by Brian Lumley
The fact that in his position he could still discover humour in any kind of situation or statement was hugely encouraging in itself. And as earnestly as ever, Sir Keenan said: Yes, you do that, my boy. Keep it in mind. And we shall try to find the very best of help for you.
But as the dead man’s voice faded into the blown-leaf whispers and background static of tombs and tumuli, the Necroscope was suddenly very thoughtful. What he was thinking was this:
That maybe Sir Keenan wouldn’t have to find anyone to help him. Maybe he had already found them for himself. Well, with a final bit of help from Alec Kyle, anyway …
In the morning, in that transitory period immediately prior to true waking, the Necroscope found himself pondering the previous night’s traumatic experiences and wondering if, after all, they had only been part of some dreadful nightmare. More specifically, he wondered about Bonnie Jean.
What he had seen in the animal shelter had seemed so very real; but it had been dark during the period of B.J.’s metamorphosis (her “imagined” transition) so that even now he couldn’t accept it for a fact. For surely he’d proved it to himself time and time again that she was innocent—of everything! In which case, why had he needed to prove it?
Or more properly, what had he needed to prove … ?
Currently, Harry wasn’t “switched on”—which meant that his “reality” was in a state of flux. On various conscious and subconscious levels he knew something about everything that was real or that B.J. had initiated. He even remembered things that were unreal (about his search, for instance); but there was no single level on which he knew everything.
Last night, mental exhaustion had saved his sanity before the massed knowledge of all of his levels could interface, contradict, cancel each other out and leave him bereft. Today, his thoughts were “ordered” again, which meant that his reality was incomplete to the point of fragmentary.
But at least he was thinking about his condition, and not only thinking about it but considering a solution to one of its root causes. Which was the single salient possibility that had fixed itself in his mind since his conversation with Sir Keenan Gormley: that there could be a psychological—or metaphysical?—solution to his problems, and that it might even be immediately available to him. As to why Harry had clung to this notion to the point of waking, when the rest of his “dream” was fading into obscurity … it was because it was all he had left.
And as that fact dawned, he sprang fully awake—
—Or groaned fully awake.
He felt like hell! Like that time he’d taken one of Darcy Clarke’s sleeping pills at E-Branch HQ, just before he quit the Branch and headed north. Or the morning after he’d got drunk on B.J.’s wine. (And thank God he was out of that now!) But where in all the … ?
Then, as he opened his eyes, blinked them, ran his tongue over his furry teeth and looked around, he remembered and knew where. Bonnyrig. His house. His study.
And a piece of carpet, rolled back. And that stain on the floor. And his patio windows and frame, replaced, with the new wood still requiring staining.
Enemies, and they had been waiting for him. But Zahanine had been here, looking for him. On behalf of B.J.
It was part reasoning, part memory, but all come and gone in a flash. And only one word remaining: enemies.
But hadn’t R.L. warned him that he had enemies? But what kind of enemies, and why? What had he ever done (no, what had he done recently, since leaving E-Branch) that had left him with such bad enemies?
You’ve got to be kidding! he told himself. What have you done? What about Le Manse Madonie? What about all the millions that you’ve taken from drug barons and gang bosses and gun-runners all over the world?
He went to the kitchen, made coffee, couldn’t take it back to his study because deep inside he knew something terrible had happened the last time he had coffee in there. And so he drank it in the kitchen, and sat nursing his sore head.
Le Manse Madonie, Sicily. His raid on the treasure vault. That was quite some time ago. What else did he know about that place; why did he seem to remember hearing its name more recently? What was real and unreal here? Did he remember a conversation with B.J., when she’d mentioned Le Manse Madonie?
Her telephone conversation with Auld John, yes! When she’d told him to get out of his cottage in Inverdruie and find somewhere safe. Just like she’d told Harry to get out of his place. Shit, and here he was back again!
