Necroscope®

by Brian Lumley

  * * *

  At 1:30 P.M. sharp Hannant knocked on Jamieson’s door, was through on the instant the head called him in. Jamieson himself was just back from lunch, hardly settled down. He stood up as Hannant crossed the floor of his study, shook out the folds of the A4 and handed it to him.

  “I did as you suggested,” Hannant told the head, breathlessly. “This is Keogh’s solution.”

  The headmaster quickly scanned the scribbled text of his original problem:

  Magic Square:

  A square is divided into 16 equal, smaller squares. Each small square contains a number, 1 to 16 inclusive. Arrange them so that the sum of each of the four lines and each of the four columns, and the diagonals, is one and the same number.

  The answer, in pencil—including what looked like a false start … had been drawn beneath the question and was signed Harry Keogh:

  Jamieson stared at it, stared harder, opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. Hannant could see him rapidly adding up the columns, lines, diagonals—could almost hear his brain ticking over. “This is … very good,” Jamieson finally said.

  “It’s better than that,” Hannant told him. “It’s perfect!”

  The head blinked at him. “Perfect, George? But all magic squares are perfect. That’s the lure of them. That’s their magic!”

  “Yes,” Hannant agreed, “but there’s perfect and there’s perfect. You asked for columns, lines, diagonals all totalling the same. He’s given you that and far more. The corners total the same. The four squares in the middle total the same. The four blocks of four total the same. Even the opposing middle numbers at the sides come out the same! And if you look closer, that’s not the end of it. No, it is perfect.”

  Jamieson checked again, frowned for a moment, then smiled delightedly. And finally: “Where’s Keogh now?”

  “He’s outside. I thought you might like to see him.…”

  Jamieson sighed, sat down at his desk. “All right, George, let’s have your prodigy in, shall we?”

  Hannant opened the door, called Keogh in.

  Harry entered nervously, fidgeted where he stood before the head’s desk.

  “Young Keogh,” said the head, “Mr. Hannant tells me you’ve a thing for numbers.”

  Harry said nothing.

  “This magic square, for instance. Now, I’ve fiddled about with such things—purely for my own amusement, you understand—ever since, oh, since I was about your age. But I don’t think I ever came up with a solution as good as this one. It’s quite remarkable. Did anyone help you with it?”

  Harry looked up, looked straight into Jamieson’s eyes. For a moment he looked—scared? Possibly, but in the next moment he went on the defensive. “No, sir. No one helped me.”

  Jamieson nodded. “I see. So where’s your rough work? I mean, one doesn’t just guess something as clever as this, does one?”

  “No, sir,” said Harry. “My rough work is there, crossed out.”

  Jamieson looked at the paper, scratched his very nearly bald head, glanced at Hannant. Then he stared at Keogh. “But this is simply a box with the numbers laid in in their numerical sequence. I can’t see how—”

  “Sir,” Harry stopped him, “it seemed to me that was the logical way to start. When I got that far I could see what needed doing.”

  Again the head and the maths teacher exchanged glances.

  “Go on, Harry,” said the head, nodding.

  “See, sir, if you just write the numbers in, like I did, all the big numbers go to the right and to the bottom. So I asked myself: how can I get half of them over from right to left and half of them from the bottom to the top? And: how can I do both at the same time?”

  “That seems … logical.” Jamieson scratched his head again. “So what did you do?”

  “Pardon?”

  I said, what—did—you—do, boy!” Jamieson hated having to repeat himself to pupils. They should hang on his every word.

  Harry was suddenly pale. He said something but it came out a croak. He coughed and his voice dropped an octave or two. When he spoke again he no longer sounded like a small boy at all. “It’s there in front of you,” he said. “Can’t you see it for yourself?”

  Jamieson’s eyes bugged and his jaw dropped, but before he could explode Harry added: “I reversed the diagonals, that’s all. It was the obvious answer, the only logical answer. Any other way’s a game of chance, trial and error. And hit and miss isn’t good enough. Not for me.…”

  Jamieson stood up, flopped down again, pointed an enraged finger at the door. “Hannant, get—that—boy—out—of—here! Then come back in and speak to me.”

