Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (9 page)

Clarke continued to look at Harry where he’d scraped the first tentative swath through the foam - and where he’d immediately stopped shaving, and was now staring at his reflection in the mirror over the bowl. Clarke couldn’t possibly
know
what the Necroscope was thinking (telepathy wasn’t Darcy’s talent), but he could take a stab at it:
Looking at himself and wondering who he
was … and where
he
was! Knowing that in fact the Russians would have cut the real him up long ago, to study his guts and brains.

And that they’d have done a far more thorough job of it - and certainly a more clinical one - than the necromancer Boris Dragosani
had ever done on one of his victims.

Trying to concentrate on what he was doing, Harry crooked his mouth and said, ‘You know, sometimes when I cut myself I’m surprised it hurts? It’s true: I’m having to learn to be a lot more careful with myself. It’s like when you borrow a book out of a library: you don’t much care how you handle it because it isn’t yours. Except this time it isn’t like that, because now it is mine and I have to look after it. And I’m not just talking about a book but a body:
my
body, now! And not even a snowball in hell’s chance that I’ll ever get another. So I have to take care of it - despite that I don’t much
care
for the damn thing!’

He finished shaving: a patchy job, but he hadn’t actually cut himself. Tossing the shaver into the basin, he splashed his face, patted it dry, and stepped into the bedroom. And letting the towel fall paradoxically wwselfconsciously from around his waist, as he started to dress he asked: ‘So what do you think? How do we look, Darcy?’ Darcy knew it wasn’t a so-called royal we. The Necroscope was asking about the two of him.

Well, of course, the recently elected Head of Branch could lie, but he chose not to. ‘How do you look?’ He shook his head in unfeigned concern. ‘Not too good, Harry. In fact, you look like shit!’

And finally Harry had to grin.
He
looked like shit. This from Darcy

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Clarke! Not that Darcy looked like shit, no - but then again he didn’t look like much of anything! For Darcy was possibly the world’s most nondescript man. Nature had made up for this physical anonymity, however, by equipping him with an almost unique talent. He was a deflector: the opposite of accident-prone. Only let him stray too close to danger, and something, some parapsychological guardian angel, would intervene on his behalf. He had no control over the thing; indeed he was only ever aware of it if he stared deliberately in the face of danger. Or occasionally when danger came creeping up on him.

The talents of the others - telepathy, scrying, precognition, oneiromancy, lie-detecting - were more pliable, applicable, obedient; but not Darcy’s. It just did its own thing, which was to look after him. It had no other use. But because it ensured Darcy’s longevity, it made him the perfect man for the job. Continuity was important in E-Branch. The anomaly was this: that he himself didn’t quite believe in it until he felt it working. He still switched off the current before he would even change a light bulb! But maybe that was just another example of the thing at work.

To look at Darcy Clarke, then, no one would ever suspect he could be the boss of anything - let alone head of the most secret branch of the British Secret Services! A job that Darcy hoped against hope he’d soon be able to hand over to Harry. Of middle-height, mousy-haired, showing early signs of a slight stoop and a small paunch, he was middling in just about every way.

He had sort of neutral-hazel eyes in a face not much given to laughter, and an intense mouth which you just
might
remember if you remembered nothing else, but other than that there was a general facelessness about him which made Darcy instantly forgettable.

Even the way he dressed, was … conservative.

And indeed looking at him, Harry thought:
He’s a very ordinary, extraordinary man!
And however much the Necroscope might dislike the situation, it was a very difficult thing to dislike someone like Darcy Clarke. So: ‘What’s on the menu for today?’ he asked him, glancing at his watch. It was 9.45 and Darcy was right: it was late. By now, the rest of E-Branch would be buzzing. But before Darcy could reply to Harry’s first question, he followed it up with: ‘And what about Brenda? Did you see her yet this morning?’

‘We had breakfast together, downstairs,’ Darcy answered. ‘She’s … well, fine.’ But he didn’t seem too sure about it. And more hurriedly, eager to change the subject: ‘The baby is just beautiful! I mean, he’s really coming along …’

Harry stared hard at him. Right now he wasn’t interested in the baby. ‘She still doesn’t want to see me, right?’

