Necroscope

He reeled, found a rickety easy chair, sank down into it. Pale as death he shivered, gulped, gazed at Gormley

through the eyes of a cornered animal. 'I don't know what you're — ' he finally began to croak his denial, only to have Gormley cut him off with:

'Yes you do, Harry! You know very well what I'm talking about. You're a necroscope. And you're probably the only real necroscope in the entire world!'

'You have to be crazy!' Harry gasped desperately. 'Coming in here and accusing me of… of things. A necroscope? There's no such thing. Everyone knows you can't… can't…' Trapped, he faltered to a halt.

'Can't what, Harry? Talk to the dead? But you can, can't you?'

Clammy sweat broke out on Harry's forehead. He gasped for air. He was caught and he knew it. Trapped like a ghoul with a dripping heart in his hands, like a rapist in the beam of a policeman's torch, gasping between his battered victim's thighs. It hadn't felt like a crime before — he'd never hurt anyone — but now…'

Gormley stepped forward, took his shoulders, shook him where he sat. 'Snap out of it, man! You look like a grubby little boy caught masturbating. You're not sick, Harry — this thing you do isn't an illness — it's a talent!'

'It's a secret thing,' he protested weakly, his face shining. 'I… I don't hurt them, I wouldn't do that. Without me, who would they have to talk to? They're so lonely!' He was almost babbling now, convinced that he was in deep trouble and trying to talk his way out. The last thing Gormley wanted was to alienate him.

'It's okay, son, it's okay. Take it easy — no one's accusing you of anything.'

'But it's a secret thing!' Harry insisted, gritting his teeth, growing angry now. 'Or at least it was. But now, if people know about it — '

'They won't get to know.'

'You know!'

'It's my business to know these things. Son, I keep telling you: you're not in trouble. Not with me.'

He was so persuasive, so quiet. Was he a friend, a real friend, or was he something else? Harry couldn't control his panic, the shock of knowing that someone else knew. His head whirled. Could he trust this man? Dared he trust anyone? And if Gormley meant the end of him as a necroscope, what of his revenge on Viktor Shukshin? Nothing must interfere with that!

He reached out desperately with his mind, contacted a confidence trickster he knew in the cemetery in Easington.

Gormley felt the power that washed out from Harry at that moment, a raw alien energy like nothing he'd felt before, which set his scalp tingling and quickened his heart alarmingly. This was it! This was the necroscope's talent in action. Gormley knew it as surely as he was born.

In his chair Harry had gradually squeezed himself into a more compact mass, hunching down. He had been the colour of drifted snow, dripping sweat like a faulty tap. But now -

He sat up, bared his teeth and grinned a wild grin, tossed back his head and sent beads of sweat flying. He uncoiled like a spring, all of the panic going out of him in a moment. His hand hardly trembled at all as he brushed damp hair back from his forehead. Colour rapidly returned to his face. 'That's it,' he said, still grinning. 'Interview's over.'

'What?' Gormley was amazed at the transformation.

'Certainly. That's what this is all about, isn't it? You came here to find out about Harry Keogh the author. Someone mentioned to you the theme of a new story I'm writing — which no one's supposed to know about, incidentally — and you just hit me with it to get my reaction. It's a horror story, and you've heard I always act out what I write. So when I act out the part of the necroscope — which is a word of my own coining, by the way — naturally I do it with authority. I'm a good actor, see? Well, you've had your free show and I've had my fun, and now the interview's over.' The grin fell abruptly from his face and left it sour, sneering. 'You know where the door is, Keenan…'

Gormley slowly shook his head. At first he'd been stunned, but now his instinct took over. And it was his instinct that told him what was happening here. 'That's clever,' he said, 'but nowhere close to clever enough, Who are you talking to now, Harry? Or rather, who is it talking through you?'

For a moment defiance continued to shine in Harry Keogh's eyes, but then Gormley once more felt the flow of weird energies as the youth broke the link with his clever, dead, unknown friend. His face visibly changed; sarcasm drained away and Harry was himself again; but at least he retained something of composure. His panic had passed.

'What do you want to know?' he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

'Everything,' Gormley answered at once. 'I thought you already knew everything? You said you did.'

'But I want to hear it from you. I know you can't explain how you do it, and I certainly don't want to know why; it's enough to say that you found yourself with a talent you could use to improve your own life. That's understandable. No, it's the facts I want. The extent of your talent, for instance, and its limitations. Until a moment ago I didn't know you could use it at a distance — that sort of thing. I want to know what you talk about, what interests them. Do they see you as an intruder, or do they welcome you? Like I said: I want to know everything.'

'Or else?'

Gormley shook his head. 'That doesn't even come into it-not yet.'

Harry gave a sour smile. 'So we're to be "friends", are we?'

Gormley drew up a chair and sat down facing him. 'Harry, no one else is going to know about you. That's a promise. And yes, we are going to be friends. That's because we need each other, and because we in turn are needed. Okay, you probably think you don't need me, that I'm the last thing you need! But that's only for now. You will need me, I assure you.'

Harry looked at him through narrowed eyes. 'And just why do you need me? I think, before I tell you anything — before I even admit anything — that there are one or two things you'd better tell me.'

Gormley had expected nothing less. He nodded, stared straight into the other's wary, questioning eyes, drew a deep breath. 'Fair enough, I will. You know who I am, so now I'll tell you what I am and what I do for a living. More importantly, I'll tell you about the people I work with.'

He did. He told Harry about the British E-Branch, and what little he knew about the American, French, Russian and Chinese equivalents. He told him about telepaths who could speak to each other across the world without a telephone, with their minds alone; about precognition, the ability to pierce the future and tell of events yet to happen; about telekinesis and psychokinesis, and men who could move solid objects with their will alone and without resorting to simple physical strength. He spoke about 'far-seeing', and about a man he knew who could tell you what was happening anywhere in the world at

this precise moment of time; about psychic healing and a 'doctor' who could conjure the supreme power of Life into his naked hands, banishing diseases without the benefit of any form of conventional treatment; about the entire range of ESPers under his command, and how there was a place there, too, for Harry. And he told it all in such a way — with such understanding and clarity and sheer conviction — that Harry knew he spoke the truth.

'So you see,' Gormley finally came to a close, 'you're not a freak, Harry. Your talent may well be unique but you, as an ESPer, are not. Your grandmother was one before you and passed it down to your mother. She in turn passed a large dose of it down to you. God only knows what your children will be capable of, Harry Keogh!'

After a long while and as all he had been told sank in, Harry said: 'And now you want me to work for you?'