  Hannant grabbed Keogh’s arm, dragged him out into the corridor. He had the feeling that if he hadn’t physically taken hold of the boy, then Keogh might well have fainted. As it was he propped him up against the wall, hissed “Wait here!” and left him there looking slightly dazed and sick.

  Back inside Jamieson’s study, Hannant found the headmaster soaking sweat from his brow with a large sheet of school blotting paper. He was staring fixedly at Harry’s solution and muttering to himself. “Reversed the diagonals! Hmm! And so he has!” But as Hannant closed the door behind him Jamieson looked up and grinned somewhat feebly. He had obviously regained his self control and continued to dab away at the sweat on his forehead and neck. “This bloody heat!” he said, waving a limp hand and indicating that Hannant should take a seat.

  Hannant, whose shirt was sticking to his back beneath his jacket, said, “I know. It’s murder, isn’t it? The school’s like a furnace—and it’s just as bad for the kids.” He remained standing.

  Jamieson saw his meaning and nodded. “Yes, well that’s no excuse for insolence—or arrogance.”

  Hannant knew he should keep quiet but couldn’t. “If he was being insolent,” he said. “Thing is, I believe he was simply stating a fact. It was the same when I crossed him yesterday. It seems that as soon as you crowd him he gets his back up. The lad’s brilliant—but he’d like to pretend not to be! He does his damnedest to keep it hidden.”

  “But why? Surely that’s not normal. Most boys of his age like the chance to show off. Is it simply that he’s shy—or does it go deeper than that?”

  Hannant shook his head. “I don’t know. Let me tell you about yesterday.”

  When he was through, the head said: “Almost exactly parallel to what we’ve just seen.”

  “That’s right.”

  Jamieson grew thoughtful. “If he really is as clever as you seem to think he is—and certainly he seems to have an intuitive knack in some directions—then I’d hate to be the one to deprive him of a chance to get somewhere in life.” He sat back. “Very well, it’s decided. Keogh missed the exams through no fault of his own, so … I’ll speak to Jack Harmon at the Tech., see if we can fix up some sort of private examination for him. Of course I can’t promise anything, but—”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Hannant finished it for him. “Thanks, Howard.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll let you know how I get on.”

  Nodding, Hannant went out into the corridor where Keogh was waiting.

  * * *

  Over the next two days Hannant tried to put Keogh to the back of his mind but it didn’t work. In the middle of lessons, or at home during the long autumn evenings, even occasionally in the dead of night, the boy’s young-old face would be there, hovering on the periphery of Hannant’s awareness. Friday night saw the teacher awake at 3:00 A.M., all his windows open to let in what little breeze there was, prowling the house in his pyjamas. He had come awake with that picture in his mind of Harry Keogh, clutching Jamieson’s folded sheet of A4, heading off across the schoolyard of milling boys in the direction of the back gate under the stone archway; then of the boy crossing the dusty summer lane and passing in through the iron gates of the cemetery. And Hannant had believed that he knew where Harry was going.

  And suddenly, though the night had not grown noticeably cooler, Hannant
had felt chilly in a way he was now becoming used to. It could only be a psychic chill, he suspected, warning him that something was dreadfully wrong. There was something uncanny about Keogh, certainly, but what it was defied conjecture—or rather, challenged it. One thing was certain: George Hannant hoped to God the kid could pass whatever exams Howard Jamieson and Jack Harmon of Hartlepool Tech. cooked up for him. And it was no longer simply that he wanted the boy to realize his full potential. No, it was more basic than that. Frankly, he wanted Keogh out of here, out of the school, away from the other kids. Those perfectly ordinary, normal boys at Harden Secondary Modern.

