The Lost Years Vol 1, page 26
part #9 of Necroscope Series
This time he locked the patio doors behind him and turned on the single ceiling light. And in the dusty jumble of his so-called ‘study’, where a plywood packing case stood open in one corner, dribbling straw, and Harry’s handful of ‘worldly goods’ were strewn about willy-nilly, the mere fact that an easy chair still lay on its back where he’d left it in his rush to get out of here, and that the occasional table had been overturned, and that the telephone was still purring away to itself, where he’d spilled it onto the floor… these things would hardly seem to matter. They were just part of the general clutter, that’s all. Except that wasn’t all, for Harry knew that in fact they were the debris of his dream. Especially the telephone.
He picked the ‘phone and cradle up and went to replace the receiver -and paused. What if it were to ring?
But how could it ring? No one knew his number, or next to no one. He hadn’t been up here long enough, and his name wasn’t even in the telephone book; and in any case, he’d asked for his number to be listed, ex-directory. B.J. had it, yes (though for his life he couldn’t think why he’d given it to her). But what the heck, she was just an innocent - if strong-headed, even wrong-headed? - young woman anyway. But fascinating, in a way.
And then there was E-Branch…
Was that it? Was he scared of getting a call from E-Branch, frightened of learning something that he really didn’t want to know? Such as the death of his wife, or his child, or both? Or maybe being called in on something he couldn’t ignore? For the fact was, that as part of the country’s security services, the Branch had its own Dirty Tricks Department. And if they really needed him… he knew they wouldn’t think twice.
Was that it? That his dream had been symbolic, coloured by his recent experiences in London? That would explain this wolf fetish he seemed to be developing, which had combined with the warning to produce his nightmare. So it still remained his best bet that this was some sort of left-over of Alec Kyle’s talent. He was seeing something of the future; he had been warned about receiving a call, most probably from E-Branch, that would prove to be dangerous; he must protect himself against it.
Well, that was easy. And more determined now, he placed the ‘phone in its cradle and dialled the operator. But even so, and while he waited for her to answer, still he sweated and glanced all about the room. Until finally:
‘This is the operator. How can I help you?’
‘I want to change my number, to ex-directory,’ he said.
And after she’d checked: ‘But your number’s already listed, sir. It is ex-directory.’
‘I want to change it anyway.’
‘Fine. I’ll put you through to the service you require…”
It was as simple as that. As for Bonnie Jean… he could always give her his new number, if the need should arise.
And then, generally feeling a lot better, the Necroscope shaved, tidied up his study, finished the unpacking that he’d started a month ago, and made himself an evening meal… And thought about Brenda and his baby son, of course.
The way he worried about them, he could have set off right there and then, heading off aimlessly into the Mobius Continuum on some wild-goose chase that might easily last him the rest of his life. A wild-goose chase? Now why had he thought that? But of course he knew why: because his son had powers the equal of his own, and if he didn’t want to be found, then Harry didn’t stand much chance of finding him. His one trump card was that he knew more about the world and its ways; he was experienced as only an adult who has lived (and died?) can be experienced. While the baby… was a baby.
But in any case he wouldn’t be going anywhere for, oh, at least three weeks?… He would need that long to work out his plan of campaign, surely?… And meanwhile he would stay here, warm and comfortable despite all the bad weather, safe in this big old house.
Harry shook his head and frowned. God, he was starting to think like his mother! Starting to worry about himself - promising to see a doctor and such! But, three whole weeks to plan some kind of search campaign? He shrugged, blinked watery eyes, rubbed at his sore throat. And the mental fluff was back, right there where his brain should be. So much for a rapid recovery!
As for getting a plan together: if three weeks was what it took, then that’s what it would get. All he had to work out now was what to put in it!
But his throat was so sore! And his eyes: hot, and itchy as hell… probably through sleeplessness, or a night spent in a drunken stupor, tossing and turning on Bonnie Jean’s lounger. At which he remembered her wine. It had been on the table—
—And was now on the floor, having skittered against the skirting board under a bookshelf when he’d knocked everything flying. He went scrambling for it without realizing how desperately he needed it,, trying to convince himself that it might be just the ticket, just what the doctor ordered. Its warm, resin-laden, sleep-inducing glow, all ruby-red and swirly-deep in his glass. It would ease his throat, for sure.
