But as for what their talents are, or how they’re intending to use them . . .” He shrugged.

  “Three of them,” Trask repeated thoughtfully. “A trio of ESP-endowed people, apparently working together, like a kind of mini E-Branch. But about their numbers: can we be absolutely sure? I mean, sure that there are three of them; three psychically skilled people, in that house?”

  “That’s my bet,” said Robinson. “Focussing along David and Paul’s established lines of contact, it was relatively easy for me. I discovered three separate sources of mind-smog: all different, but all having the same overall effect, the same purpose: to disguise or camouflage the minds that issued them. They were shielding themselves, that’s all. Hiding from us? Possibly. But based on our current knowledge and theories, more likely hiding from someone else.”

  “Three,” said Trask again, nodding as he turned and spoke to the precog Ian Goodly: “The number you had foreseen as working against this bloody unknown threat, this completely unknown threat: yet more evidence that you were right about whatever it is that’s happening here. And here we are unable to do any damn thing about it—well, except for what little we’re doing. Damn it to hell! But this is so—”

  “Frustrating?” said the precog. “Oh, indeed it is, and not least because the future is drawing closer, narrowing down, and . . . and very rapidly!”

  Starting up straighter in his chair, his arms thrown wide, Goodly had gasped the last few words out. Without warning, suddenly he appeared yet more gaunt, his colour paler still as he began wobbling and jerking where he sat, his spastic movements threatening to spill him from his chair.

  Paul Garvey, seated on Goodly’s right, and the empath Anna Marie English on his left, had witnessed “attacks” such as this on a number of previous occasions; this one had doubtless originated—or had been precipitated—by the case in hand. In any event the pair held on to the precog, supporting him until the spasms had passed. Then:

  “What was it, Ian?” Trask rasped, his expression very anxious now. He got to his feet, crossed quickly to the precog who was taking deep, gulping breaths and looking all about the room as if bewildered. “What was it that you saw?” Trask gripped his shoulder. “Was it whatever’s coming? But what else could it be? Just looking at your face I can see it was. So then, how close was it, Ian? And how long do we have?”

  “I didn’t exactly ‘see’ anything.” Still shaken and trembling, but completely coherent, Goodly was at last able to shake his head and gently free himself from the supporting hands of his colleagues. “But I did feel it. It wa
s like . . . like a tremendous psychic shock wave reaching back to me from the future, but I know that it was indicative of something a lot more physical. As to its source: Ben, it was very close. At a guess I’d say we have maybe a week, ten days at most!”

  Trask released him, returned to his chair, and slumped into it. He looked at the semicircle of agents facing him, and said, “Talk about frustrating! Well, it means we’ll just have to work at it that much harder, that’s all. But we’re not finished yet, not by a long shot! And we’re not done here yet, either.”

  He singled out a youngish, earnest, perhaps even haggard-looking face in the group, and said, “Mr. Kellway, maybe you’d like to take it from here? Your findings, if you please.”

  Alan Kellway, relatively new to the E-Branch fold, was a just-turned-thirty spotter. Intense, nervous in almost everything he said and did, withdrawn and thin as a pole, he hadn’t yet earned Ben Trask’s full respect; which explained the “Mr.” Trask had applied to his name. This could be because with only sixteen months on the job he was still unproven material—or it might partly be because he had been involved in the killing of Trevor Jordan, another E-Branch agent and once close friend of Trask’s.

  Jordan, along with certain others—not all of them as innocent as he had been—had been suspected of vampirism and had paid the price. Kellway was one of the agents responsible for taking him out; he had helped hose Jordan down with fire, with a flamethrower, reducing him to ashes. The trouble with that was that as the then recently elected Head of Branch, Ben Trask had signed the death warrant; Trask had given the orders, and he’d been nightmaring about it ever since. So despite that he knew the truth of it better than any other man, still Trask was only human; it was possible that he’d transferred some of the blame elsewhere. And now:

  He used Kellway only as a backup; which was just as well, because the man had never quite recovered from what he’d seen and done that night. He much preferred indoors now as opposed to work as a field agent. And fortunately he had a knack with gadgets, which meant he was beginning to outshine some of the older techs, the men who looked after E-Branch’s array of computers and electrical detection and communication devices.