But he knew he had to be away from her, if only for a little while until he had sorted things out. And whatever else he did, he mustn’t let his thoughts stray too far off course because he had some kind of pattern going here and didn’t want to lose it.
What if … what if … what if …
What if B.J. wasn’t the central figure here but Harry himself? What if he was the key, with everything revolving around him? What if he had tried—was trying—to transfer his guilt to her?
He gave a snort and thought: Now I’m playing the amateur psychiatrist! In his condition? Ridiculous! But what if … ?
What if those people at Le Manse Madonie (the Francezcis? That sounded wrong. Another name was sitting there on the tip of his tongue but he would not, dare not let it out), what if they had somehow managed to track him down? Darcy Clarke had warned him how dangerous they were. And poor Bonnie Jean had got herself involved through her involvement with him. It worked!
Oh, yes, it worked … but it had holes a mile wide. Like his head, his memory, and his whole fucking life since leaving E-Branch … !
… Sir Keenan had promised to find him the best possible help, but Harry had believed there might be a metaphysical solution available right here and now. He realized how close that idea had come to escaping him and slipping into limbo with the rest of his dream, and now clung to it anew.
When he’d been with Darcy and Ben down at E-Branch just a few days, a week, a fortnight ago—what, a fortnight? Really? Even time was completely fucked up!—he had experienced these weird visitations. He could only believe they were Alec Kyle’s last shot before whatever was left of his precognitive talents followed him into eternity.
But “precog” was the key word: it was what Alec had been, and so far every one of Harry’s “visions” of a like nature had turned out to be glimpses of the future. Which might mean that he was yet to meet the bearded mystic of the first vision, and yet to visit that graveyard near Meersburg, in real life. Huh! So far he didn’t even know where Meersburg was—but it might prove interesting to find out. For the place had been a cemetery after all, and what else would the Necroscope Harry Keogh be doing in a cemetery if not talking to the dead?
Avoiding looking at the floor, he went to his study for a World Atlas, took it back to the kitchen. And in a little while—for the first time in a long while—he collapsed his barriers and deliberately contacted the dead. It wasn’t easy, but he fought his psychosis and did it, and shortly:
Harry, were you looking for me? (Sir Keenan Gormley, from his Garden of Repose in Kensington, London.)
“Yes, sir, I was.” (Harry, in his usual, most respectful mode once more.) “I believe we talked, last night? You gave me some good advice, and offered to help. And I promised to think it over. Now I’d like to take you up on it. You mentioned some of the best psychiatric minds that had ever lived, meaning of course that a good many are now dead. A bad deal for them—no disrespect—but useful to me, for they’re the only ones I can talk to. So do you happen to know of anyone in Meersburg, Lake Constance, on the German-Swiss border?”
Meersburg? Harry, can I get back to you? I mean, will you be … receptive? Sir Keenan was almost embarrassingly eager.
“It’s not that easy any more,” Harry saw no point in pretending it was. “I mean, I don’t like leaving myself open like this. But I’ll try, yes.”
Then give me a little time, Sir Keenan told him, “breathlessly,” for now I’ve some enquiries to make. I’ll be quick as I possibly can about it …
With wh
ich he was gone, and Harry was obliged to leave his barriers down.
And as he had expected might happen, the dead—or one of them—was quick to take advantage of that fact. He had thought it might be his mother, trying to reach him in his waking hours as she had “invaded” him in (how many?) dreams, but in fact the presence he felt was that of R.L. Stevenson Jamieson. And again the Necroscope was loath to turn him away; R.L. had long since proved his worth and loyalty.
Er, you reckon you can spare me a little time, too, Necroscope? Sensing Harry’s anxiety and vulnerability, R.L. was reticent in his approach.
“R.L.,” Harry answered, “do I seem that ungrateful?”
Well, you ain’t bin all that easy to reach, if that’s what you mean, R.L. told him. And then, hurriedly: But that’s OK, man. I mean, it ain’t everybody got your problems, right?
