Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (27 page)

Harry’s head snapped round; wide-eyed, he stared; and saw a scarlet thread, even now angling in towards him! And:

“Vampire?
he yelled, rolling out of his armchair into the darkness of the room. And framed in the doorway leading back into the rest of the house, he saw the silhouette of what could only be one thing: that which he’d known was coming for him!

There was a small table beside his chair, which Harry had knocked flying. Groping in the darkness, his fingers found two things: a table-lamp thrown to the floor, and the weapon he’d worked on earlier in the day. The latter was loaded. Switching on the lamp, Harry went into a crouch behind his chair and brought up his gleaming metal crossbow into view—and saw that his worst nightmare had advanced into the room.

There was no denying the thing: the slate-grey colour of its flesh, its gaping jaws and what they contained, its pointed ears and the high-collared cape which gave its skull and menacing features definition. It was a vampire—of the comic-book variety! But even realizing that this wasn’t the real thing (and he of all people should know), still Harry’s finger had tightened on the trigger.

It was all reaction. This body he’d trained to a peak of perfection was working just as he’d programmed it to work in a hundred simulations of this very situation. And despite the fact that he’d come immediately awake—and that he knew this thing in his room with him was a fraud—still his adrenalin was flowing and his heart pounding, and his weapon’s fifteen-inch hardwood bolt already in flight. It was only in the last split second that he’d tried to avert disaster by elevating the crossbow’s tiller up towards the ceiling. But that had been enough, barely.

Wellesley, seeing the crossbow in Harry’s hand, had blown froth through his plastic teeth in a gasp of terror and tried to back off. The bolt missed his right ear by a hair’s breadth, struck through the collar of his costume cape and snatched him back against the wall. It buried itself deep in plaster and old brick and pinned him there.

He spat out his teeth and yelled: “Jesus Christ, you idiot, it’s me!” But this was as much for the benefit of Darcy Clarke, back there somewhere in the dark house, as for Harry Keogh. For even as he was shouting, Wellesley’s right hand reached inside the coat under his cape and grasped the grip of his issue 9 mm Browning. This was his main chance. Keogh had attacked him, just as he’d hoped he would. It was self-defence, that’s all.

Harry, taking no chances, had nocked his bow, snatched the auxiliary bolt from its clips under the tiller of his weapon and placed it in the breech. In a sort of slow-motion born of the speed of his own actions, he saw Wellesley’s arm straightening and coming up into the firing position; but he couldn’t believe the man would shoot him. Why? For what reason? Or perhaps Wellesley feared he was going to use the crossbow again. That must be it, yes. He dropped his weapon into the armchair’s well and threw up his arms.

But now Wellesley’s aim was unwavering, his eyes glinting, his knuckle turning white in the trigger-guard of the automatic. And he actually grinned as he shouted: “Keogh, you madman—no!—
nor

Then … three things, happening almost simultaneously:

One: Darcy Clarke’s voice, which Harry recognized immediately, shouting, “Wellesley, get out of there. Get the fuck
out
of there!” And his footsteps coming clattering down the corridor, and his cursing as he collided with a plant-pot and stand and knocked them over.

Two: Harry throwing himself over backwards behind the armchair as finally Wellesley’s intention became clear, and hearing the angry
whirrr
of the bullet as the first shot went wide by an inch. And levering himself up to make a grab for the crossbow again, just in time to see the look on Wellesley’s face turn from a mixture of incomprehensible rage and murderous intent to one of sheerest horror as his eyes were drawn to something behind Harry, which caused them to flash wide and disbelieving in a moment.

Three: the crash of shattering glass and snapping of thin wooden mullions inwards as something wet and heavy and clumsy came plunging through the locked patio doors into the room, something which drew Wellesley’s fire from Harry to itself!

“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”
the head of E-Branch screamed, emptying his gun over Harry’s head, which he’d now turned towards the shattered glass door. And there, staggering from the impact of the shots but somehow managing to keep its feet, Harry saw something—indeed, someone, though who exactly it would be hard to tell—which he’d thought never to see again. And even though he didn’t know this one, still he knew him or it for a friend. For in the old days, all of the dead had been Harry’s friends!

