Brian Lumley - Necroscope IV - Deadspeak

'Tomorrow morning, first thing. I am the spear-fisherman and know these guns. The best model is called "Champion", Italian manufacture, with single or double rubbers. Using a single barb, with a metal flap that opens on making a strike… they will be quite as effective as your crossbow.'

'Rubbers?' Darcy Clarke wasn't much for water sports.

Harry explained: 'These guns use rubber hurlers for propulsion. They're pretty deadly. Slow to load, though, so we'll need single, powerful rubbers. Manolis, better make it half a dozen guns. And Darcy, I think it's time you called in extra help. I don't think it will be too difficult to find three or four volunteers from your lot back in London.'

'E-Branch?' Darcy answered. 'They're just waiting for the word! I'll bring in the blokes from the Bodescu job. I can get on it just as soon as we're finished here.'

'Good,' Harry nodded. 'But it might be a good idea to get it started even before they get out here. I think our first priority has to be Halki. We know there are only a couple of Janos's creatures there. And actually, we don't yet know that they are "creatures"! They could be men pure and simple, dupes in his pay, who don't know what they're working for. Well, I'll only have to see them to know them. Manolis, how long will it take to get those spears — er, harpoons — silvered up?'

'By tomorrow night?'

'And how long to Halki?'

'In a fast boat,' Manolis shrugged, 'two hours, two and a half at most. It sits in the sea only a few miles from the island of Rhodes, but fifty miles down the coast from Rhodes Town, where we are now. Halki's only a little place. A big rock in the sea. One village with a couple of little tavernas, one short road, some mountains, and one Crusader castle.'

'Tomorrow's Wednesday,' said Harry. 'If you can fix us up with a boat and a pilot by Thursday morning, we can easily be there before midday. So that's what we'll aim for. Between times, is there any chance of taking a look at this "fang of rock" that Janos is buying in the Dodecanese?'

Manolis shook his head. 'That would take the best part of a day. I suggest we do Halki Thursday morning, and go straight on to have a look at Karpathos and this bay close to the airport where the Lazarus is laid up. Incidentally, both Halki and Karpathos lie in what used to be called the "Carpathian Sea"! This vampire, he likes to feel at home, eh?'

Harry nodded. 'I fancy it's a coincidence. A funny one, but a coincidence anyway. But I agree with you on the rest of what you said. And in any case, we should have reinforcements from E-Branch by Thursday evening. Friday will be soon enough to take a look at Janos's 20th-century aerie.'

Harry's large steak, rare, without vegetables, must surely be cold by now. He hadn't yet touched it and the others had long since finished eating. He shrugged and ate anyway. It was a long time since he'd tasted meat so rare and bloody. In fact he couldn't remember the time. And the deep red wine was good, too. And to himself, wrily: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!

Maybe Manolis was right and he was a cold one after all…

A message was waiting for them back at the hotel: a Sister at the asylum has requested that Inspector Papastamos call her back. Manolis did so immediately. He spoke on the phone in his usual rapid-fire Greek, with long pauses between each burst, while Harry and Darcy watched his face going through a variety of expressions: from wary and inquiring to astonishment, then disbelief, and finally sheer delight. And at last he was able to translate the message back to them.

'Trevor Jordan is much improved!' he almost shouted, his face a huge smile. 'He is conscious, talking, making sense! Or at least he was. They made him take food, then gave him a shot to put him down for the night. But before he slept he said he wanted to see you, Harry. They say you can see him first thing in the morning.'

Darcy and Harry looked wonderingly at each other, and Darcy said, 'What do you make of it?'

For a moment Harry was bewildered. He frowned and scratched his chin. 'Maybe… maybe distance has put him beyond Janos's reach? I had thought his condition was permanent — that his mind had been tampered with, like mine — but maybe Janos isn't up to that. Maybe he isn't that good. Hell, who cares? Whatever it is, it sounds like good news to me. We'll just have to wait until the morning to find out.

Before he went to sleep, Harry tried again to contact Möbius. It was useless; his deadspeak went out to Möbius's grave in Leipzig, but no one answered. One of the reasons Harry had delayed pursuing Janos was that he'd hoped (hope against hope) to regain his numeracy — and through it access to the Möbius Continuum. This had been his plan but… it was fading now, possibly into oblivion.

Still worrying about it, eventually he slept.

But his obsession of the moment was carried over into his dreams where, separated from the lesser problems and diversions of the waking world, Harry continued to transmit his thoughts across that Great Dark Gulf which men called Death. Many of the teeming dead in their graves heard him, would answer or comfort him, but dared not. None of them was the one he sought; communication for its own sake would be pointless; they knew that their commiserations, even their inevitable approbations, would only constitute obstructions in Harry's path. For the Necroscope had never been able to refuse conversation with the dead, whose suffering of solitude he alone of all living men understood.

There was one among the dead, however, who — for all that she loved him more than the rest — stood much less in awe of him. Indeed, on a good many occasions she had chided him. The mothers of men are like that.

Harry? her deadspeak touched him. Can you hear me, son?

He sighed and abandoned his search for Möbius. There had been that in her tone which commanded his attention. What is it, Ma?

What is it? (He could picture her frown.) Is that how you speak to me, Harry?

Ma, he sighed again, and tried to explain, I've been busy. And what I'm doing is important. You don't know how important.

Do you think so? she answered. Do you really think I don't know? But who knows you better than me, Harry? Well, I know this much, anyway — that you're wasting your time!

Harry's dreaming mind played with her words and found no explanation for them. Nor would he unless she was willing to supply one. She picked that up at once and flew at him in the closest she'd ever come to a rage. What!? And would you take that attitude? Would you take your impatience out on me? Well, the dead might prize you, but they don't know you like I do. And Harry, you… are … a… trouble!

Ma,I —

You, you, you! Always you! And are you the only one? Who is this T you're always mentioning, Harry? And why is it you never speak of 'we'? Why must you always think you're alone? Of all men you are not alone! For a million years men have died and lain silent in the dark, thinking their thoughts and following their solitary designs, each separate from the next but joined in the belief that death was an airless, lightless (oh, yes, and painless too!) but relentless prison… until a small bright light named Harry Keogh came along and said: 'Why don't you talk to me? I'll listen. And then you might like to try talking to each other!' Ahhh! A revelation!

Harry remained silent, didn't know how to answer. Was she praising or chastising him? He had never heard her like this, not even when he was awake. She had never been so angry. And his Ma picked that up, too.

Why am I angry? I don't believe it! For years you couldn't speak to me if you wanted to — not without killing yourself for it and finally when you can speak to me -