This was Harry's expression of grief, meant to be private, but his thoughts were deadspeak. She heard and felt them and knew him for a friend. And: You're the Necroscope, she said then. They tried to tell me about you but I was afraid and wouldn't listen. When they spoke to me I turned away. I didn't want to… to talk to dead people.
Harry was crying. Great tears blurred his vision, rolled down his pale, slightly hollow cheeks, splashed hot where they fell on his hand on her brow. He hadn't wanted to cry, didn't know he could, but there was that in him which worked on his feelings and amplified them, lifting them above the emotions of ordinary men. Safe — so long as it worked on an emotion such as this one, which was grief and entirely human.
Darcy Clarke had come forward; he touched the Necroscope's arm. 'Harry?'
Harry shook him off, and his voice was choked but harsh too as he rasped: 'Leave us alone! I want to talk to her in private.'
Clarke backed off, his Adam's apple bobbing. It was the look on Harry's face, which brought tears to his eyes, too. 'Of course,' he said. He turned and left the room, and closed the door after him.
Harry took a metal-framed chair from beside the stacked shelving and sat by the dead girl. He very carefully cradled her head in his arms.
I… I can feel that, she said, wonderingly.
'Then you can feel, too, that I'm not like him,' Harry answered out loud. He preferred simply to talk to the dead, for that way it came more naturally to him.
Most of her terror had fled now. The Necroscope was a comfort; he was warm, a safe haven. It might even be her father stroking her face. Except she wouldn't be able to feel him. Only Harry Keogh could touch the dead. Only Harry, and -
Her terror welled up again — but he was quick to sense it and fend it off: 'It's over and you're safe. We won't — I won't — let anything hurt you again, ever.' It was more than just a promise, it was his vow.
In a little while her thoughts grew calm and she was easy, or easier, again. But she was very bitter, too, when she said: I'm dead, but he — that thing — is alive!
'It's one of the reasons I'm here,' Harry told her. 'For you weren't the only one. There were others before you, and unless we stop him there'll be others after you. So you see, it's very important that we get him, for he's not just a murderer but also a necromancer; which makes him more, far worse, than the sum of his parts. A murderer destroys the living, and a necromancer torments the dead. But this one enjoys the terror of his victim both before and after they die!'
I can't talk about what he did to me, she said, shuddering.
'You don't have to,' Harry shook his head. 'Right now I'm only interested in you. I'm sure there'll be people worrying about you. Until we know who you are, we won't be able to put their minds at rest.'
Do you think their minds will ever be at rest, Harry?
It was a good question. 'We don't have to tell them everything,' he answered. 'I might be able to fix it so that they only know, well, that someone killed you. They don't have to be told how.'
Can you do that?
'If that's the way you want it,' he nodded.
Then do it! She offered a breathless sigh. That was the worst, Harry: thinking about them, my folks, how they'd take it. But if you can make it easier for them… I think I'm beginning to understand why the dead love you so. My name is Penny. Penny Sanderson. And I live — lived — at…
… And so it went. She told the Necroscope all about herself, and he remembered every smallest detail. That was what Darcy Clarke had wanted, but it wasn't everything he'd wanted. When finally Penny Sanderson was through, Harry knew he still had to take her that one step further.
'Penny, listen,' he said. 'Now I don't want you to do or say anything. Don't try to talk to me at all. But like I said before, this is important.'
About him?
'Penny, when I first touched you, and you thought it was him come back for more, you remembered how it had been. Parts of it, anyway. You thought about it in brief flashes of memory. That was deadspeak and I picked it up. But it was all very chaotic, kaleidoscopic.'
But that's all there is, she said. That's how it was.
Harry nodded. 'OK, that's fine, but I need to see it again. See, the better I remember it, the more chance I have of finding him. So really you don't have to tell me anything, not as a conscious act. I just want to shoot a few words at you, at which you'll picture the bits I need. Do you understand?'
Word association?
'Something like that, yes. Except of course that in this case the association will be hell for you — but easier than just talking about it.'
She understood; Harry sensed her willingness. Before she could change her mind, he said: 'Knife!'
A picture hit the screen of his mind like a mixture of blood and acid! The blood incensed him and the acid burned, etching the picture there for good this time. Harry reeled before her horror — which was unbearable — and if he hadn't been seated would have fallen. The shock was that physical, even though it lasted only a fraction of a second.
When she stopped sobbing he said, 'Are you OK?'
No… yes.
'Face!' Harry fired at her.
Face?
'His face?' He tried again.
And a face, red, leering, bloated with lust, with an open, salivating mouth and eyes insensate as frozen diamonds, went skittering across the Necroscope's mind's eye. But not so fast that he didn't catch it. And this time she wasn't sobbing. She wanted this to work. Wanted him brought to justice.
'Where?'
A picture of… a car park? A motorway restaurant? Darkness pierced with points of light. A string of cars and lorries, speeding down three lanes, with oncoming lights whose glare momentarily blinded. And windscreen wipers swinging left — right — left — right — left…
But there was no pain in the last and Harry guessed that wasn't where it had happened. No, it had been where it started to happen, probably where she met him.
'He picked you up in a car?'
A rain-blurred picture of an ice-blue screen with white letters superimposed or printed there: FRID or FRIG? The screen had many wheels and puffed exhaust smoke. It was the way she remembered it. A large vehicle? A lorry? Articulated?
'Penny,' Harry said, 'I have to do this — only this time I don't mean where you met him: 'Where!?'
Ice! Bitter cold! Dark! The whole place softly vibrating or throbbing! And dead things everywhere, hanging from hooks! Harry tried to fix it all in his mind but nothing was clear, only her shock and disbelief that this was happening to her.
She was sobbing again, terrified, and Harry knew that he'd soon have to stop; he couldn't bring himself to hurt her any more. But at the same time he knew he mustn't weaken now.
'Death!' he snapped, hating himself.
And it was the knife scene all over again, and Harry knew he was losing her, could feel her withdrawing. Before that could happen: 'And… afterwards?' (God! — he didn't want to know! He didn't want to know!)
Penny Sanderson screamed, and screamed, and screamed!