A sip, that’s all. Just this one small glass. After all, it wasn’t his addiction he was pandering to, but Alec Kyle’s. Except this time it really was for curative or medicinal purposes. He was just so tired! Damned if he didn’t intend to get a good night’s sleep tonight, at least! And doubly damned if he did, too…
Two and a half weeks later, when B.J. could no longer resist it, and when she had decided that she couldn’t afford to wait any longer, she did try to call the Necroscope - only to discover that he had given her the wrong number! But she knew he couldn’t possibly have done it deliberately. Checking with the switchboard, she then found that he’d changed his ex-directory number. But since she’d given him no instructions to the contrary, why shouldn’t he? She had simply failed to consider the possibility that he might do such a thing, that was all.
But all was not lost. He had been ordered to stay in touch with her, and B.J. knew he would and even when he would: just a few days before the full moon, Harry would contact her. He had damn well better! And meanwhile she had decided to do a little searching of her own, for him. For in the glaring light of the possibility that he might be more than a mere mystery man and in fact the Mysterious One—
—Harry Keogh had become very important to her. So important that perhaps it was time B.J. took a short ‘holiday.’ She had already closed the bar down and split her five girls into two teams: one pair of girls searching for Harry locally, and the second team staking-out the wine bar in its immediate vicinity to see if they could sight this watcher Harry had warned her about and discover his business with her. Which left B.J. herself and one other girl. Well, now she had somewhere to go, with or without Harry Keogh, and couldn’t risk being followed. And she knew exactly how to employ the last of her girls…
In the wee small hours of a wet and windy Sunday morning some four days before B.J. was due to hear her Master’s call, she headed north. She felt sure that once she’d explained why she was early, Radu would understand her zeal in this respect.
She drove a hired car, a cheap, old, reliable but unspectacular model that wasn’t likely to attract unwanted attention. Even so, she wouldn’t drive it directly from the bar but took a taxi to the home of one of her girls who had picked the car up for her. The girl lived in a northern district of the city.
It was a well-timed operation: Bonnie Jean left the taxi and paid the driver, got into the hired car and drove it away. And in the mirror she saw the girl - one of her ‘lieutenants’ - following close behind in her own car. The girl wasn’t just acting as a decoy; she would become a physical obstruction if B.J. should be followed. She would simply put herself and her vehicle in the way of the pursuer! But it was 2 a.m. and the weather was bad, and with the precautions B.J. had taken, she didn’t think it likely that she’d be tailed.
To further bolster her confidence in that respect, there was the fact that despite all her vigilance there had been no further spying on her place as reported by Harry Keogh. So perhaps it had been a one-off sort of thing after all, a coincidence that hadn’t involved her directly. Well, maybe… but B.J. was becoming less and less inclined towards coincidences, and in any case she hadn’t been willing to risk it.
And now there was only one hazard, one gauntlet left to run: the Firth of Forth bridge, the only way into or out of the city from the north. If anyone had seen her leave home, and assuming they knew she would ultimately drive north, the bridge would be the ideal place to pick up her trail.
But the bridge came and went without incident, and so did B.J.‘s escort. A mile or so beyond the Firth of Forth, heading for Perth, the headlights of the car behind flashed three times in her mirror, and she knew what the signal meant: there was no one in pursuit, no one to track her to the lair in its mountain fastness. But even so her lieutenant would park at the side of the road, and wait there a good hour, recording the details of passing cars and observing what she could of their drivers.
And the rest of it was all down to Bonnie Jean Mirlu…
Dawn found B.J. at ‘a friend’s house’ in tiny Inverdruie; she stayed there whenever she was up this way, which of necessity meant regular quarterly visits. But Auld John was always here, as his father had been before him. John ‘belonged’ to her Master no less than Bonnie Jean herself, but his blood was not of the blood, and so he was merely a thrall - a watcher or sentinel - here on the approach routes to Him in His lair high in the mountains. But having been sworn to Him by moonlight, John was nevertheless his Master’s true man.
