Necroscope: The Mobius Murders (21 page)

For the first time that night, (but in fact for the
second
time in his life) the great leech noticed him, saw Harry across some thirty feet of drill-hall space; especially his scathing, possibly insolent expression. And the condescending look on the fat man’s face quickly became a frown.

“Yes, young man?” he said, as Harry moved sideways into the aisle and paced forward to come to a halt directly under a set of ceiling lights. “What is it that so obviously gives you pause? What’s your question?”

“I have several,” Harry replied, looking the other straight in the eye. “Several questions, and one complaint.”

“A complaint?” Hemmings’ eyes widened momentarily, and just as quickly narrowed. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“Ah,
exactly
!” said Harry. “Which is precisely what you’ve failed to do! Oh, you’ve gone to great lengths to tell us what you think, or what you believe—and, in the case of so-called ‘portals’ and ‘alien dimensions,’ what you’ve allegedly experienced—all of which without ‘elaborating’ or actually telling us anything! Your words are as void of proof, evidence, as the ocean on the nights when those Very lights rained down. You expect us to believe everything you say, while showing us nothing but a certain eloquence of speech and a degree of plausibility. Even your poster is a lie; for you’re no longer a professor but an ex-professor; you gave up your university position when many of your unfounded beliefs were challenged by your superiors. So then, those are my complaints, and as for my questions—”

“Stop!”
Hemmings growled, his jowls wobbling and his round face paler still. He had let the Necroscope get that far—had appeared frozen, impotent to stop him—but no further. Now he came from behind the lectern and stepped heavily forward to the edge of the stage. And no more than fifteen feet apart, the two stared fixedly at each other if only for a moment or two; until suddenly the great leech’s jaw fell partly open, his body jerking as he gave a perceptible start!

Now he knows me!
thought Harry. And he was right.

On the stage, taking a pace to the rear, Hemmings gradually composed himself. The drill hall was full of astonished murmurs now; Hemmings’ audience, every head turned toward this know-it-all enigma, this nameless nemesis from the fat man’s waking and dreaming moments alike, seemed fascinated by the completely unexpected but not entirely unacceptable interruption. Several of the gawping morons actually appeared to agree with this pest—which of course they should, if they had any brains at all! But while all of this would be intolerable in normal circumstances, still Hemmings felt obliged to ignore the embarrassment he felt under the weight of matters that were suddenly much more pressing. And to give himself a little time in which to work things through:

“Young man, you have me at something of a disadvantage,” he said. “You seem to know me, to the extent that you’ve even done a little obviously erroneous research into my previous professional career…while as yet I don’t even know your name!”

“Not that it’s important, but my name is Harry Keogh,” said the Necroscope. “And like you—while I’m not as, er, ‘famous’ as you—I’m something of a mathematician. Which
is
important, for that’s why I’m questioning your authority, Mr.
ex
-Professor Hemmings.”

Even as Harry was speaking the other was thinking:
Oh, yes! I can’t be mistaken,
it’s him
! That face—I would know it anywhere! And while Mr. Harry Keogh can’t possibly be aware of it,
he
is the living proof of much of what I’ve been saying. Simply by existing, appearing here, he provides the answers to his own petty complaints!

For this could only be another “von Stradonitz moment”—a “eureka moment”—or more properly the result of
two
such occurrences, events that Hemmings had already experienced: the first when he had fed on that cripple and stared into the dimensional interface in the alley off Princes Street in Edinburgh, and the second when once again he had seen the same somehow threatening visage framed in a portal in a dream.

Briefly, following the first such event, he had considered the look on that face—one of accusation and horror where it stared back at him out of the darkness beyond the interface—either a figment of his imagination or even (however improbably,) a symbol of his guilt. But…guilt? Gordon J. Hemmings? Most unlikely! No, for his actions in that respect were little more than a matter of survival: the survival of the fittest.

So then, nothing of imagination, and certainly not guilt, but a prescient glimpse of the future, that was all! And likewise the
second
time, when in a nightmare he’d seen that face again: a prophetic reflection from the future which, with its ominous air of accusation and menace, had brought him snarling awake. Since when, like some relentless phantasm—in defiance of his every effort to dislodge it—it had taken on a hateful permanence in Hemmings’ mind and memory.

But not for much longer. For the source of the problem was standing here in front of him,
still
accusing and
still
threatening…but of course, obviously it was! For this was the defining moment: the very beginning of that future which Hemmings had twice foreseen!

And Harry Keogh had questions, did he? Questions that only Hemmings could and must answer. Which he
would
answer: tonight, this very night! But not here and not right now.

For which reason:

“Young man, er, Harry, if I may?” he said. “I find it possible that we have much in common. And I would gladly answer all your questions and perhaps resolve your every complaint, but my time is up and I’ve a bus to catch. If you would care to wait a moment until the hall is cleared, I’ll gladly meet you outside. And then if you’ll accompany me as far as the bus station, I’ll endeavour to satisfy your curiosity. And who knows? Before this night is out, perhaps we’ll be friends. But of one thing I feel certain: you shall learn something from me, and I’ll
definitely
benefit from knowing you! Now what say you to that?”