  A bad influence? Hardly that! Who could he possibly influence—in what way?—when the rest of the kids generally considered him a weed? A corruption, then, a taint which might somehow spread—like the proverbial rotten apple at the bottom of the barrel? Perhaps. And yet that simile didn’t exactly fit either. Or maybe, in a way, it did. For after all, it makes little difference that an apple can’t appreciate its own rottenness: the corruption spreads anyway. Or was that too strong? How could it even be possible that there was something, well, wrong with Harry Keogh, something of which even he was unaware or lacked understanding? Actually the whole thing was becoming distinctly ridiculous! And yet … what was it about Keogh which so worried Hannant? What was in him, seeking a way out? And why did Hannant feel that when it finally emerged it would be terrible?

  It was then that Hannant decided to investigate Keogh’s background, discover what he could of the boy’s past. Perhaps that was where the trouble lay. And then again, maybe there was nothing at all and the whole affair was simply something spawned of Hannant’s own overactive imagination. It could be the heat, the fact that he was sleeping badly, the unending, unrewarding, repetitious routine of the school—any or all of these things. It could be—but why then did that inner voice keep insisting that Keogh was different? And why on occasion would he find Keogh staring at him with eyes which might well be those of his own dead and buried father…?

  * * *

  Ten days and two Tuesdays later, tragedy struck. It happened when the boys, PTI Graham Lane, and the Misses Dorothy Hartley and Gertrude Gower went off on their end-of-day stone-gathering trek to the beach. “Sergeant,” ostensibly to collect specimens of some rare wild flower, but more likely to impress his lady love, had climbed the beetling cliffs. When he had been more than halfway up the treacherous face of the cliff, projecting stones had given way under his feet, pitching him down to the boulder- and scree-clad beach below. He had tried to cling to the crumbling surface even as he fell, but then his feet had struck a narrow ledge, breaking it away, and he had been set spinning free in air. He had landed on his chest and face, crushing both and killing himself outright.

  The affair was made more especially gruesome in light of the fact that “Sergeant” and Dorothy Hartley, only the night before, had announced their engagement. They were to have been married in the spring. As it was, the following Friday saw “Sergeant” buried. It would have been better for him, Hannant later remembered thinking, as he watched Lane’s coffin being lowered into a fresh plot of earth in the old cemetery, if he’d stayed in the Army and taken his chances there.

  Afterwards, there had been sandwiches, cakes and coffee in the staffroom at the school, and a nip of something stronger for those who fancied it. And of course, Dorothy Hartley to console as best she could be consoled. So that none of the teachers had been there to see the grave filled in, or, after the gravedigger was through and the wreaths lay in position, the last lone mourner where he sat on a slab nearby, chin in the palms of his hands and lacklustre eyes staring from behind his spectacles, fastened mournfully—curiously? expectantly?—upon the mound.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Howard Jamieson had not been remiss in seeking to get Harry Keogh a post-examination place at the Tech. in Hartlepool; or if not an actual place, at least the opportunity to win one for himself. The private examination—in the main an IQ test consisting of questions designed to measure verbal, numerical and spatial perception and aptitude—was to take place at the college in Hartlepool under the direct supervision of John (“Jack”) Harmon, the headmaster. Wind of it had got out, however, along the Harden Boys’ School grapevine, and Harry had become something of a target for various jibes and japes.

  He was no longer simply “Speccy” for instance but had acquired other nicknames including “the Favourite”—which meant that Big Stanley had been putting it about that Harry was some sort of teacher’s or headmaster’s pet. And with the help of a twisted sort of logic, of which Stanley was a past-master—not to mention the threat in his pudgy but hard-knuckled fists—it hadn’t taken long to convince even the more liberal-minded lads that there was definitely something fishy about Keogh’s belated emergence as someone who was a bit more than just “ordinary.”

  Why, for instance, should Speccy—or “the Favourite”—why should he alone get this crack at a special Tech. examination? Other kids had been sick that day, too, hadn’t they? And were they being given special treatment? No, they weren’t! It was just because that dreamy little fart got on well with the teachers, that was all. Who was it went digging up stupid, smelly shells for that old bag Miss Gower? Speccy Keogh, that was who—and hadn’t old Sergeant always used to stick up for him? Of course he had! And now, since he’d suddenly started being a bit clever at maths and so on, even snotty old Hannant was on his side. Oh, he was “the Favourite,” all right—the four-eyed little fart. But not with Big Stanley Green he wasn’t!

