Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (32 page)

He nodded, but his eyelids continued to flutter a litle. ‘Would you like to see?’ B.J. wondered out loud. ‘If so, then open your eyes. The light won’t hurt you; indeed the crystals will help you see more clearly. They’l help both of us to see much more clearly.’

The Necroscope opened his eyes, and Bonnie Jean was gratified to note that their pupils were dark pinpricks swimming on moist mirror irises.

‘Now listen,’ she said, ensuring that the soft spokes of light from the chandelier’s pendants were wheeling directly across his eyes and forehead. ‘I want you to listen carefully and answer truthfully. You do want to answer my questions, don’t you?’ Her voice was now magnetic, utterly irresistible.

(A slight twitch of Harry’s head: left and right, left and right. A shake? A denial? He must be stronger than she’d suspected! But no, he’d been asked a question and was only trying to answer it truthfully - just as she had demanded!) Then his Adam’s apple wobbled, and he gurgled: ‘Y-your … t-turn … ”

Why, he was continuing their ‘waking’ conversation! A different reaction from anything she’d ever known before. Oh, he was a strange one, al right, this one! But: ‘My turn, yes,’ she agreed. And why not? Why not satisfy
his
queries here and now? Then, whatever his fate would be later, for now at least he’d be satisfied that she was innocent of any ‘ulterior’ motives in connection with the kilings in the garage. What she’d told him at that time - that her motive was pre-emptive, defensive - had been a lie concocted on the spur of the moment.

She had hoped to gain his sympathy by telling him that those people had threatened

162

Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I

163

Brian Luraley

friends of hers. That way he’d be more likely to see her as an instrument of his own revenge, which he had. And now was the ideal time, the perfect opportunity, to substantiate and reinforce his previous opinion.

And so: ‘My turn,’ she said again. ‘You want to question me, Harry? You want me to answer those questions you asked me before you fell asleep?’

(His slow, shuddering nod). And B.J. wondering,
What sort of mind has this man, anyway?
A determined one, certainly!

‘Very well,’ she went along with it. ‘Except… I shall expect you to believe everything I tell you. And no matter what I tell you, or say to you, you will only remember that I’m innocent of any crime. You’ll only remember that I’m
innocent,
and anything else that I
require
you to remember. And in that respect, and with that regard to myself, you will only act when I desire it. At such times as I require, you’ll follow any instructions I may give you to the letter. You’ll follow any instructions I give you …
to … the … letter!
Is that understood?’

But his nod was tentative, trembling.

‘If I’m to trust you with the truth, you must trust me,’ she insisted. ‘Isn’t it only fair?

‘Y-yes,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Now pay attention, and let’s try to have a normal conversation - except you will generally accept what I say. But you are allowed to point out any holes in the logic of my answers. So … can we try to talk normally?’

Harry’s throat worked up and down as he licked his lips. His face relaxed a little, and he said, ‘Sure, why not?’ in a perfectly ordinary speaking voice … but his pinprick pupils remained fixed unblinkingly on the slowly mobile pendants.

B.J. was frankly astonished: at one and the same time he was difficult and he was easy! Perhaps, when these ‘people’

of his had trained him, they had somehow strengthened him against hypnotic suggestion. And post-hypnotic suggestion? If so, then he was a dead man. He mustn’t be allowed to take any knowledge out of this room except what she desired him to know. But that was for the future, while for now:

‘All right, then let’s take it question by question,’ she suggested. ‘You wanted to know about my crossbow?’

‘It’s a weird weapon,’ he said, attempting a shrug.

‘No, it isn’t,’ she shook her head, despite that he wasn’t looking at her. ‘It’s a perfectly normal weapon which I use to hunt rabbits in the Highlands. I climb, hunt, and live off the land; those are my hobbies. But I know a crossbow’s power, and that it will kill men as well as rabbits. Also, it’s a
silent
weapon! Anyway, it served its purpose admirably, and it saved your life. Does that answer your question?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Yes and no? Theft let’s deal with the “yes” part first. What do you mean by yes?’

‘Your answer goes part of the way to explaining a coincidence.’

‘Which is?’

That the man you helped to kill - the one in the van - believed he was a werewolf.’