“What can I do for you, R.L.? Only please make if quick, for I’m expecting some stuff that could be very important.”
It’s more what I’ll do for you, Necroscope, R.L. answered. Like, I can maybe relieve you o’ some o’ your worries, anyhow.
“Worries?”
‘Bout your enemies, man. You don’t got a one right now—least, not in your neck o’ the woods. They has all gone north.
“They what?”
You is in your house, right?
“That’s right.”
Well, your enemies is all up north. Not a one o’ ’em left in your vicinity. Not the real bad serious ones, anyways …
Harry frowned. “Oh, and what other kind are there, R.L.?”
But R.L. had said enough, maybe even too much. And anyway his obi was as badly confused with regard to B.J. Mirlu and her girls as Harry himself. They had done the Necroscope no real or physical harm so far, but they had one hell of a bad aura about them. Harry’s Ma had confirmed to R.L. just what that aura was, but he couldn’t tell Harry about it. It was one of those things the Necroscope must find out for himself. And so:
Oh, you knows, he hedged. There’s always the bad folks out there, lookin‘to make a mark. But if you aims to stay clear o’ trouble, then just don’t go into those mountains.
And again Harry’s frown, as he asked, “Oh? And what do you know about mountains, R.L.?”
Only what my obi tells me, R.L. lied, which was so out of character for a dead man that Harry didn’t pick it up or question it. But he certainly sensed R.L.’s hasty withdrawal.
Or maybe that was only to make way for someone else. And:
Harry, you were right! Sir Keenan’s excitement was infectious. I won’t ask you how, but you picked the very spot: Meersburg on Lake Constance, on the German-Swiss border. Do you have any idea who is buried there?
Harry shook his head, which was as good as an answer.
Then I suggest you go there and find out, Sir Keenan told him. Don’t wait but do it today, the sooner the better.
The Necroscope looked out of his kitchen window at a grey, gloomy dawn. “Well, not just yet,” he said edgily. “I’m hungry, breakfast, one or two things to do first. But in an hour or so, when the world’s had time to wake up … maybe then.”
The other sensed his reticence. Oh? Can it be that you’re frightened, my boy? Of what you might discover?
Harry shook his head. “No … Yes … Maybe. I don’t know.”
But you’ll do it anyway?
Harry sighed. “It might help if I knew who I was going to see! Who do I ask for once I’m there: ‘Hey, you?’ What’s the big mystery, Keenan? Look, you tell me who we’re talking about, and I’ll tell you if I’ll go and see him.” (He kept hidden the fact that his going was already a foregone conclusion.)
But you see, the other tried to explain, what this man was famous for … it wasn’t known as psychiatry. In his time psychiatry was in its infancy. But as to what he actually did … well, he was one of the best. So much so that his “science” took his name. And after all this time, well, maybe he’s even better at it now. Sir Keenan was talking about the fact that what men have done in life, they’ll usually continue to do after death.
“But what did he do?” Harry wanted to know, and he was becoming impatient now.
He was one of the greats, Sir Keenan was uncomfortable. He really was. But they cried him down—there was a great deal of ignorance—and it took away much of his faith in himself. You may have to rebuild it, Harry. See, it’s not just a question of him helping you, but of you getting him to help you!
“What?”
But you’ve done it before! Sir Keenan reminded him. Möbius himself needed convincing, before he was able to help you.
“Möbius was one of a kind,” the Necroscope replied.
And so is Franz Anton, said the other.
“Franz Anton?”
Franz Anton Mesmer, Sir Keenan sighed at last. That’s who we’re talking about, son. And that’s where he is: in a cemetery in Meersburg, on the shore of Lake Constance …
II
MESMERISM
AS HE HAD TOLD SIR KEENAN GORMLEY, THE NECROSCOPE HAD THINGS TO do. But mainly, he wanted to think. Crunching his way through a bowl of ancient cornflakes soaked in suspect milk, and drinking a second mug of coffee, he tried ordering his thoughts. In fact, now that his mental hangover was dissipating they were as clear as he could remember in a long time.
