Necroscope®

by Brian Lumley

  Dragosani had been looking thoughtful. “Tell me something,” he finally said. “When it was all over—that night at the Château, I mean—was that why you asked me if it was possible for me to read Ustinov’s corpse? Or rather, the mess that was left of him? Because you thought he might have been got at by the newer KGB, as well as your retired old chum from the MVD?”

  “Something like that,” Borowitz shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter now. No, for if they’d been involved at all it would have come out at the hearing; our friend Yuri Andropov would not have been so much at ease. I’d have been able to see it in him. As it was, he was just a bit pissed off that Leonid has seen fit to haul in his leash a bit.”

  “Which means he’ll really be after your blood now!”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not for four years, anyway. And when it is shown that I’m correct—that is, when Brezhnev realizes Vlady’s predictions, and so has proof positive of the effectiveness of the branch—not then either! So … with a bit of luck, we’re free of that pack for good.”

  “Hmm! Well, let’s hope so. So, it would seem you’ve been very clever, General. But I knew that anyway. Now tell me, what other reasons did you have for calling me here today?”

  “Well, I’ve more to tell you—other things in the pot, you know? But we can do that over dinner. Natasha is serving fish fresh from the river. Trout. Strictly forbidden. They taste all the better for it!” He got up, began to lead the way back up the river bank. “Also,” (over his shoulder) “to advise you that you should now sell that box on wheels and get yourself a decent car. A second-hand Volga, I should think. Nothing newer than mine, anyway. It goes with your promotion. You can try it out when you go on holiday.”

  “Holiday?” It was all coming thick and fast now.

  “Oh, yes, hadn’t I told you? Three weeks at least, on the state. I’m fortifying the Château. It will be quite impossible to get any branch work done.…”

  “You’re doing what? Did you say you’re—”

  “Fortifying the place, yes,” Borowitz was very matter of fact about it. “Machine-gun emplacements, an electric fence, that sort of thing. They have it at Baikonur in Kazakhstan, where they launch the space vehicles—and is our work any less important? Anyway, the work has been approved, starts Friday. We’re our own bosses now, you know, within certain limitations … inside the Château, anyway. When I’m finished we’ll all have passes for access, and no way in without them! But that’s for later. Meanwhile there’ll be a lot of work going on, much of which I’ll supervise personally. I want the place expanded, opened up, widened out. More room for experimental cells. I’ve got four years, yes, but they’ll go very quickly. First stage of the alterations will take the best part of a month, so—”

  “So while all this is going on, I’m to get a holiday?” Dragosani was keen now, the tone of his voice eager.

  “Right, you and one or two others. For you it’s a reward. You were very good that night. With the exception of this hole in my shoulder, the whole thing was very successful—oh, and also the loss of poor Gerkhov, of course. My one regret is that I had to ask you to take it all the way. I know how hateful that must be for you.…”

  “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?” Dragosani found Borowitz’s sudden concern for his sensibilities a bit much—not to mention entirely out of character.

  “All right, we won’t talk about it,” said the other. But half-turning and with a monstrous grin, he added: “Anyway, fish tastes better!”

  That was more like it. “You sadistic old bastard!”

  Borowitz laughed out loud. “That’s what I like about you, Boris. You’re just like me: very disrespectful to your superiors.” He changed the subject:

  “Anyway, where will you spend your holiday?”

  “Home,” said the other without hesitation.

  “Romania?”

  “Of course. Back to Dragosani where I was born.”

  “Don’t you ever go anywhere else?”

  “Why should I? I know the place, and I love the people—as much as it’s possible for me to love anything, anyway. Dragosani is a town now, but I’ll find a place outside the town—somewhere in the villages in the hills.”

