Leading the way out of the ward through its system of security doors, Quant answered, “That’s just the problem. Until we know who he is and how he got in here, how do we explain him?”
“Why bother trying to ‘explain’ him?” Willis said. “Maybe we simply found him wandering in the grounds, inside the security fence. No one’s going to argue the fact that he’s a mental case! Maybe someone couldn’t look after him any longer, dumped him on us.”
“And what if that someone is the inspectorate?” The director rounded on him. “We’re a hospital, a mental institution. Do you think that puts us beyond scrutiny? On the contrary, people care about our inmates. And we are supposed to care for them!”
“And if he is a plant?” Willis argued. “I mean, how do you know they’re not waiting and wondering right now why we’ve done nothing about him?”
“Not we, me!” Quant snapped.
And Willis shrugged. “Your problem—sir,” he said, with a narrow-eyed, sideways look.
“Tomorrow,” Quant nodded, entering the elevator. “I’ll report what has happened here tomorrow. There are higher authorities, after all. Meanwhile … tidy him up, will you? And ensure that he stays tidied up? If it means handing him over, which it probably will, I would want him in the best possible condition. And that goes for all of the inmates, got it? If there’s to be an inspection of the facility, we need to be beyond criticism.”
As the elevator took Quant aloft, Willis stormed back to the control room. It was swill time for all these crazy pigs—but he knew who he was going to attend to first. We re supposed to care for them, are we? He grumbled to himself. And there’s a problem with the feeding, is there? Oh really? Well, Dave Willis knew how to give this mysterious whoever-he-fucking-was lunatic a problem or two! And whichever—come what may—the next can of slop was going down and staying down!
Harry failed to hear Willis enter his cell, didn’t even know he was there, until he felt the hot baby-food stew on his lips and the sharp rim of the spoon thrusting in his mouth. Then, shaken from his torpor, his immediate reaction was to choke and cough, and spit the muck out. Following which—
—It got much, much worse. But when it was over and everything was quiet again, Harry stayed focused. Because now there was something definite to focus upon. At which the Great Majority, his friends in low society, saw their best opportunity yet and took it.
And for once Harry listened to them—gave them his whole-hearted attention, or what was left of it—because almost anything had to be better than this …
He’s not crazy, a man who in life had been a top-level psychiatrist reported to Sir Keenan Gormley. He simply opted out of a world that was crazy, from his point of view. The problem will lie in getting him to opt back in. But right now he’s very confused. His mind is full of a dislike bordering on hatred for a man called Willis. By no means unnatural: the man is an intern who is abusing and literally torturing Harry! But on the other hand, Willis is also the reason we have access. Harry is looking for a way to escape from the mess he’s in. Which means he can reason well enough, if we can supply him with a reason to.
Franz Anton Mesmer joined in. I feel I have something of a stake in this, he said. Harry was my patient first, after all. Or rather, he was my therapist first! He gave me back my self-confidence, and now I would like to do the same for him.
Through hypnotism? (Harry’s Ma was at once fearful.)
Not really, Mesmer answered. My hypnotism only allowed me a degree of access to his mind. Now I intend to work with what I found there—with knowledge, yes. And I’ll need your help, Mary Keogh.
My help? What do you mean?
Your promise not to interfere, Mesmer told her, bluntly.
I don’t understand. (The shake of an incorporeal head.)
His love for B.J. Mirlu, Mesmer explained. I still know the way into his head. And I remember that he feared for her. Right now she is in danger; we all know that from the men—and some monsters—who have come among us. It may be the one thing that can bring him out of this: to know that this girl is in danger.
Two things, then, the psychiatrist put in. His love of this woman, and his fear of this man Willis, therefore his desire to be out of it.
Three, said Nostradamus, surprising them with his presence. For as yet he hasn’t worked through all the riddles I gave him. And I know how reluctant the Necroscope is to leave unfinished business!
What else do you know? Sir Keenan asked him. What did you see, in his future?