Saying nothing, his throat momentarily dry as a bone, Harry replied with a simple nod. This was what he had hoped for after all, but from this moment on he knew he would have to be on his guard and very, very careful…

It made no difference that Hemmings was wrong, that what he had seen in that Edinburgh alley had been the real thing staring at him; for his course was set and so was Harry’s. In just a short while, tonight, this game would be played out to the full.

It was of course to Harry’s advantage that Hemmings thought he had glimpsed the future, for that being the case the Necroscope’s fate was already as good as sealed, his soul drained off and his shrivelled body hurtling toward a watery grave. In addition to the great leech’s megalomaniac self-confidence, he now felt completely invincible; he was even jolly when he met Harry outside the drill hall’s doors as the caretaker locked them and the last handful of people from the audience began to drift off into the gloom.

“Ah, there you are!” he said, reaching out a flabby hand.

Together with the caretaker, there were still several audience members in the vicinity; so this was hardly the ideal spot for Hemmings to conjure a door and initiate Harry’s murder; but still—and for all that the Necroscope could scarcely bear the thought of even touching this monster—he could see no way to avoid it.

The fat man’s hand, despite being soft and clammy, was cold as ice—preternaturally cold—where Harry held it oh-so-very lightly. The cold was of the creature’s slimy ectoplasm; for as their hands clasped, so Hemmings’ aura had flowed forward as if to wash over Harry, touching him however briefly. Briefly, yes; for unable to hide or disguise a shiver, he had quickly taken a pace to the rear.

“Eh?” said the other, raising a red eyebrow. “What, chilly, are we?”

“It’s rather a cold night,” Harry replied, fully aware that the street was quickly emptying, and that the awful chill which he had felt—a chill of the soul?—had withdrawn along with the monster’s bitter aura.

Hemmings sniffed at the air, and replied, “Really? I hadn’t noticed. But then, there’s more meat on me than on you.”

Yes, and I intend to keep what little I’ve got!
thought the Necroscope. And glancing left and right he asked, “Which way is the bus station?”

“Ah, so you’re a stranger in town! And where, may I ask, do you hail from?” Hemmings was keeping up his feigned air of affability.

“From Edinburgh,” said Harry, which gave the other yet more reasons for concern. Just how much did this irritating man know or think he knew about him? Not that it would matter much after tonight.

“The bus station is this way,” said the fat man, leading on into the night only a single pace or so ahead of Harry, who was deliberately holding back. Half-turning, Hemmings looked at him over his shoulder and continued: “Now then, what of these questions you wanted to ask me? For it appears to me that now would be your best opportunity to get them dealt with. And mine, too, er…to reply to them, I mean.”

“You’re probably right,” Harry answered. “Very well, question number one:

“You said you were ‘absolutely certain’ that those lights floating high over the sea had arrived there from an alien region—I take it you meant a parallel dimension? But how can you possibly be absolutely certain unless you’ve been there or have at least had access to such a place?”

“Ah!” said Hemmings. “Well, perhaps you’re putting too much emphasis on ‘absolutely certain’—or rather, perhaps
I
was! If I was overly assertive, you may put it down to my simply trying to impress upon my audience the fact that I personally believe, and absolutely.”

Now he took the Necroscope’s upper arm in soft but incredibly strong fingers, guiding him into a dark and narrow passage between tall wooden fences and well away from the street’s lamp posts. “Er, this way, Harry.”

Managing to shake free of the other’s pulpy hand, which was unnaturally cold even through the material of his jacket, Harry repeated him dubiously: “What,
this
way?”

“Yes,” the great leech answered. “A short cut through these allotments here. My, but you seem nervous!”

Allotments: fenced-off and gated garden areas, “alloted” to usually retired townspeople with no gardens of their own, where they could come to grow their vegetables or flowers, tend their pigeon lofts or their beehives, or simply relax and picnic on a blanket in the sun during the holidays. But Harry knew from experience in the coastal coalmining north-east of England, where he had been brought up, that the weathered asphalt and trampled ashen lanes that separated these allotments could seem labyrinthine to anyone not born to them. As an infant Harry had played hide-and-seek with a very small handful of friends in just such allotments.

But as for a short cut…a short cut to where? Hell, perhaps?

Yet however paradoxically, this too was entirely in accordance with the Necroscope’s plan; it was how he had foreseen it; he had known it would have to happen this way: night…a dark deserted place…the monster, crushing close, and conjuring a door from nothing but a freakish mathematical formula.

And Harry, certain that at any moment now—within the next few seconds, maybe a minute or two at most—he would sense the fantastic
power
of that formula as an interface formed. But not just yet.

And meanwhile:

“Question number two,” he said, knowing he had to keep this going, trying to keep his voice from trembling as Hemmings turned to face him in the night, his gross outline a lumbering blot against darkly distant skies, and his piggy eyes—feral now—ablaze as from internal fires. “Or not so much an actual question,” Harry managed to continue, “as an accusation.”

“Oh, indeed?” said the monster, the words seeming to burst from his bulging throat like bubbles over a swamp, glutinous in the night air. “An accusation, is it? And now we get to it: the real reason why you’re here. And also why I’m here with you, of course! Very well—go on—accuse away! What is it you
think
you know about me, Mr Keogh?”