  “It must be very pleasant,” Borowitz nodded. “Is there a girl?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  Dragosani grunted, shrugged, but his eyes narrowed to slits. Walking in front of him, his boss didn’t see the look on his face when he answered, “I don’t know. Something in the soil, I suppose.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Harry Keogh felt the warm sun on the side of his face, beating through the open classroom window. He knew the solid, near-indestructible feel of a school bench under his thighs, its surface polished by countless backsides. He was aware of the aggressive hum of a tiny wasp on its tour of inspection of his inkwell, ruler, pencils, the dahlias in a vase on the window ledge. But all of these things lay on the periphery of his consciousness, little more than background static. He was aware of them in the same way that he was aware of his heart hammering in his chest—hammering far too quickly and loudly for an arithmetic class on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in August. The real world was there, all right—real as the occasional breath of breeze fanning his cheek from the open window—and yet Harry craved air no less than a drowning man. Or a drowning woman.

  And the sun could not warm him where he struggled under the ice, and the wasp’s buzzing was almost entirely lost in the gurgle and slosh of icy water and the burble of bubbles from his nostrils and straining, silently screaming jaws! Darkness below, frozen mud and weeds; and above—

  A sheet of ice, inches thick, and somewhere a hole—the hole he (she?) had fallen through—but where? Fight the river’s rush! Kick against it and swim, swim! Think of Harry, little Harry. You have to live for him. For his sake. For Harry.…

  There! There! Thank God for the hole!—oh, thank God!

  Clawing at the rim, the edges of ice sharp as glass. And heaven-sent hands coming down into the water, seeming to move oh so slowly—almost in slow motion—dreadfully, monstrously languid! Strong hands, hairy. A ring on the second finger of the right hand. A cat’s-eye stone set in thick gold. A man’s ring.

  Looking up, a face all aswim, seen through the chop of wavelets and the liquid flurry of water. And through the ice, his frosty outline kneeling at the rim. Grasp his hands, those strong hands, and he’ll lift you out like a baby. And he’ll shake you till you’re dry for frightening him.

  Fight the current—grasp at the hands—kick against the river’s rush. Fight, fight! Fight for Harry.…

  There! You’ve got the hands! Grip tight! Hold on! Try to lift your head up through the hole and breathe, breathe!

  But … the hands are pushing you down!

  Seen through the water the face wobbles, shifting and changing. The trembly jelly lips turn up at their corners. They smile—or grimace! You hang on. You scream—and water rushes in to replace the escaping air.

  Cling to the ice. Forget the hands, the cruel hands that continue to hold you down. Just grab at the rim and lift your head. But the hands are there, breaking your grip. They thrust you away, under the ice. They murder you!

  You can’t fight the cold and the river and the hands. Blackness is roaring down on you. In your lungs, in your head, in your eyes. Stick your long fingernails into the hands, claw at them, tear the flesh from them. The gold ring comes loose, spirals down into the murk and mud. Blood turns the water red—red against the ultimate black of your dying—blood from the cruel, cruel hands.

  No fight left in you. Waterlogged, you sink. The current drags you along the bottom, tumbling you. But you no longer care. Except … you care for Harry. Poor little Harry! Who’ll care for him now? Who’ll look after Harry … Harry … Harry—?

  “Harry? Harry Keogh? Christ, boy!—are you here at all?”

  Harry felt the elbow of his pal Jimmy Collins digging him covertly, however sharply, in the ribs, cau
sing him to draw air explosively; he heard Mr. Hannant’s rasping voice crashing in on his eardrums above the receding tumult of water. He jerked upright on his bench, gulped again at the air, thrust his hand up foolishly, as if in response to some question or other. It was an automatic reaction: if you were quick off the mark the teacher knew you knew the answer and he’d ask someone else. Except … sometimes it didn’t work out that way, teachers didn’t always fall for it. And Hannant, the maths teacher—he was nobody’s fool.

  Gone now the sensation of drowning; gone utterly the bitter cold of the water, the pitiless torture of thrusting, brutally inhuman hands; gone the entire nightmare—or, more properly, the daydream. By comparison the newer situation was a mere trifle. Or was it?

  Harry was suddenly aware of a classroom full of eyes, all staring at him; aware too of Mr. Hannant’s purple, outraged face glaring at him from out in front of the class. What had they been dealing with?