That hit B.J. like a fist! And forgetting for the moment that she was in control here, she even tried to cover her momentary confusion, which Harry wouldn’t notice anyway. But then, regaining control: ‘Are you saying that you, or these “people” of yours, actually believe in werewolves?’

‘No, but the man you shot in the van did believe in them. He thought he
was
one. If you had believed it, too, you’d use either a silver bullet, or—’

‘—A silvered crossbow bolt?’ (She had seen it coming).

‘Yes. And you did.’

She laughed, however shakily. ‘That bolt was ornamental! Both of them were. They were taken from the wall of a hunting lodge in the Grampians. They were decorations, hanging over a fireplace along with a lot of other old weaponry. The lodge was my uncle’s place, and when he passed on I got one or two of his things. The heads of those bolts were silvered for easy cleaning, because silver can’t rust!’ It was all a lie; clever, but a lie. But she knew that because it at least sounded feasible, it would be that much more acceptable to her ‘guest,’ especially in his drug-induced trance. In any case, this was a ‘normal’ conversation and allowed for normal responses. So perhaps Harry had been looking for just such an answer; maybe he’d even hoped for one. At any rate he sighed … a sigh of relief, it seemed to B.J.

Yet still she frowned and said: ‘But if you and these … these “people” of yours don’t believe in werewolves, what made you think I might?’

‘I didn’t say that we did,’ Harry answered. ‘It was just something that required resolution, that’s all.’

‘And is it resolved now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well, and now I have a question for you.’

‘Oh?’

‘What else are you working on? You said you weren’t concerned that you’d been dropped by your people because you had other things to do. What things?’

Tm searching for my wife and child.’

Stranger by the moment!
B.J. thought. But he couldn’t be faking it. His eyes hadn’t blinked once; they were still fixed firmly on the crystal pendants where they slowly revolved, continuing to seek their natural balance. ‘Are your wife and child lost, then?’

164

165

Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I

Brian Lumley

‘They … went away,’ he said. ‘From me, my work. The baby … he … it was a difficult birth. My wife’s health suffered, mental as well as physical - or rather, mental
instead
of physical.’

‘Post-natal depression?’

‘And other … problems, yes.’

‘So she ran away? With your baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘But in your line of work, with your experience, you’ll be able to find them, right? I mean, like you found me? I’m not in the telephone book, Harry.’

‘Neither is Brenda,’ he answered. ‘But I can’t simply ask a taxi driver to take me to her …’ ‘

That’s how you found me?’

‘Yes.’

‘So … where will you look for them?’

‘Abroad. Canada. Maybe America. The West Coast. Seattle. That’s where I’ll start, anyway. Probably.’

‘And when will you go?’

‘As soon as possible. Maybe tomorrow. But that’s a lot of questions, and it’s your turn again.’

She nodded, despite that he couldn’t see her; it was just that their conversation was that ‘normal!’

‘You asked me if I’d kiled or helped to kil those men in the garage out of revenge,’ she reminded him. ‘Well, I did. Revenge pure and simple. I told you it was because they had placed friends of mine in jeopardy, but it was more than that. I don’t much like to talk about it, that’s all.’ (She was lying again, but trying to make it sound good). ‘You see, one of them used to come here, into my bar. He was chatting-up one of the girls, a close friend of mine. Later he called from London, asked her down to see him. She went, and didn’t come back. But she left a note of the address she’d gone to.

I waited, and eventually saw in the newspapers how her body had been discovered. After that, I felt it was all up to me. I look after my girls, Harry. Their welfare is very important to me … ”

At least that last part was the truth, and B.J.’s story as a whole wasn’t a complete falsehood. About a year ago, she had lost a girl on holiday in London. She simply hadn’t come back and was still missing, B.J. presumed dead. The work of her Master’s olden enemies? She prayed not…

Meanwhile, though she had finished speaking, Harry wasn’t saying anything. So B.J. prompted him: ‘Does that sound reasonable?’

‘Yes,’ he answered tentatively, ‘as far as it goes. Skippy was from Newcastle. Edinburgh is a short hop. Skippy was always on the run. He might have come up here to get away from trouble in Newcastle. But… you shot at two men.’