This one was bloated, wet, intact, not long dead—but long enough to smell very badly. And behind it came a second corpse, dusty, withered, almost mummified, stepping through the frame of the shattered door. They were in their crumbling burial sheets and each of them carried a stone, advancing on Wellesley where he stood pinned to the wall, still yanking on the trigger of his empty gun.

And Harry could only crouch there watching, mouthing silent denials, as they drew close to the frenzied, maddened boss of E-Branch and began to raise their stones.

That was when the corridor light came on and Darcy Clarke stumbled into the room. His talent for survival—unfelt except by Darcy himself—was shrieking at him to get the hell out of here, almost physically driving him back. But somehow he fought it; and after all, the hostility of the dead wasn’t directed at him but at his boss. “Harry!” he yelled, when he saw what was happening in the room. “For God’s sake call them off!”

“I can’t,” Harry yelled back. “You know I can’t!” But at least he could put himself between them. He did that now, jumped forward and somehow got between the dead things and Wellesley where he gibbered and frothed. And there they stood with their stones upraised, and the soggy one seeking to put Harry gently to one side.

He might have, too, but suddenly suicidal, Harry cried out: “No! Go back where you belong! It’s a mistake!” Or at least he tried to. But he only got as far as “go back where—” For he was forbidden to speak to the dead. But fortunately for Wellesley, the dead weren’t forbidden to heed him.

As Harry clapped his hands to his head and cried out, jerking like a spastic puppet as he crumpled up, so the dead men let fall their stones and turned away, and went out again into the night.

Strangled until now, Wellesley found his voice again; but it was a deranged voice if ever Darcy Clarke heard one. “Did you see? Did you see?” Wellesley gibbered. “I didn’t believe it, but now I’ve seen for myself. He called them up against me! He’s a monster, by God, a
monster!
But it’s the end of you, Harry Keogh”

He’d freed the spent magazine from his gun and dropped it to the carpeted floor, and was in the process of bringing a fully loaded one out of his pocket when Clarke hit him with all the force he could muster. Gun and magazine went flying, and Wellesley hung there in his makeup, suspended from the crossbow bolt.

Then there were more running footsteps, and in the next moment the two-man back-up team was there wondering what the hell was going on; and Darcy was down on the floor with Harry, holding him in his arms as the agonized man clutched at his head and gasped out his unbearable pain, and slid down into the deep, dark well of merciful oblivion …

A great deal occurred in the nine hours it took Harry to sleep it off. A security-screened doctor was called in to look at him, also to give Wellesley a shot that would keep him down a while; Clarke got in touch with Sandra because he reckoned she should be in on this, and should have been from the start; and as dawn came and went and both Harry and Wellesley were beginning to show signs of regaining consciousness, so a call came through from the Duty Officer at E-Branch HQ.

Darcy had of course already put HQ in the picture. He’d contacted the DO right after the excitement had died down to report everything that had happened and what he’d done, and at the same time to tender his resignation to the Minister Responsible. Also he’d suggested that someone might like to start thinking about a replacement for Wellesley, who was obviously several kinds of flake. And looking back on Wellesley’s plan to scare Harry Keogh into using the Möbius Continuum—which he, Darcy Clarke, had gone along with—Darcy reckoned he might be just a little on the flaky side himself!

Sandra, when she’d arrived looking worried as hell and after he’d explained things to her, had said as much in no uncertain terms and probably would have said a lot more, except she could see that Darcy was taking it badly enough already. She didn’t feel the need to blame him because he was so obviously blaming himself; so instead of ranting and raving and generally going to pieces, she’d simply sat with Harry through what was left of the night and into the morning. And just a few minutes ago, when everyone was into his third cup of coffee, that was when the telephone rang and it was HQ asking to speak to Darcy Clarke. He took the call, which was a long one, and when he was through had to sit down a minute and think about it.

They’d stretched Wellesley out on Harry’s bed upstairs, with one of the men from E-Branch watching him; Harry himself had a leather couch downstairs in the study where everything had happened, and where they’d draped a blanket over the broken patio doors to keep out the night chill; Sandra, Darcy and the other E-Branch operative were all there with him, with nothing to do now except wait for him to wake up.

