Necroscope

'But why did you let me — no, make me — go up against something like that? It makes no sense.'

Borowitz turned and hurried on. 'It makes lots of sense. It's practice, Dragosani, and like I'm always telling you-'

'Practice makes perfect, I know. But practice for what?'

'I only wish I knew,' Borowitz tossed over his shoulder. 'Who can say what you'll come up against — in England!'

'What?' Dragosani's jaw dropped. He chased after the older man. 'England? What about England? And you still haven't told me what you meant when you said Batu was my partner. Gregor, I don't understand any of this.'

They had reached Borowitz's offices. Borowitz swept through the anteroom and turned on his heel just across the threshold of his private room. Dragosani came to a halt facing him, stared at him accusingly. 'What is it you've got up your sleeve — Comrade?'

'So you're still accusing people of trickery, eh, Boris?' said the other. 'Will you never learn your lesson the first time around? I don't need to resort to trickery, my friend. I give orders, and you obey! This is my next order: you're going back to school for a few months to brush up on your English. Not only the language but the entire English system. That way you'll fit better into the embassy over there. Max will go with you — and I'll bet he learns faster, too. After that, when we've made certain arrangements — a little field trip…'

'To England?'

'Exactly. You and your partner. There's a man over there called Keenan Gormley, Ex-MI5. "Sir" Keenan Gormley, no less. Now he's the boss of their E-Branch. I want him dead! That's Max's job, for Gormley has a bad heart. After that — '

Dragosani saw it all now. 'You want him "interrogated",' he said. 'You want him emptied of secrets. You want to know all about him and his E-Branch down to the last detail.'

'Right first time,' Borowitz gave a sharp nod of his head. 'And that's your job, Boris. You're the necromancer, inquisitor of the dead. It's what you get paid for…'

And before Dragosani could answer, completely expressionless for once, Borowitz closed the door in his face.

A Saturday evening in the early summer of 1976. Sir Keenan Gormley was relaxing with a book in his study at home in South Kensington, an after-dinner drink on the

occasional table before him, when the telephone rang in the house proper. He heard it, and a few moments later his wife's voice calling: 'Darling, it's for you.'

‘Coming!' he called, and sighing put down his book and went through. As he took the telephone from her, his wife gave him a smile and returned to her own reading. Gormley carried the telephone to a wicker chair and sat down before glass doors which stood open on a large, secluded garden. 'Gormley here?' he said into the mouthpiece.

'Sir Keenan? This is Harmon. Jack Harmon in Hartlepool. How's the world been treating you ail these years?'

'Harmon? Jack! How the devil are you!? My God! How long's it been. It must be twelve years at least!'

'Thirteen,' came the answer, tinny with the effects of static. 'Last time we spoke was at that dinner they threw for you when you left "shhh! — you know who!" And that was back in 'sixty-three.'

'Thirteen years!' Gormley breathed, amazed. 'Where does time go to, eh?'

'Where indeed? Retirement hasn't killed you off, then?'

Gormley chuckled dryly. 'Ah! Well, I only half-retired, as I believe you know. I still do this and that in the city. And you — are you still stout as ever? I seem to remember you'd got yourself the head's job at Hartlepool Tech?'

That's right, and I'm still there. Headmaster? — Christ, it was easier in Burma!'

Gormley laughed out loud. 'It's very good to hear from you again, Jack, especially since you seem in such good health. Now then, what can I do for you?'

There was something of a pause before Harmon finally answered: 'Actually, I feel a bit of a fool. I've been on the point of calling you several times in the last week or so, but always changed my mind. It's such a damned strange business!'

Gormley was at once interested. He'd been dealing with 'strange businesses' for many years now. His own fine-tuned talent told him that something new was about to break, and maybe it was something big. His scalp tingled as he answered: 'Go on, Jack, what is it? And don't worry that I may think it daft. I remember you for a very level-headed chap.'

'Yes, but this is very — you know — difficult to put into words. I mean, I'm close to this thing, I've seen it with my own eyes, and yet — '

'Jack,' Gormley was patient, 'do you remember the night of that dinner, how you and I got talking afterwards? I'd had quite a bit to drink that night — too much, maybe — and I seem to remember mentioning things I shouldn't have. It was just that you seemed so well-placed — I mean, as a headmaster and all…'

'But that's exactly why I'm calling you now!' Harmon answered. 'Because of that chat of ours. How on earth could you possibly know that?'

Gormley chuckled. 'Call it intuition,' he said. 'But do go on.'

'Well, you said that I'd be seeing a lot of youngsters pass through my hands, and I should keep my eyes open for any that I thought were rather… special.'

Gormley licked his lips, said: 'Hang on a moment, Jack, there's a good chap.' He called out to his wife, 'Jackie, be a love and fetch me my drink, would you?' And to the telephone: 'Sorry, Jack, but I'm suddenly quite dry. And now you've found a kid who's a bit different, have you?'

'A bit? Harry Keogh's a lot different, you can take my word for it! Frankly, I don't know what to make of him.'

'Well then, tell me and let's see what I can make of him.'

'Harry Keogh,' Harmon began, 'is… one hell of a weird fellow. He was first brought to my attention by a teacher at the boys' school in Harden a little farther up the coast. At that time he was described to me as an "instinctive mathematician". In fact he was a near genius! Anyway, he sat a form of examination and passed it — hell, he flew through it! — and so came to the Tech. But his English was terrible. I used to get on to him about it…

'Anyway, when I spoke to this fellow up at Harden — the young teacher, I mean, a fellow called George Hannant — I somehow got the impression that he didn't like Keogh. Or maybe that's a bit strong; maybe Keogh simply made him uneasy. Well, I've recently had cause to speak to Hannant again, and that's how the whole thing came to light. By that I mean that Hannant's observations of five years ago match mine exactly. He too, at that time, believed that Harry Keogh… that he…'

'That he what?' Gormley urged. 'What's this lad's talent, Jack?'

Talent? My God! That's not how I would describe it.'

'Well?'

'Let me tell it my way. It's not that I'm shy of my conclusions, you understand, just that I believe the evidence should be heard first. I've said that Keogh's English was bad and I used to urge him to do better. Well, he improved rapidly. Before he left the school two years ago he'd sold his first short story. Since then there have been two books full of them. They've sold right across the English-speaking world! It's a bit off-putting to say the least! I mean, I've been trying to sell my stories for thirty years, and here's Keogh not yet nineteen, and — '

'And is that your concern?' Gormley cut him off. 'That he's become a successful author so young?'

'Eh? Heavens, no! I'm delighted for him. Or at least I was. I still would be if only… if only he didn't write the damn things that way…'He paused.

'What way?'

'He… he has, well, collaborators.'

Something about the way Hannant said the last word made Gormley's scalp tingle again. 'Collaborators? But surely a lot of writers have collaborators? At eighteen years of age I imagine he probably needs someone to tidy his stuff up for him, and so on.'