Necroscope

came to light. By that I mean that Hannant's observations of five years ago match mine exactly. He too, at that time, believed that Harry Keogh… that he…'

'That he what?' Gormley urged. 'What's this lad's talent, Jack?'

Talent? My God! That's not how I would describe it.'

'Well?'

'Let me tell it my way. It's not that I'm shy of my conclusions, you understand, just that I believe the evidence should be heard first. I've said that Keogh's English was bad and I used to urge him to do better. Well, he improved rapidly. Before he left the school two years ago he'd sold his first short story. Since then there have been two books full of them. They've sold right across the English-speaking world! It's a bit off-putting to say the least! I mean, I've been trying to sell my stories for thirty years, and here's Keogh not yet nineteen, and — '

'And is that your concern?' Gormley cut him off. 'That he's become a successful author so young?'

'Eh? Heavens, no! I'm delighted for him. Or at least I was. I still would be if only… if only he didn't write the damn things that way…'He paused.

'What way?'

'He… he has, well, collaborators.'

Something about the way Hannant said the last word made Gormley's scalp tingle again. 'Collaborators? But surely a lot of writers have collaborators? At eighteen years of age I imagine he probably needs someone to tidy his stuff up for him, and so on.'

'No, no,' said the other, with an edge to his voice that hinted of frustration, of wanting to say something outright but not knowing how to. 'No, that's not what I meant at all. Actually, his short stories don't need tidying up — they're all jewels. I myself typed the earliest of them for him, from the rough work, because he didn't have a machine. I even typed up a few after he'd bought a typewriter, until he got the idea of how a good manuscript should look. Since then he's done it all himself — until recently. His new work, which he's just completed, is a novel. He's called it, of all things, Diary of a Seventeenth-century Rake!'

Gormley couldn't suppress a chuckle. 'So he's sexually precocious too, is he?'

'Actually, I think he is. Anyway, I've worked with him quite a bit on the novel, too: that is, I've arranged it into chapters for him and generally tidied it up. Nothing wrong with Keogh's history or his use of the seventeenth- century language — in fact it's amazingly accurate — but his spelling is still atrocious and on this book at least he was repetitive and disjointed. But one thing I can promise you: it will earn him an awful lot of money!'

Now Gormley frowned. 'How can his short stories be 'jewels' while his novel is repetitive and disjointed Does that follow logically?'

'Nothing follows logically in Keogh's case. The reason the novel differs from the shorter works is simple: his collaborator on the shorts was a literary type who knew what he was doing, whereas his collaborator for the novel was quite simply… a seventeenth-century rake!'

'Eh?' Gormley was startled. 'I don't follow.'

'No, I don't suppose you do. I wish to God I didn't! Listen: there was a very successful writer of short stories who lived and died in Hartlepool thirty years ago. His real name doesn't matter but he had three or four pseudonyms. Keogh uses pseudonyms very close to the originals.'

'The 'originals'? I still don't — '

'As for the seventeenth-century rake: he was the son of an earl. Very notorious in these parts between 1660 and 1672. Finally an outraged husband shot him dead. He wasn't a writer, but he did have a vivid imagination! These two men… they are Keogh's collaborators!'

Gormley's scalp was crawling now. 'Go on,' he said.

'I've talked to Keogh's girlfriend,' Harmon continued. 'She's a nice kid and dotes on him. And she won't hear a word against him. But in conversation she let it slip that he has this idea about something called a necroscope. It's something he presented to her as fiction, a figment of his own imagination. A necroscope, he told her, is someone — '

' — who can look in on the thoughts of the dead?' Gormley cut in.

'Yes,' the other sighed his relief. 'Exactly.'

'A spirit medium?'

'What? Why, yes, I suppose you could say that. But a real one, Keenan! A man who genuinely talks to the

dead! I mean, it's monstrous! I've actually seen him sitting there, writing — in the local graveyard!'

'Have you told anyone else?' Gormley's voice was sharp now. 'Does Keogh know what you suspect?'

'No.'

'Then don't breathe another word about this to a soul. Do you understand?'

'Yes, but — '

'No buts, Jack. This discovery of yours might be very important indeed, and I'm delighted you got in touch with me. But it must go no farther. There are people who could use it in entirely the wrong way.'

'You believe me, then, about this terrible thing?' the other's relief was plain. *I mean, is it even possible?'

'Possible, impossible — the longer I live the more I wonder just what might or mightn't be! Anyway, I can understand your concern, and it's right that you should be concerned. But as for this being 'a terrible thing': I'm afraid I have to reserve my judgement on that. If you are correct, then this Harry Keogh of yours has a terrific talent. Just think how he might use it!'

'I shudder to think!'

'What? And you a headmaster? Shame on you, Jack!'

'I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure I — '

'But wouldn't you yourself like the chance to talk to the greatest teachers, theorists and scientists of all time? To Einstein, Newton, Da Vinci, Aristotle?'

'My God!' the voice at the other end of the line almost choked. 'But surely that would be — I mean, quite literally — utterly impossible!'

'Yes, well you just keep believing that, Jack, and forget all about this conversation of ours, right?'

'But you — '

'Right, Jack?'

'Very well. What do you intend to — ?'

'Jack, I work for a very queer outfit, a very funny crowd. And even telling you that much is to tell you too much. However, you have my word that I'll look into this thing. And I want your word that this is your last word on it to anyone.'

'Very well, if you say so.'

Thanks for calling.'

'You're welcome. I — '

'Goodbye, Jack. We must talk again some time.'

'Yes, goodbye…'

Thoughtfully, Gormley put the phone down.

Chapter Eleven

Dragosani had been 'back to school' for over three months, brushing up on his English. Now it was the end of July and he had returned to Romania — or Wallachia, as he now constantly thought of his homeland. His reason for being here was simple: despite any threats he made when last he visited, still he was aware that a year had passed, and that the old Thing in the ground had warned him that a year was all the time allowed. What he had meant exactly was beyond Dragosani to fathom, but of one thing he was certain: he must not let Thibor Ferenczy expire through any oversight on his part. If such an expiry was imminent, then the vampire might now be more