Except that now, following this telephone call, Darcy had quite a bit more to do, and the speed with which circumstances had changed had left him breathless. But Sandra had seen the full range of rapidly changing expressions on his face as he’d talked into the telephone; and now, catching a glimpse of the confusion in his mind—and the relief, and something of the shock, too?—she felt prompted to inquire:

“What was that all about?”

Darcy looked at her and his bleary eyes slowly focussed. Then he turned to the other agent and said, “Eddy, go up and keep Joe company, eh? And when Wellesley wakes up, tell him he’s under arrest!”

“What?” the other looked at him incredulously.

Darcy nodded. That was the DO on the blower, and he had our Minister right there with him. It seems our pal Norman Harold Wellesley has been fooling around a little with a suspicious character from the Russian Embassy! He’s suspended forthwith, and we’re to deliver him to MI5 ASAP—which puts me right back in the chair. For now, anyway.”

As Eddy left to go upstairs, Darcy told Sandra: “Yes, but that’s just part of it. It never rains but it pours. We have a big problem.”

“We?” she said, shaking her head. “No, for I’m out of it, whatever it is. And I thought you were, too. Well, your resignation may have been turned down, but not mine. I’m through with the Branch, as of now.”

“I understand that,” he said, “and I meant
I
have a problem rather than we. It’s not only business but personal, too. And I’m afraid I can’t quit until it’s sorted out. But you don’t want to hear about it, right?”

“Hearing won’t hurt,” she said.

“It’s Ken Layard and Trevor Jordan,” he began to explain. “They were out in the Aegean, Rhodes, keeping tabs on a load of drugs being run through the Med. And now it seems they’ve come unstuck. Badly.”

“How badly?” Sandra had met the two men—in fact Jordan, the telepath, had been her sponsor—and she knew something of their talents and outstanding reputations.

“Very badly,” Darcy shook his head. “And … it’s weird! Something I’m going to have to look into myself. These were two of my closest friends.”

“Weird?” she repeated him. “Were?”

He nodded. “Over the last few days Trevor’s had a couple of minor problems. They thought it was overeating or drinking or something. Now apparently he’s a raving madman … or would be if he wasn’t under sedation in a Rhodes asylum! And the night before last—no, the one before that; when I’m tired like this my body-clock goes out of whack—Ken Layard was fished out of the harbour half-full of water and with a bump on his head where he’d collided with something. Concussion, that’s all. Except as yet there’s no sign of a normal recovery. All of which smells very fishy to me.”

“What?” said Harry Keogh, fumbling the word out of a mouth that tasted highly toxic as he tried to sit up.

They sprang to his side, Darcy supporting him and Sandra hugging his head. “Are you all right, Harry?” she stroked his hair, kissed his forehead.

He freed himself, licked his lips and said, “Be a love and make me a cup of coffee.” And as she left the room he focussed on Darcy.

“Names,” he said.

“Eh?”

“You mentioned the names of some people,” Harry said again, seeming to find some difficulty in getting his tongue round the words. “People I’ve heard of, and met, in E-Branch.” He pulled a face. “God, my mouth tastes vile!” And then, suddenly remembering, his eyes went wide. “That idiot was trying to shoot me! And then —” Abruptly, he struggled upright, his eyes searching every corner of the room.

“All that was last night, Harry,” Darcy told him, knowing what he was looking for. “And … they’ve gone now. They went when you told them to.”

Some of the anxiety went out of Harry’s face, replaced by the bitter look of a man betrayed. “You were here,” he accused, “with Wellesley.”

Darcy didn’t deny it. “Yes,” he said, “I was, but for the last time. I was following orders, or trying to, but that’s no excuse. I
was
here, and shouldn’t have been. But from here on in … I have one more job to do, and then I’m out of E-Branch for good. I don’t think spying’s my style, Harry. And I sure as hell know that shitting on my friends isn’t! As for Wellesley: I don’t think he’ll be much trouble from now on.”

“What?” Harry went deathly pale in a moment. “Don’t tell me they—?”

Darcy shook his head. “No, they didn’t hurt him. You told them to go and they went. And then you folded up.”

Sandra was back with Harry’s coffee. “What’s this about names?” she said.

Harry took a mouthful of hot coffee, gave his head a tentative shake and said, “Ow! God, my head!”