Even telling her all of this — and while not being too specific on any point — still he wondered if perhaps he was making a mistake, if it would have been better to keep her entirely in the dark. And he wondered at his own motives: was he really confiding in her in order to prepare her for… for whatever? Or was it that she was right, that he was feeling at a low ebb and so needed someone to share the load?
Or there again, was it guilt? He had a course to run now and must pursue it; the chase was not at an end; Shukshin had merely been a faltering step in the right direction. Did he feel that because he chose to go in that direction Brenda was at risk? The dream epitaph — his mother's warning — had said nothing about Brenda dying as a result of anything Harry was yet to do. He had impregnated her, yes, which would result in a birth; but how could any course he took now influence the physical event of the birth itself? And yet a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him that indeed it could.
And so it seemed to him that his motive for telling her was chiefly one of guilt, and also because he needed to tell someone — needed to tell a friend. The trouble was that he seemed to be leaning on the very one he endangered, which aggravated and magnified the guilt aspect out of all proportion!
It was all very confusing and abstruse, and trying to muddle through it made him more tired than ever, so that when he was done talking he was glad to sit back and let her think it over.
Strangely, she accepted everything he said almost as a matter of course — indeed with visible relief — and at once set about to explain why:
'Harry, I know I'm not as clever as you, but I'm not stupid either. I've known there was something in the air ever since you told me that story of yours — about the necroscope. I sort of sensed that you hadn't finished it, that you wanted to say more but you were scared to. Also, there've been times up in Harden when Mr Hannant has stopped me and asked after you. The way he talked, I knew he thought there was something strange about you, too…'
'Hannant?' he frowned suspiciously. 'What did he — ?'
'Oh, nothing to be concerned about. In fact I think he's more than a little frightened of you. Harry, I've listened to you talking to your poor dead Ma in your sleep, and I knew you were holding real conversations! And there were so many other things. Your writing, for instance. I mean, how come you were suddenly a brilliant author? I've read your stories, Harry, and they're not you. Oh, they're wonderful stories, all right, but you just aren't that wonderful! Not the real you. The real you is ordinary, Harry. Oh, I love you — of course I do — but I'm nobody's fool. And your swimming, your skating, your Judo? Did you think I'd believe you were a super man? I promise you it's easier to believe you're a necroscope! It's a relief to know the truth, Harry. I'm glad you've finally told me…'
Harry shook his head in open astonishment. Talk about level-headed…!
Finally he said: 'But I haven't told you everything, love.'
'Oh, I know that,' she answered. 'Of course you haven't! If you're to be working for your country, why obviously there'll be things you need to keep secret — even from me. I understand that, Harry.'
It was as if someone had lifted a great weight off his
chest. He breathed deeply, lay back again, let his head
link into his pillows. 'Brenda, I'm still very tired,' he
yawned. 'Just let me sleep now, there's a love. Tomorrow
I'm to go down to London.'
'All right, my love,' she leaned over him to kiss his forehead. 'And don't worry, I won't ask you to tell me a thing about it.'
Harry slept right through until evening, then got up and ate a meal. They went out about 8:00 p.m. just to walk for an hour in the crisp night air, until Brenda started to feel the cold. Then they hurried home, took hot showers, and made love, and afterwards both of them slept right through the night.
It was the least Harry had done in any single day in his life.
Later he would have reason to recall it as the most wasteful day in his life.
Sir Keenan Gormley was thoughtful as he left ESP HQ, took the lift down to the tiny lobby and went out into the cold London night. Several things had given him cause for concern just recently, not the least of them being Harry Keogh. For Keogh had not yet contacted him, and with each day that passed Gormley felt the time weighing on him like lumps of lead. It was just after nine o'clock as Gormley walked the streets heading for Westminster tube station, and two hundred and twenty-five miles away Harry Keogh himself was just making love to his wife before settling to a night's sleep.
As for Gormley's other causes for concern: there were two of them. One was the way his second in command
kept enquiring after his health, which might seem silly if his second in command weren't Alec Kyle, and if Alec Kyle wasn't a very talented seer, a man whose by no means negligible talent lay in foretelling the future! Kyle's concern for his boss over the last week or ten days had been pretty obvious, no matter how carefully he'd tried to hide it. If there was anything specific, Gormley knew that Kyle would tell him. That was why he hadn't pressed him about it, but it was worrying anyway.