Darcy flapped his hands. ‘Harry, it’s only been—’

‘—A year and a half,’ the Necroscope cut him off. And he was right. Time had flown.

‘Okay,’ Darcy nodded. ‘But give Brenda - give
yourself-
a little more time! I mean if you, we, aren’t used to this yet, how can you expect her to be? She’s just a girl, and she went through a hell of a lot.’

The Necroscope continued to stare hard at him for a long time, then nodded, shrugged, gave a deep sigh. Darcy was right, he knew. Life had to go on, and Harry’s life for the moment was here at E-branch. He had to involve himself, become part of it. He’d be okay as long as there was something to do. Well, apart from these endless fucking debrief-ings!

It was as if Darcy had read his thoughts. ‘We think there may be work for you, Harry,’ he said, beginning to breathe easier as he sensed the Necroscope’s spring winding down a little. ‘Work that should suit you right down to the ground.’

But Harry only wondered:
And below it?

Much in accord with Harry’s own deliberations, it was the general consensus of opinion in the Branch that if they could keep the Necroscope busy, it would be best for him and everyone else concerned. They had a telepath, Trevor Jordan, who despite the mainly unspoken Branch code occasionally came into contact with Harry’s jumbled, anxious thoughts; a locator, Ken Layard, whose talent drew him to the Necroscope like a moth to a lantern, so that his mind kept bumping into him; and an empath, Ray Betts, who couldn’t help but sense the Necroscope’s overwrought emotions. But these were only the special cases;
every
E-Branch member was affected by Harry’s presence one way or another. For to a man or woman, and in their own ways, all Branch operatives were talented, and all must feel for a fellow psychic.

They knew what the Necroscope was; they were aware of his awesome, even frightening powers. But they also knew what Harry had done for them, for the world, and how he was paying for it. If they could keep him with them, keep him working, it could be he’d eventually get over the multiple traumas of past and present. Certainly he was the type who worked best under pressure. Making use of a case that only the Necroscope could possibly handle, Darcy Clarke was about to apply just such pressure. In his office at the end of the corridor, the recently-appointed Head of Branch waved Harry into a chair and told him, This … could be a nasty one.’

Harry nodded and said drily,
‘My
kind of work, right?’ He waited for Darcy to get on with it. But before he could begin: The intercom came cracklingly alive and blurted an urgent, ‘Sir?’ Simultaneously, an alert button on Darcy’s console began flashing red. Keying all-points connections with the Duty Officer, he said:

‘What is it?’

‘One for us, I think.’ The DO’s voice was tense.

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‘Put it on screen,’ Darcy answered. And a moment later his desk screen displayed a communication from the Minister Responsible. Harry, seated opposite, saw Darcy’s jaw drop as his face almost visibly paled.
‘Christ!’
Darcy hissed.

The Necroscope stood up, paced to Darcy’s side of the desk, glanced at the screen:

Origination: MinRes. Destination: Director INTESP.

Duty Officer INTESP.

All Agents INTESP.

IRA Alert! A few minutes ago the Metropolitan Police received anonymous advance warning that a device will be planted in Oxford St., set to detonate at 10:25 today. Any chance you can do something, Mr Clarke? Sorry for short notice. No reply required -action will suffice …

‘Your Minister Responsible has a sense of humour!’ Harry’s tone was dry. Then … the Necroscope blinked, staggered, and grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself! Darcy scarcely noticed; made breathless by haste, he was already getting back to the DO:

‘Is Trevor Jordan in?’

‘He’s on it,’ came the immediate answer. ‘I caught him on his way to the office and diverted him.’

‘I’m on it, too,’ Darcy snapped. ‘But no one else! Get me a car, then get in here and take over.’

There’s a car waiting out back.’

As Darcy left his chair and headed for the door, the Necroscope said, ‘How about me?’

Darcy skidded to a halt, whirled around. ‘No way! There’s only one you, Harry, and this is—’

‘—Dangerous?’ Harry was himself again; he grinned, however coldly. ‘I’ve seen a lot worse places than Oxford Street, Darcy.’