Of course his memory was shot to hell, for as well as the things he was forbidden to remember, there were those he didn’t want to. And there were others that weren’t his anyway. And the giant jigsaw puzzle that his life had become seemed still to be missing at least seventy per cent of its pieces. So that he must build it as a real jigsaw, starting on one corner first.
Oddly enough, he was fairly certain that B.J. Mirlu held the box that the puzzle had come in … but he knew she wasn’t going to show it to him. She didn’t want him to see the entire picture. For his own good? Maybe. Or maybe not. But every time he thought things like that, the indisputable fact of her innocence would immediately spring to mind. And he suspected he’d be in serious trouble (or yet more serious trouble) if he were ever to prove himself wrong in that respect.
Another paradox: he knew she could fix it, put everything right, but that it would only be temporary. For whenever she’d “fixed things” in the past, it had only ever led to periods of even greater confusion.
And so for the moment the Necroscope was pleased to stay away from her, at least until he’d got this corner of the puzzle fitted together. But staying away from her … would be a problem in itself. There was something about the moon. At the moment it wasn’t problematic, but in a week to ten days—
—It would be full again …
Then, he would have to contact her …
Deep inside, some inner contradictory voice corrected him: he even wanted to contact her now—if only to hear her voice—because her lure was twofold. The one that she had imposed, and the one that had grown in him. He didn’t know about the first, but the second was probably love. And he suspected, hoped, that it had grown in her, too. Yet another reason why he didn’t want to be proved wrong about her.
Harry closed his eyes and the frame of his kitchen window stayed frozen on his retinas: a blob of fuzzy light, gradually dissolving at the corners and rounding itself off … Like the moon at its full, pale and featureless in a misted sky, with a wolf’s head in silhouette thrown back in an ululant howl.
He shook his head and the picture was gone, but B.J. was still there, like a magnet in his mind. And mazed, bewildered, he felt drawn to her, beguiled by her … hypnotized by her?
Hypnotism. Something about a graveyard in Meersburg? The connection was made and Harry was drawn back to earth, back to the present. Again he shook his head, blinked, and resolved to go and talk to Franz Anton Mesmer.
But before that there was still something he must do. B.J. would be worried about him; he could at least allay her fears.
Except he knew he mustn’t talk to her. For then she would want to fix things. Just a few soothing words an
d he’d be back to square one. So … why not get someone else to speak to her on his behalf?
He went back to his study, to the telephone. The light on his answering machine was blinking. He instinctively wound the tape back and went to hit the play button … then paused. And shaking his head: No, not this time, he told himself. It could only be one person, and the end result would be the same.
He got out his telephone book, looked up the inn where he had been staying with B.J. and the girls, dialled the number.
The receptionist answered and he said, “Miss, my name is Harry Keogh. I was staying at your place until last night?”
“Oh?” the answer came back. “Miss Mirlu’s party?”
“That’s right,” Harry said. “And now I have a message for her.”
“Hold on and I’ll put you through. In fact you’re just in time, for in a little while she’ll be booking out.”
“No!” Harry said, perhaps a little too sharply. “Er, no, don’t put me through. Just take a message, will you?”
“Whatever you say.” (But she sounded puzzled.)
“We … had a little tiff,” Harry lied. “So, I don’t want to speak to her. But—”
“—But you do?” The receptionist gave a low, sympathetic laugh. “I think I understand. So what’s the message?”
“Tell her I’m OK and she’s not to worry about me,” Harry said. “And tell her I’ll know where to find her when the time’s right. But I want you to warn her, too.”
“Warn her?” There was a worried note in the receptionist’s voice now. “Now just hold on a minute. I’m not going to pass on any threatening messages to a—”
“No, no threats,” Harry cut her off. “Look, this is important. Just tell her that next time she goes north she’s to keep her eyes peeled. There are people up there she would do well to avoid, OK?”