  It had all sounded very logical; to which add the now sullen voices of the others who, through no fault of their own, had missed the exam, and soon the bully had a fair-sized crowd of like-minded boys on his side. Even Jimmy Collins seemed of the opinion that something “niffed a bit.”

  Then Tuesday came around, one week exactly after the gym-teacher’s death, when once more the school trooped down to the beach for what was hopefully to be the last stone-gathering expedition of the season. The idea had been a novelty at first, but now boys and teachers alike were fed up with it; Lane’s death had soured it for everyone. Miss Gower was present, as usual, with Jean Tasker of Science (a little older than Gower but much less frumpish) taking the place of Dorothy Hartley who had been given leave of absence. George Hannant was also there, replacing Graham Lane.

  As usual, after the stones had been collected and piled up, the boys were allowed to do their own thing for an hour before carrying their booty back to the school. Gee-gee Gower, (as her pupils sometimes called her, referring to her equine aspect as much as her initials) was giving instructions to a bunch of reluctant non-swimmers in a tidal pool; George Hannant and Jean Tasker stood down by the edge of the sea, gathering shells and bright pebbles, chatting and generally passing the time of day. That was when Big Stanley, who could no longer contain his vindictiveness, saw his opportunity to “teach Keogh a lesson.”

  Harry had been off on his own, head down, hands behind his back, beachcombing; but as he returned to the pile of stones he looked up and spotted Green and a large handful of the others waiting for him.

  “Well, well!” sneered the bully, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. “And if it isn’t our little teacher’s pet—little skinny Speccy Keogh—with a fistful of pretty shells for daft old Gee-gee! How’s things then, Speccy? How d’you fancy your chances with this ‘special’ exam they’ve fixed it for you to take, eh?”

  “Reckon you’ll pass it, do you then, Speccy?” said another, his voice hard-edged. “They’ll push you through it, will they?”

  “Oh, he’s ‘favourite,’ all right!” said a third. “What, him? Teacher’s pet and all—how can he fail?”

  Jimmy Collins, towelling himself dry as he came up the beach, saw the mood of the crowd at once but said nothing. Instead he went to the rear of the group, wrapped a towel round his waist and started to dress.

  “Well?” Green prodded Harry in the chest. “How about it, four-eyes? Are the nice te
achers going to let you pass your little exam, then—so you can get away from all us nasty rough boys and go to school in Hartlepool with the rest of the fairies?”

  Harry staggered backward from the other’s shoving, dropping the shells he’d collected. Big Stanley gave a whoop, jumped forward, crushed them to dust under his shoes and ground them into the sand. Harry swayed, looked sick, began to turn away. His eyes were suddenly misty behind his spectacles; his face, which wasn’t tanned like the faces of the rest, turned even paler.

  “Shitty little cowardly teacher’s pet!” Green crowed maliciously. “Old Man Jamieson’s little ‘Favourite,’ eh, Speccy? And is that you crying, then? Tears, is it? Wetting ourself, are we? You four-eyed little—”

  “Shut it, shithead!” Harry growled, turning back and facing the bully. “You’re ugly enough without me making it worse!”

  “Wha—?” Green couldn’t believe his ears. What was that Keogh had said? No, it couldn’t have been. Why, it hadn’t even sounded like him. He must have a frog in his throat, or he was all choked up with fear.

  “Whyn’t you leave him alone?” said Jimmy Collins, pushing through the crowd. Three or four of them grabbed him, held him back.

  “Stay out of it, Jimmy,” said Harry in his new, gritty voice. “I’m all right.”

  “All right, is it?” cried Big Stanley. “I’ll say you’re not, Speccy my son. I’ll say you’re—in—the—shit!”

  With his last word he swung his fist for the smaller boy’s head. Harry ducked easily, stepped forward, jabbed with a straight arm, fingers straight and stiff. Big Stanley folded in the middle, jack-knifed, his face coming down on Harry’s knee—which was coming up! The crack was like a pistol shot. Green straightened up and flew backward, his arms straight out from his shoulders. And down he crashed on the sand.