‘One because he was trying to kill you,’ she answered. ‘It was dark in the garage, and he was obviously a killer. And …’

‘… And the other?’ Harry prompted her, his eyes as glassy and fixed as ever.

‘Because I thought he was trying to run me down! I mean, I didn’t actually shoot at anyone, just at the van … and I had to get out of there! I was frightened, Harry!’ It was another clever lie. And while the Necroscope’s drugged mind was absorbing it:

‘Your turn, Harry,’ she said. ‘Just what is this organization you worked for?’

‘It’s called E-Branch,’ he said, flatly. ‘Part of the Secret Intelligence Services. The most secret of them all.’

‘And your job with this E-Branch?’

He was silent, but beads of sweat had formed on his brow.

‘Wel?’

‘I was a field agent.’

‘Doing what?’

‘You saw that for yourself. Those louts in the garage were murderers and thieves. They were responsible for the deaths of innocent people, including policemen,
and
your friend! I was - oh, a means of enforcing the law, where natural laws no longer applied.’

‘What,’ she cocked her head on one side, ‘they’d given you a licence to kill?’ That wasn’t
exactly
what he’d meant, but:

‘Oh, I’m no stranger to death,’ he answered. And before she could respond, ‘But now it’s your turn again. Why does an “innocent” girl like you have access to mindbending drugs - like the stuff you must have put in my wine? And why, if you’re so innocent, are you afraid of being questioned? Instead of hunting this Skippy and his lycanthrope friend down, why didn’t you give the police the girl’s last known address in London, which you told me you knew?

Last but not least, why is someone watching you or your place -
this
place? A shrivelled-up little man with a face like

… I don’t know. Like a greyhound?’

But Bonnie Jean had had more than enough of this game now. And anyway, he was much too good at it. As for that last question of his: it had shaken her to her roots!

So:
Enough of this!
she thought. Now it was time to apply the real pressure …

Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I

167

IV

HARRY: WEIRD WARNINGS

BONNIE JEAN: SHE WONDERS AND

WORRIES

Beyond the bay window, low over the distant hills and gleaming palely on the rim of the clouds, the waning moon was five days past full strength. B.J. ‘s powers - or some of them, such as her metamorphism - had waned with it. But others had been hers from birth; they were hers by right. Her Master’s greatest talents had been his mentalism and, upon a time, his metamorphism, of course; and B.J. was blood of his blood. She would have all that was due to her in the fullness of time … even if it took another two centuries for full development. But for now—

—She was a beguiler. That was her art: hypnotism. Aided by the wine, her eyes and mind would exercise such power even over this awkward subject, this Harry Keogh, that he would become as a toy in her hands: hers to command, to do with as she willed. And because she had never failed, B.J. never once considered the idea of failure.

In this she was surely fortunate, for Harry Keogh’s metaphysical mind wasn’t at its best. It resisted the Necroscope’s contours; echoes of Alec Kyle’s precognitive talents continued to shape it; its defences had been undermined by previous tampering. But Bonnie Jean knew none of this.

Now, drawing the small table to one side, she positioned her chair so that the chandelier hung just to the right of her head, where its scintillant pendant crystals continued to turn to and fro but on a level with her eyes. And in this position she faced the man on the lounger across eighteen inches to two feet of space, and said, ‘Harry, now we’ll do something else. When I tell you to, I want you to look into my eyes. Not now, but when I tell you. Is that understood?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But it’s still your turn.’

Oh, he had
willpower,
this man! But so did B.J., and she also had the wine - and powers other than will - to subvert the will of others. ‘But that game is over now,’ she insisted. ‘And at my command you
will
look into my eyes.’ And before he could answer, if he’d intended to:

‘Harry, this is no longer a “normal” conversation. Your mind isn’t yours to control. You feel the effects of the wine. You feel ill as never before. Your brain is swimming. The room is spinning. Only I can stop it. Only my eyes can stop it!’

Harry’s head began to loll on the cushions, to and fro, backwards and forwards. More beads of sweat stood out on his brow, forming damp spots in the permanent creases of forgoten frowns. But his pinprick pupils never once left the pendants, even though his eyes roled to the motion of his face and head.