Necroscope

'No, no,' said the other, with an edge to his voice that hinted of frustration, of wanting to say something outright but not knowing how to. 'No, that's not what I meant at all. Actually, his short stories don't need tidying up — they're all jewels. I myself typed the earliest of them for him, from the rough work, because he didn't have a machine. I even typed up a few after he'd bought a typewriter, until he got the idea of how a good manuscript should look. Since then he's done it all himself — until recently. His new work, which he's just completed, is a novel. He's called it, of all things, Diary of a Seventeenth-century Rake!'

Gormley couldn't suppress a chuckle. 'So he's sexually precocious too, is he?'

'Actually, I think he is. Anyway, I've worked with him quite a bit on the novel, too: that is, I've arranged it into chapters for him and generally tidied it up. Nothing wrong with Keogh's history or his use of the seventeenth-century language — in fact it's amazingly accurate — but his spelling is still atrocious and on this book at least he was repetitive and disjointed. But one thing I can promise you: it will earn him an awful lot of money!'

Now Gormley frowned. 'How can his short stories be "jewels" while his novel is repetitive and disjointed Does that follow logically?'

'Nothing follows logically in Keogh's case. The reason the novel differs from the shorter works is simple: his collaborator on the shorts was a literary type who knew what he was doing, whereas his collaborator for the novel was quite simply… a seventeenth-century rake!'

'Eh?' Gormley was startled. 'I don't follow.'

'No, I don't suppose you do. I wish to God I didn't! Listen: there was a very successful writer of short stories who lived and died in Hartlepool thirty years ago. His real name doesn't matter but he had three or four pseudonyms. Keogh uses pseudonyms very close to the originals.'

'The "originals"? I still don't — '

'As for the seventeenth-century rake: he was the son of an earl. Very notorious in these parts between 1660 and 1672. Finally an outraged husband shot him dead. He wasn't a writer, but he did have a vivid imagination! These two men… they are Keogh's collaborators!'

Gormley's scalp was crawling now. 'Go on,' he said.

'I've talked to Keogh's girlfriend,' Harmon continued. 'She's a nice kid and dotes on him. And she won't hear a word against him. But in conversation she let it slip that he has this idea about something called a necroscope. It's something he presented to her as fiction, a figment of his own imagination. A necroscope, he told her, is someone — '

' — who can look in on the thoughts of the dead?' Gormley cut in.

'Yes,' the other sighed his relief. 'Exactly.'

'A spirit medium?'

'What? Why, yes, I suppose you could say that. But a real one, Keenan! A man who genuinely talks to the

dead! I mean, it's monstrous! I've actually seen him sitting there, writing — in the local graveyard!'

'Have you told anyone else?' Gormley's voice was sharp now. 'Does Keogh know what you suspect?'

'No.'

'Then don't breathe another word about this to a soul. Do you understand?'

'Yes, but — '

'No buts, Jack. This discovery of yours might be very important indeed, and I'm delighted you got in touch with me. But it must go no farther. There are people who could use it in entirely the wrong way.'

'You believe me, then, about this terrible thing?' the other's relief was plain. *I mean, is it even possible?'

'Possible, impossible — the longer I live the more I wonder just what might or mightn't be! Anyway, I can understand your concern, and it's right that you should be concerned. But as for this being "a terrible thing": I'm afraid I have to reserve my judgement on that. If you are correct, then this Harry Keogh of yours has a terrific talent. Just think how he might use it!'

'I shudder to think!'

'What? And you a headmaster? Shame on you, Jack!'

'I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure I — '

'But wouldn't you yourself like the chance to talk to the greatest teachers, theorists and scientists of all time? To Einstein, Newton, Da Vinci, Aristotle?'

'My God!' the voice at the other end of the line almost choked. 'But surely that would be — I mean, quite literally — utterly impossible!'

'Yes, well you just keep believing that, Jack, and forget all about this conversation of ours, right?'

'But you — '

'Right, Jack?'

'Very well. What do you intend to — ?'

'Jack, I work for a very queer outfit, a very funny crowd. And even telling you that much is to tell you too much. However, you have my word that I'll look into this thing. And I want your word that this is your last word on it to anyone.'

'Very well, if you say so.'

Thanks for calling.'

'You're welcome. I — '

'Goodbye, Jack. We must talk again some time.'

'Yes, goodbye…'

Thoughtfully, Gormley put the phone down.

Chapter Eleven

Dragosani had been 'back to school' for over three months, brushing up on his English. Now it was the end of July and he had returned to Romania — or Wallachia, as he now constantly thought of his homeland. His reason for being here was simple: despite any threats he made when last he visited, still he was aware that a year had passed, and that the old Thing in the ground had warned him that a year was all the time allowed. What he had meant exactly was beyond Dragosani to fathom, but of one thing he was certain: he must not let Thibor Ferenczy expire through any oversight on his part. If such an expiry was imminent, then the vampire might now be more willing to share a few more secrets with Dragosani in exchange for an extension on his undead life.

Because it had been getting late in the day when he drove through Bucharest, Dragosani had stopped at a village market to purchase a pair of live chickens in a wicker basket. These had gone under a light blanket on the floor in the back of his Volga. He had found lodgings in a farm standing on the banks of the Oltul, and having tossed his things into his room had come out immediately into the twilight and driven to the wooded cruciform ridge.

Now, at last light, he stood once more on the perimeter of the circle of unhallowed ground beneath the gloomy pines and surveyed again the tumbled tomb cut into the hillside, and the dark earth where grotesquely twisted roots stood up like a writhing of petrified serpents.

Past Bucharest he had tried to contact Thibor, to no

avail; for all that he'd concentrated on raising the old devil's mind from the slumber of centuries, there had been no answer. Perhaps, after all, he was too late. How long might a vampire lie, undead in the earth, without attention? For all Dragosani's many conversations with the creature, and for all that he had learned from Ladislau Giresci, still he knew so little about the Wamphyri. That was restricted knowledge, Thibor had told him, and must await the coming of Dragosani into the fraternity. Oh? The necromancer would see about that!

'Thibor, are you there?' he now whispered in the gloom, his eyes attuned to the shadows and penetrating the dusty miasma of the place. 'Thibor, I've come back — and I bring gifts!' At his feet the chickens huddled in their basket, their feet trussed; but no unseen presence moved in the darkness now, no cobweb fingers brushed his hair, no eager invisible muzzles sniffed at his essence. The place was dry, desiccated, dead. Dangling twigs snapped loudly at a touch and dust swirled where Dragosani placed his feet on the accumulated vegetable debris of centuries.