re-married but gone back to giving private tuition in German and Russian. He still gave lessons at the house near Bonnyrigg, where he apparently lived alone. Not once over the years had he asked to see Harry, nor even enquired about him.
Dramatic as his family history might seem, still, all in all, Harry Keogh's beginnings had not been very remarkable. The only matter which had made any real impression on Hannant had been Keogh's grandmother's and mother's predilection for the paranormal; but that in itself was not very extraordinary. Or there again… perhaps it was. Mary Shukshin had seemed convinced that Natasha's 'powers' had been passed down to her, and what if she in turn had passed them down to Harry? Now
But he did not.
It was an evening some three weeks later, four or five days after Keogh had left Harden Modern Boys' for the Tech., when Hannant stumbled across one final 'oddity' concerning the boy.
Up in Hannant's attic he'd long kept an old trunk of his father's containing one or two books and bundles of old papers, dusty bits of bric-a-brac and various mementoes of the old man's years of teaching. Having gone up there to fix a tile loosened in a brief storm off the North Sea, he had seen the trunk and admired it. Stoutly constructed, its dark body and brass hasps and hinges retained an olde-worlde appeal. It would create a very handsome effect beside the bookshelves in Hannant's front room.
Dragging the trunk downstairs, he had started to empty it, glancing again at old photographs unseen for many a year, and putting aside items which might be useful at school (several old text-books, for example) until he'd come across a large leatherbound notebook full of notes and jottings in his father's hand. Something about the pattern and layout of his father's work had held his eye for a moment… until it dawned on him just exactly what it was — or what he thought it was.
In the next moment that awful inexplicable chill had come again to strike Hannant's spine, causing him to tremble where he sat holding the book open in his lap, stiffening his back with shock. Then… he had snapped the book shut, carried it through to his front room where a coal fire blazed beneath the wide chimney-piece. There, without even glancing at the book again, he thrust it into the flames and let it burn.
That same day Hannant had collected Keogh's old Maths books from the school for forwarding on to Harmon at the Tech. Now, taking the most recent one, he let its pages fall open for one last glance, then closed it with a shudder and let it join his father's old book in the flames.
Prior to Keogh's — awakening? — his work had been scruffy, lacking in order, by no means precise. Afterwards, for the last six or seven weeks…
Well, the books were gone now, roared up in a sheet of flame and lost in the chimney, lost to the night.
There was no comparing them now, and that was probably the best way. To consider that there might be any real comparison would be too gross, too grotesque. Now Hannant could put the whole thing out of his mind forever. Thoughts like that had never belonged in any completely sane mind in the first place.
Chapter Four
It was the summer of 1972 and Dragosani was back in Romania.
He looked very trendy in a washed-out blue open-necked shirt, flared grey trousers cut in a Western style, shiny black shoes with sharply pointed toes (unlike the customary square-cut imported Russian footwear in the local shops) and a fawn-chequered jacket with large patch pockets. In the hot Romanian midday, especially at this farm on the outskirts of a tiny village some way off the Corabia-Calinesti highway, he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Leaning on his car and scanning the huddled rooftops and snail-shell cupolas of the village, which stood a little way down the gently sloping fields to the south, he could only be one of three things: a rich tourist from the West, one from Turkey, or one from Greece.
But on the other hand his car was a Volga and black as his shoes, which suggested something else. Also, he didn't wear the wide-eyed, wary/innocent look of the tourist but a self-satisfied air of familiarity, of belonging. Approaching him from the farmhouse yard where he'd been feeding chickens, Hzak Kinkovsi, the 'proprietor', couldn't make up his mind. He was expecting tourists later in the week, but this one had got him beat. He sniffed suspiciously. An official, maybe, from the Ministry of Lands and Properties? Some snotty lackey for those stone- faced bolshevik industrialists across the border? He'd have to watch his step here, obviously. At least until he knew who or what the newcomer was.
'Kinkovsi?' the young man inquired, eyeing him up and down. 'Hzak Kinkovsi? They told me in lonestasi that you have rooms. I take it that place — ' (a nod towards a tottering three-storied stone-built house by the cobbled village road)' — is your guesthouse?'
Kinkovsi deliberately looked blank, feigned a lack of understanding, frowned as he stared at Dragosani. He didn't always declare his earnings from tourism — not all of them, anyway. Finally he said: 'I am Kinkovsi, yes, and I do have rooms. But — '
'Well, can I stay here or can't I?' the other seemed tired now, and impatient. Kinkovsi noted that his clothes, at first glance smart and modern, actually looked crumpled, much-travelled. 'I know I'm early by a month, but surely you can't have that many guests?'
Early by a month! Now Kinkovsi remembered.
'Ah! You must be the Herr from Moscow? The one who made inquiry in April? The one who booked lodgings — but sent no money in advance! Is it you, then, that Herr Dragosani who has the name of the town down the highway? But you are indeed early — though welcome for all that! I shall have to prepare a room for you. Or perhaps I can put you in the English room, for a night or two anyway. How long will you stay?'
Ten days at least,' Dragosani answered, 'if the sheets are clean and the food is at all bearable — and if your Romanian beer is not too bitter!' His glance seemed unnecessarily severe; there was that in his attitude which got Kinkovsi's back up.
'Mein Herr,' he began with a growl, 'my rooms are so clean you could eat off the floor. My wife is an
Dragosani grinned and held out his hand. 'I was pulling your leg,' he said. 'I like to find out what people are made of. And I like a fighting spirit! You are typical of this region, Hzak Kinkovsi: you wear a farmer's clothes but you're a warrior at heart. But me, a Muscovite? With a name like mine? Why, there are some who'd say that you're the foreigner here, 'Hzak Kinkovsi!' It's in your name, your accent, too. And what of your use of 'Mein Herr'? Hungarian, aren't you?'
Kinkovsi briefly studied the other's face, looked him upand down, decided he liked him. The man had a sense of humour, anyway, which in itself made a welcome change. 'My grandfather's grandfather was from Hun gary,' he said, taking Dragosani's hand and giving it a firm shake, 'but my grandmother's grandmother was a Wallach. As for the accent, it's local. We've absorbed a good many Hungarians over the decades, and a good many settled here. Now? — I'm a Romanian no less than you. Only I'm not as rich as you!' He laughed, showing yellow, worn-down teeth in a face of creased leather. 'I suppose you'd say I'm a peasant. Well, I'm what I am. As for 'Mein Herr' — would you prefer me to call you Comrade'?'
'Heavens, no! Not that!' Dragosani answered at once. 'Mein Herr' will do nicely, thanks.' He too laughed.
me on, show me this English room of yours…' Kinkovsi led the way from the big Volga to the tall, h igh- peaked guesthouse. 'Rooms?' he grumbled. 'Oh, we' ve plenty of rooms, all right! Four to each floor. You can have a whole suite of rooms if you like.' || 'One will be fine,' Dragosani answered, 'as long as it as its own bath and toilet.' 'Ah —
‘I'm sure' said Dragosani, not too dryly.
He saw that the ground floor walls of the house had been rendered and pebble-dashed on top of the sand-