B.J.‘s route had taken her through Perth, Pitlochry, Kingussie and Kincraig, and finally across the Spey to Inverdruie. And as true dawn’s light limned the misty horizon of the Grampians, so Auld John was there to greet the ‘wee mistress,’ as he thought of her, when her car pulled into his drive. And:
‘Better garage the car, John,’ she told him, after a brief hug. ‘I’ve had snoopers at my place in Edinburgh, and we cannot afford such up here.’ And entering his small house where it was almost hidden from the road in a copse of birch, rowan and juniper, she waited for him.
‘It was dire cold last time ye were here, Bonnie Jean,’ he told her, coming in and closing the door. ‘Me, ah could’nae hae climbed wi’ ye. Not this time. It’s these old bones… mah fingers hae no grip in they!’
‘You’re for watching, John,’ she reminded him. ‘No for the climbing.’
‘Aye, but ah’d hae dearly loved tae see Him just one more time,’ he said. ‘Perhaps next time, come summer. But… surely ye’re early, lass?’
‘Snoopers, as I said,’ she nodded. ‘And maybe worse than snoopers. Things He should know, anyway. And a stranger, John. All very mysterious. But as for him: well, I’ve no doubt you’ll be seeing him soon enough, if I’ve gauged it right.’
The old man cocked his head. ‘A stranger? Here? And “mysterious,” did ye say?’ His eyes were suddenly bird-bright.
Again her nod. ‘Who knows, who knows?’ She gave herself a shake, turned to the fire and warmed her hands. ‘Reasons enough to come up here a few days early, anyway.’
Auld John was maybe sixty-five, but still spry for all his complaining. He was tall, gangling, walked with a woodsman’s lope (an entirely natural one, the insignia of his calling as a gillie and tracker, if anything, and not rooted in any condition), and wore his long, thinning grey hair tied back in a clasp, to keep it from his weathered face.
He had on occasion accompanied Bonnie Jean high into the Cairngorms, to the lair. But that was a climb, and Auld John was no longer up to it. As for their relationship… that was strange as can be. For more than sixty years ago B.J. had used to bounce him on her knee! And here she was a young girl, and him an old man…
The blood is the life!
Auld John sat down opposite the wee mistress, reached out to put a log on the fire in the great wide hearth, and said, ‘A body grows auld. Truly auld.’
‘But slowly, John,’ she answered, ‘very slowly. And you’ll outlive most men. Aye, and you’ve a lot to be thankful for. For after all, you’ve known Him.’
‘In His sleep, ah’ve known Him, it’s true. But tae see Him up and aboot…! D’ye think…?’ And now his voice was low and his eyes narrow in the firelight. Narrow and feral over a long flat nose.
‘All things are possible in Him, John,’ she told him. ‘As the stars and mistress moon spin their tracks through space and time, slowly but surely His time comes around. He may not stay down forever. For just as your bones age and wither, so do His - and He has outlasted the centuries! I’ve calculated his time over and over again, and always it comes out the same.’
‘Four years, is it?’ The old man’s voice was low, almost a growl, yet pleading in its eagerness. ‘Is it down to just four years?’
Bonnie Jean nodded again, and repeated him, Three or four at most, after six long centuries! A drop in the ocean, John.’
‘And then, and then…?’ It was an old story, but he would hear it again.
‘Then, a legend born anew,’ she answered. ‘A new creature in the heights, along with the pine martens, the golden eagles, and the wildcats. But just think, John: in His horseshoe mountains, He knew the real cats: the last of the sabretooths!’
‘A new creature in the high crags,’ he whiningly repeated her, his yellow eyes blinking his excitement.
‘And in the cities!’ Bonnie Jean added. ‘Don’t forget the cities. Oh, our Master tried the other way - the secret way - all those many centuries ago. It didn’t work then, and won’t now.’
