Brian Lumley - Necroscope

'ESPers!' Shukshin spat the word out. 'Borowitz's men! What do you want of me?'

'He has every reason to look ill, Max,' Dragosani's voice was deep as a pit. 'A traitor, a blackmailer, probably a murderer…'

Shukshin looked as if he might spring to his feet. Batu placed heavy, stubby hands on his shoulders. 'I asked,' Shukshin grated, 'what you want of me?'

'Your life,' said Dragosani. He took a silencer from his pocket, screwed it tightly to the muzzle of his weapon, stepped forward and placed it against Shukshin's fore head. 'Only your life.'

Shukshin felt Max Batu step carefully to one side behind him. And he knew they were going to kill him.

'Wait!' he croaked. 'You're making a mistake. Borowitz won't thank you for it. I know a lot — about the British side. I've been giving it to Borowitz bit by bit. But there's a lot he doesn't know yet. Also, I'm still working for you

— in my way. Why, I'm on a job now! Yes, right now.'

'What job?' said Dragosani. It had not been his intention to shoot Shukshin, merely to frighten him. Max's getting out of the line of fire had only been a natural reaction. Shooting was messy and made for bad necromancy. The way Dragosani had planned Shukshin's death was much more interesting:

When he had obtained all he could get this way, by simple questioning, then they would take Shukshin to the bathroom and bind him. They would put him in a bath half full of cold water and Dragosani would use one of his surgical sickles to slit his wrists. As he lay there in water rapidly turning red as his life leaked out, then Dragosani would re-question him. The promise would be that if Shukshin told all, his wounds would be bound and he'd be released. Dragosani would show him bandages, surgical tape. But of course, Shukshin would only have so much time to respond. All the time the water was darkening with his blood, until he lay in a cold, crimson soup. It would have been a warning, a promise that if Shukshin continued to give them trouble, then Dragosani and Batu — or others like them — would be back to finish the job. That is what they would tell Shukshin, but of course the job would be finished right there and then.

Even so, still Shukshin might hold something back. Something, perhaps, which he did not consider important, something forgotten — maybe something too damning to tell. Maybe, for instance, he was already working for the British…

But whatever he said it would make no difference. When he was dead they would flush his drained corpse with fresh water, take him out of the bath, and then… then Dragosani would continue to question.

Now Dragosani took the gun away from Shukshin's forehead, sat down facing him. 'I'm waiting,' he said. 'What job?'

Shukshin gulped, tried to force his fear of these men — and his hatred of their weird ESP talents — to the back of his mind. It was there, it wouldn't go away, but for now he must try to ignore it. His life hung by a thread and he knew it. He must get his thoughts in order, lie as he'd never lied before. Some of it would be the truth anyway, and of that much at least he could speak with absolute conviction:

'You know I'm a spotter?'

'Of course, it's why Borowitz sent you here: to find them and kill them. You haven't been too successful, apparently.' Dragosani's sarcasm was acid.

Shukshin ignored that, too. 'When I came in here a moment ago — the moment I stepped into this room — I knew you were here. I could almost taste your presence. You're powerful ESPers, both of you. Especially you,' he glared at Dragosani. 'There's a terrific, a monstrous talent in you. It… it hurts me!'

'Yes, Borowitz told me that,' Dragosani answered dryly. 'But we know about spotters, Shukshin, so stop stalling and get on with it.'

'I wasn't stalling. I was trying to explain about the man I'm going to kill — today!'

Dragosani and Batu exchanged glances. Batu looked down on the top of Shukshin's head and said: 'You were going to kill a British ESPer? Why? And who is he?'

'It was my way of getting back into Borowitz's good books,' Shukshin lied. 'The man's name is Harry Keogh. He is my stepson. He got his talent — whatever it is — from his mother. Sixteen years ago I killed her, too…' Shukshin continued to glare at Dragosani. 'She fascinated me — and she infuriated me! Is she the one you meant when you said I was "probably" a murderer? No "probably" about it. Oh, I killed her all right. Like all ESPers, she hurt me. Her talent drove me mad!'

'Never mind her,' snapped Dragosani. 'What about this Keogh?'

That's what I was trying to tell you. With you two, powerful as you are, still I had to actually enter the house to know you were here. But with Harry Keogh — '

'Yes?'

Shukshin shook his head. 'He's different. His talent is…vast! I know it is. You see, the bigger it is, the more it hurts. So I'm not only killing him for Borowitz but also for myself.'

Dragosani was interested. He could always finish this thing with Shukshin later; but if Harry Keogh was that powerful, he would like to know more about him. And in any case, if he was a member of the British E-Branch it would be like killing two birds with one stone. As his interest expanded he forgot to ask Shukshin the important question: was Keogh a member of the British E-Branch? And that was something the other wasn't going to volunteer.

'I think we might be able to accommodate you,' Dragosani finally said. 'It's always good when you can reach an understanding with old friends.' He put away his gun. 'When, exactly, were you going to kill this man, and how?'

And Shukshin told him.

After Shukshin had gone back to the house, Harry returned to his car and drove it to the foot of the hill in the direction of Bonnyrigg. Down there he parked again, off the road, then made his way on foot across a field to the river. Frozen over, the area was unfamiliar and made more so by the first feathers of snow where they drifted down from the leaden skies. Everything began to take on the soft, misty aspect of a winter painting.

Harry began to make his way upriver. His mother's resting place was up there somewhere, he couldn't say where exactly. That was one of the reasons he'd come

again to this place: to make sure he knew exactly where she was, that he could find her under any and all circumstances. Walking on the frozen water, he reached out his mind:

'Ma, can you hear me?'

She was there immediately. 'Harry, is that you? So close!' And at once her apprehension, her agony of fear for him: 'Harry! Is it… now?'

'It's now, Ma. But don't give me any more problems than I have already. I need your help, not arguments. I don't need anything to trouble my mind.'

'Oh, Harry, Harry! What can I say to you? How am I supposed to stop worrying about you? I'm your mother…'

'Then help me. Don't say anything, just be still. I want to see if I can find you, blind.'

'Blind? I don't — '

'Ma, please!'

She was silent, but her worry gnawed at him, in his head, like the pacing of a troubled loved one in a small room. He kept walking, closed his eyes and went to her. A hundred yards, maybe a little more, and he knew he was there. He stopped walking, opened his eyes. He stood in the curve of the overhanging bank, on the thick white ice which formed his mother's headstone. Her marker, and his marker, too. Now he knew he could always find her.

'I'm here, Ma.' He crouched down on the ice, scuffed away a thin layer of snow, looked at the heavy jack-handle in his gloved hand. That was the second reason he had come.

As he began to batter at the ice, she said: 'I see it all now, Harry. You've been lying to me, deceiving me,' she reproached him. 'You think there will be problems after all.'