  He glanced at the blackboard. Oh, yes! Formulae—areas and properties of circles—the Constant Factor(?)—diameters and radii and pi. Pi? That was a laugh! It was all pi to Harry. Pie in the sky. But what had been Hannant’s question? Had he even asked a question?

  White-faced now, Harry peered about the classroom. His was the only hand in the air. Slowly he drew it down. Beside him, Jimmy Collins sniggered, coughing and spluttering to hide it. Normally that would have been sufficient to set Harry off, too, but with the memory of the night- or day-mare so fresh in his mind, he had little difficulty staving it off.

  “Well?” Hannant demanded.

  “Sir?” Harry queried. “Er, could you repeat the question?”

  Hannant sighed, closed his eyes, rested his great knuckles on his desk and leaned his stocky body on his straight arms. He counted ten under his breath, but loud enough for the class to hear him. Finally, without reopening his eyes, he said: “The question was, are you here at all?”

  “Me, sir?”

  “God, yes, Harry Keogh! Yes, you!”

  “Why, yes sir!” Harry tried not to act too innocent. It looked like he might get away with it—or would he? “But there was this wasp, sir, and—”

  “My other question,” Hannant cut him short, “my first question—the one that made me suspect perhaps you weren’t with us—was this: what is the relationship between the diameter of a circle and pi? I take it that’s the one you wanted to answer? The one you had your hand up for? Or were you swatting flies?”

  Harry felt a flush riding up his neck. Pi? Diameter? Circle?

  The class grew fidgety; someone sniffed disgustedly, probably the bully, Stanley Green—the pushy, big-headed, swotty slob! The trouble with Stanley was that he was clever and big … What was the question again? But what difference did it make without the answer?

  Jimmy Collins looked down at his desk, ostensibly at a workbook there, and whispered out of the corner of his mouth: “Three times!”

  Three times? What did that mean?

  “Well?” Hannant knew he had him.

  “Er, three times!” Harry blurted, praying that Jimmy wasn’t having him on. “—Sir.”

  The maths teacher sucked in air, straightened up. He snorted, frowned, seemed a little puzzled. But then he said, “No!—but it was a good try. As far as it goes. Not three times but three point one four one five nine times. Ah! But times what?”

  “The diameter,” Jimmy whispered. “Equals circumference.…”

  “D-diameter!” Harry stuttered. “Equals, er, circumference.”

  George Hannant stared hard at Harry. He saw a boy, thirteen years old; sandy haired; freckled; in a crumpled school uniform; untidy shirt; school tie like a piece of chewed string, askew, its end fraying; and prescription spectacles balanced on a stub of a nose, behind which dreamy blue eyes gazed out in a sort of perpetual apprehension. Pitiful? No, not that; Harry Keogh could take his lumps, and dish them out when his dander was up. But … a difficult kid to get through to. Hannant suspected there was a pretty good brain in there, somewhere behind that haunted face. If only it could be prodded into life!

  Stir him out of himself, maybe? A short, sharp shock? Give him something to think about in this world, instead of that other place he kept slipping off into? Maybe. “Harry Keogh, I’m not altogether sure that answer was yours in its entirety. Collins is sitting too close to you and looking too disinterested for my liking. So … at the end of this chapter in your book you’ll find ten questions. Three of ’em concern themselves with surface areas of circles and cylinders. I want the answers to those three here on my desk first thing tomorrow morning, right?”

  Harry hung his head and bit his lip. “Yes, sir.”

  “So look at me. Look at me, boy!”

  Harry looked up. And now he did look pitiful. But no good going back now. “Harry,” Hannant sighed, “you’re a mess! I’ve spoken to the other masters and it’s not just maths but everything. If you don’t wake up, son, you’ll be leaving school without a single qualification. Oh, there’s time yet—if that’s what you’re thinking—a couple of years, anyway. But only if you get down to it right now. The homework isn’t punishment, Harry, it’s my way of trying to point you in the right direction.”

  He looked towards the back of the class, to where Stanley Green was still sniggering and hiding his face behind a hand that scratched his forehead. “As for you, Green—for you it is punishment, you obnoxious wart! You can do the other seven!”