‘But,’ the old man protested, ‘only show a man something that’s different - be sure he’ll murder it! Come hell or high water, if it’s strange and fails to conform, it’s a goner. And if it’s like Him up there?’ (A toss of his head, indicating the Cairngorms). ‘If it’s like the Master? War, Bonnie Jean, war!’
‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘And as it was then, when He first came among us, so it is now. Except men have forgotten the old times, the old legends, and no longer believe. And by the time they do, it will be too late! Aye, and there’s no Great Black Death now, John, to plague Him and His. And just as our Master was driven here, driven west, and north, by that black, devouring fire, so now He will light a flame and drive east. Except He’ll not stop, but drive south and west too! For in His time the world was so small; why, there are entire continents that He never saw or knew about! But He will, He will…’
The Black Death stopped Him, consigning Him to the everlasting dark…” Auld John shivered.
‘… Not everlasting, John,’ she told him. ‘And when He’s up, it’s the Red Death that will light His way! Ah, but nothing from poor Mr Poe, though certainly it will seem like it. No more hiding, John, when next He comes down from the mountains. And the name of the pack…”
‘… Shall be Mankind!’ (His turn to interrupt).
They shall be legion,’ she tossed back her hair, grey as Auld John’s in the firelight. ‘And His enemies, who or whatever remains of them…’
‘… The true death,’ he nodded. ‘Neither undeath, nor any sort of sleep such as He has known, but death forever!’
‘Amen to that,’ she said, and smiled.
‘When will ye go tae Him?’
‘Give me soup, your good broth, and tea to brew and a little strong, wild meat to take with me. Inverdruie sleeps; when she wakes I’ll be long gone. You’ll see me along the trail into the foothills, as always, then return and wait for me here. But I may be gone a while, so don’t worry if I seem late.’
Til no worry,’ he told her.
‘And my equipment?’
‘Safe and sound. But, are ye sure ye need it?’ There was a chuckle in his voice. She answered with a laugh of her own:
‘I could climb it blindfold, as well you know!’ Then her laughter stilled and she sobered in a moment. ‘Except I can’t afford to slip. My life means nothing, but His…’
‘Aye, lass, aye,’ he leaned across and took her hand. ‘He has lived too long to die like that: cold and alone, lonely in His lair.’
Bonnie Jean said nothing but stared into the fire. Shortly, John went to see to her food and make his preparations…
B.J.‘s climbing skills were prodigious; working with enormous efficiency and at great speed, and using only her sense of balance, and the natural tenacity of long fingers and toes to defy gravity, she seemed almost to adhere to a rock face. And in all truth she scarcely required Auld John’s ropes, pitons, karabiners, and similar paraphernalia of the professional climber. But she took them with her anyway.
It was as she had explained: as His guardian, His keeper, she simply could not afford to slip. For while to Bonnie Jean the climb itself was little more than a thrill - and her faith in her skill was absolute - still she might make a slip. Which to Him in His centuried sleep could easily mean the difference between undeath and the true death. For the balance B.J. was required to maintain on the rock face wasn’t nearly so delicate as the balance of His continued existence.
Auld John knew all of this, and though he was silent on the woodland trail where they walked, still all of his thoughts were for Bonnie Jean and their mutual Master. ‘Ye’ll take care, lassie, in the heights?’
‘You know I will, John.’
There has been a rockfall or two.’
‘Good! I’m always on the lookout for new routes.’
Early spring sunlight, sharp and bright, dappled their path through birch and Scots pine. B.J. didn’t much like the sunlight; stepping aside from the larger yellow splotches, she felt glad that her climb would be mainly shaded by the bulk of the mountains.
Back in Inverdruie, most people were still abed, barely awake, tossing and turning… but mainly turning their backs on the light coming in through their windows on this fine but chilly Sunday morning. There’d be church, of course, and animals to feed at the nearby nature reserves: brown bears, bison, antelope, and reindeer. And maybe even a handful of visitors, tourists, at the gift shops in the villages. Nothing like the crush of a few months ago, when the snow was deep at Aviemore and the skiers dotted the slopes like a myriad brightly hurtling insects against winter’s blinding white backdrop.