And finally there was the other thing, the big thing. Over the period of the last six or seven weeks there had been at least a dozen different occasions when Gormley had known that there were ESPers about, when he'd 'spotted' them in his mind. He had never come face to face with one, had never been able to pin one down, but he'd known they were there anyway. At least two of them.
It had got so he could recognise them almost as easily as he recognised his own men, but these were not his men. Their auras were strange. And always they watched him from the safety of crowds, in the busy places, never where he could tie a face to a feeling. He wondered how long they would go on watching, and if that was all they would do. And as he reached the underground and went down to the trains he patted the bulge of his 9 mm Browning through his overcoat and jacket. At least that was a comfort. There wasn't an ESPer in the world who could think himself out of the way of a bullet — not that Gormley knew of, anyway…
There were only a few people on the platform and fewer in the compartment where Gormley picked up a discarded copy of the Daily Mail to keep him company during the journey. He found it mildly alarming that the headlines seemed completely alien to him. Was he really that much out of touch? Yes, he probably was! His work had been putting a lot of strain on him and taking up far
too much of his time; this was the third night in a row he'd worked late; he couldn't remember the last time he'd really read a book right through or entertained friends. Maybe Kyle was right to be concerned about him — and on a purely personal level at that — not from the point of view of an ESPer. Maybe it was time he took a break and left his second in command to mind the shop. God only knew he would have to sooner or later. And he made himself a promise that he would take a break… just as soon as he'd initiated young Harry Keogh into the fold.
Keogh…
Gormley had given a lot of thought to Keogh, had considered some of the ways his talent might be put to use. Fantastic ways. All in the mind for now, but fascinating anyway. He would have started to go over them again, but just as it crossed his mind to do so the train pulled into St James's and Gormley found himself distracted by an incredibly pretty pair of legs in a tiny skirt that passed directly in front of his eyes and out of the twin doors. It was a wonder the lovely creature didn't freeze to death, he thought — and wouldn't that be a loss!
Gormley grinned at his own thoughts. His wife, God bless her, was always complaining he had an eye for the girls. Well, his heart might be tricky but the rest of him seemed to be in working order. An eye wouldn't be all he had for that young lady, if he were thirty years younger!
He coughed loudly, returned to his newspaper and tried to get himself reacquainted with the world. A brave effort but he lost interest half-way down the second column. It was pretty mundane stuff, after all, compared with his world. A world of fortune-tellers, telepaths, and now a necroscope.
Harry Keogh again.
There was a game Gormley played with Kyle. It was a
word-association game. Sometimes it startled Kyle's future-oriented mind into action, opening a window for him. A window on tomorrow. Normally Kyle's talent worked independent of conscious thought; he usually 'dreamed' his predictions; if he consciously tried for results they wouldn't come. But if you could catch him unawares…
They had played their game just a few days ago. Gormley had had Keogh on his mind and had wandered into Kyle's office. And seeing the ESPer sitting there he'd smiled and said: 'Game?'
Kyle had understood. 'Go right ahead.'
'It's a name,' Gormley had warned, to which Kyle had nodded his head.
'I'm ready,' he'd said, sitting up and putting down whatever he was working on.
Gormley paced a while, then turned quickly and faced the other where he sat at his desk. 'Harry Keogh!' he had snapped then.
'Mobius!' answered Kyle at once.
'Maths?' Gormley frowned.
'Space-time!' Now Kyle went white, scared-looking, and Gormley had known they'd got something. He gave it one last shot:
'Necroscope!'
'Necromancer!' the other shot back at once.
'What? Necromancer?' Gormley had repeated. But Kyle was still working.
'Vampire!' he'd shouted then, starting to his feet. Then he was swaying, trembling, shaking his head, saying, 'That… that's enough, sir. Whatever it was, it… it's gone now.'
And that had been that…
Gormley came back to the present.
He looked up and found they'd passed through Victoria and that the train was almost empty. Already they were