  The rest of the class tried hard not to show its approval—dared not, for Big Stanley would surely make them pay for it if they did—but Hannant saw it anyway. That was good. He didn’t mind being seen as a sod, but far better to be a sod with a sense of justice.

  “But sir—!” Green started to his feet, his voice already beginning to rise in protest.

  “Shut up!” Hannant told him sharply. “And sit down!”

  And then—as the bully subsided with a loud huh! “Right, what’s next?” He glanced at the afternoon’s programme under the glass on top of his desk. “Oh, yes—stone collecting on the beach. Good! A bit of fresh air might wake you all up. Very well, start packing up. Then you can go—but in an orderly manner!” (As if they’d take any notice of that!)

  But—before they could commence their metamorphosis into a pencil-clattering, desk-slamming, floor-shaking horde—“Wait! You may as well leave your things here. The monitor takes the key and opens up again after you’ve brought your stones back from the beach. When you’ve picked up your things, then he’ll lock up again. Who is the monitor this week?”

  “Sir!” Jimmy Collins stuck up his hand.

  “Oh?” said Hannant, raising thick eyebrows, but not at all surprised really. “Going up in the world, are we, Jimmy Collins?”

  “Scored the winning goal against Blackhills on Saturday, sir,” said Jimmy with pride.

  Hannant smiled, if only to himself. Oh, yes, that would do it. Jamieson, the headmaster, was a fool for football—indeed for all sports. A healthy mind needs a healthy body … Still, he was a good head.

  The boys were exiting now, Green elbowing his way through the crush, looking surlier than ever, with Keogh and Collins bringing up the rear; the two of them, for all their differences inseparable as Siamese twins. And as he’d known they would, they stood at the door waiting.

  “Well?” Hannant asked.

  “Waiting for you, sir,” said Collins. “So I can lock up.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Hannant aped the boy’s breeziness. “And we’ll just leave all the windows open, will we?”

  As the two came tumbling back into the classroom he grinned, packed his briefcase, did up the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie—and still got out into the corridor before they were through. Then Collins turned the key in the lock and they were off—brushing past him, careful not to touch him, as if fearing they’d catch something—dashing after the others in a clatter of flying feet.

  Maths? Hannant thought, watching them out of sight along the shining corridor, slicing
through the square beams of dusty sunlight from the windows. What the hell’s maths? Star Trek on the telly and a stack of brand new Marvel comics in the newsagent’s—and I expect them to study numbers! God! And just wait another year or so, till they start to notice those funny lumps on girls—as if they haven’t already! And again: Maths? Hopeless!

  He grinned, however ruefully. Lord, how he envied them!

  * * *

  Harden Modern Boys’ was a secondary modern school on England’s north-east coast, catering to the budding minds of the colliery’s young men. That did not mean a great deal: most of the boys would become miners or employees of the Coal Board anyway, like their fathers and older brothers before them. But some, a small percentage, would go on through the medium of examinations to higher education at academic and technical colleges in neighbouring towns.

  Originally a cluster of two-storey Coal Board offices, the school had been given a face-lift some thirty years earlier when the village’s population had suddenly grown to accommodate greatly expanded mining operations. Now, standing behind low walls just a mile from the shore to the east and half that distance from the mine itself to the north, the plain old bricks of the place and the square windows seemed to lend it an air of frowning austerity out of keeping with its prosperous self-help gardens, a cold severity not at all reflected in its staff. No, for all in all they were a good, hard-working bunch. And headmaster Howard Jamieson BA, a staunch survivor of “the Old School,” saw to it that they stayed that way.

  The weekly stone-gathering expedition served three purposes. One: it got all the kids out in the fresh air, allowing those teachers with a predilection for nature-rambling a rare chance to turn the minds of their wards towards Nature’s wonders. Two: it provided gratis much of the raw material for garden walls within the grounds of the school, gradually replacing the old fences and trellises, a project which naturally bore the head’s stamp of approval. Three: it meant that once a month three-quarters of the masters could get away from school early, leaving their charges in the care of the dedicated ramblers.