Darcy shook his head. Speaking rapidly but precisely, he said,
‘You
can be hurt, Harry. You can be killed! But with me, it’s not very likely. My talent won’t even let me get close to that bomb, which means I can help the police find it.

Where my legs won’t take me, that’s ground zero! As for Trevor Jordan: he knows the risks - but he also knows the mind of just about every IRA bomber working in England! If this bloke’s still out there on the street, Trev can probably find him. But you—’

He might have gone on, but Harry held up a hand. ‘You’ve made your point. Don’t let me hold you up.’

In the next moment, Darcy had wheeled and disappeared out into the corridor. In his wake he left an old-fashioned wooden coat-stand

teetering where he’d grabbed his overcoat. It swayed first one way, then the other. It might even have toppled; but coming from nowhere, a sudden swirl of air straightened it up.

The door hadn’t yet slammed shut behind Darcy’s back; his running footsteps were still echoing in the corridor; his communications screen” still carried the Minister Responsible’s cry for help. But already his office was quite empty.

Against Darcy Clarke’s orders, against all logic, and definitely against commonsense, the Necroscope had taken a Mobius shortcut to Oxford Street. For to Harry it didn’t feel like he was putting
himself
at risk at all. And he could hardly be putting Alec Kyle at risk, now could he? For Kyle was already dead … wasn’t he?

And his talent, too?

But if so, then what was it Harry had seen, experienced, in the moment after reading the Minister Responsible’s message on the viewscreen? How to explain what had come and gone in the briefest possible time, like a crack of lightning illuminating some secret part of his brain and causing him to stagger?

For he’d seen … a Mobius door,
but horizontal!
A Mobius door, shimmering, hovering lengthwise in mid-air, superimposed on reality. Then, as quickly as it had come, the extraordinary vision had disappeared. But in its split-second existence, the Necroscope had seen the door shaken, had seen it writhing like a ring of smoke in a sudden draft—

—And he’d seen what it vomited, like some monstrous volcano, high into the suddenly darkening sky!

Harry scarcely knew London at all. Despite that the Necroscope was much, far, and extremely strangely travelled, London hadn’t been an extensive part of his itinerary. He had visited Oxford Street, however, and so knew several co-ordinates; enough that he wouldn’t emerge in the middle of the road in heavy traffic, anyway. Not that that ever happened; in doubt, he could always look out through his exit door before stepping through it. But as for the Street itself, its junctions, idiosyncrasies - its ‘personality’ - he really didn’t know one end from the other.

He emerged in the entrance of a shoe store perhaps midway along the street. An extremely tall man in spectacles, leaving the shop in a hurry, bumped into him, looked surprised, and at once apologized. But Harry was already looking around, getting the feel of things.

It was mid-week but there were plenty of people about. Up and down the street, he saw policemen; already they were thick on the ground. And somewhere out there would be Trevor Jordan, probably in the company of a couple of plain-clothes officers. As for Darcy Clarke: he wouldn’t even have reached his car yet. But once at the driving wheel
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he’d be here before you could say boo! And he’d very probably be mad at Harry, who couldn’t even say why he’d come here against good advice.

A sign said Hyde Park to the west, Oxford Circus, Holborn, and Central to the east. Looking along the street towards Hyde Park, Harry saw that police activity was hotting up. There was no panic as yet, but things were happening: barriers appearing as if from nowhere, being dragged across the road; traffic being diverted, stopped from coming this way. Wherefore the suspect area must lie to the east, towards the city centre.

Sure enough, in the direction of Holborn, traffic and pedestrians alike were being diverted off the main road down side streets, and several of the police down there were using loudhailers. A great many of the people on the street seemed used to it all; they began to move a little faster but were still mainly unhurried. Most of them looked irritated by the disruption of their everyday routines, but were nevertheless obedient to the law as police activity grew in proportion to the number of officers arriving on the scene. On the other hand, some paid little or no attention to it all but went about their business as if there were no interference whatsoever.