Don’t ask it, Nostradamus answered. It’s not for you, nor even for me to know. Not in its entirety.
So, said Mesmer. What’s it to be? Shall I enter him then? Shall I remind him that B.J. Mirlu is relying upon him, that as yet he has not unriddled Nostradamus’s clues—which may provide the only viable solution—and that his one “safe place” is really a place of torture and peril?
But Harry’s Ma wanted to know: What lies will you tell him about B.J.?
Only that she loves him—which we can’t be sure is a lie anyway. And also that the case against her remains unproven. If he loves her … that should be enough.
“Should” be enough? Sir Keenan queried Mesmer’s use of the word. Where’s the risk ?
Mesmer was cautious as he answered, The interface between the Necroscope’s reality and unreality has been so weakened by use that it has stretched taut as a tightrope. When next he is challenged to choose between what is and what isn’t, it’s possible he could fall the wrong way.
And is that likely to happen? (Harry’s Ma again.) I mean, will his levels interface one last time?
Franz Anton’s reluctant, incorporeal nod. Oh, yes. And the trigger is in B.J. Mirlu’s hands …
For long moments there was utter silence in the metaphysical aether, until Mary Keogh “sighed” and asked: And is there no way round it?
Oh, yes, said Mesmer again. There’s always an alternative. To let things be—to let a horror befall the living world, and everyone in it—and then to explain to the multitude when they come among us why we let it happen! I know what I choose, but I can’t make that choice alone. And meanwhile, time is wasting.
At which a new voice said: You has my vote, Mr. Mesmer. It was R.L. Stevenson Jamieson. Least ways I can watch out for the Necroscope, and use my obi to do whatever I can for him. He was his usual, humble, selfless self.
My vote, too, said Nostradamus. For without that the Necroscope goes forward, he can’t go back! And I … can’t go! It is a paradox as old as time. What came first … ?
I love him like a son … excuse me, Mary, said Sir Keenan. God knows I wouldn’t place him in jeopardy. But to have him as he is now is to have nothing. And it is also for him to have nothing. Doctor, (now he spoke to Mesmer), I believe I can help with Harry’s motivation. So if I may, I’ll go in with you.
Which left only Harry’s Ma herself, with whom no one would dispute the final decision.
And time ticking inexorably into the future, and NOW continually sliding into the past …
Harry was conscious. Suddenly conscious. And just as suddenly he knew what he had done, and what he hadn’t.
He had quit. He had given up the ghost with the job half-done and less than half understood. He had let someone or someones do this to him without even knowing who or what they were. For even the fear of finding out had been too much for him. But it had proved to be the classic case of out of the frying pan into the fire. And now he wanted out of the fire, too. And back into the frying pan?
But from out of the blue (or out of his dreams, or the insistence of the inhabitants of those dreams) sanity had flowed back into him. Or rather, the emptiness—the vacuum—which he had self-created had been filled again, and he wasn’t about to let it drain away a second time. For if nature abhors a vacumm, then how much greater the abhorrence of the dead when the space in question was one previously filled by the Necroscope?
And so he was suddenly conscious, and sane, and his body-clock told him it
was close to morning. And despite that from the moment he opened his eyes he began to feel stiff, he knew that this was only an illusion, a natural result of being confined to this chair. For his sleep had been deep and (paradoxically?) restful, so that even now there was this fading inner voice reminding him: You’ll sleep deep and soundly, Harry, and wake up feeling quite well and rested … wake up feeling well and rested … well and rested.
There had been other voices, too, but while they were gone now their messages remained. Or were the messages simply ideas, stuff his computer mind had been working on before it crashed? Whichever, they were there, surfacing with Harry from his deep and restful sleep.
The idea that one of his basic problems stemmed from his time with E-Branch. That was an old one, developed from Nostradamus’s quatrains. But what else was locked in those quatrains that he hadn’t released yet? He had work to do!
And the idea—or more correctly the fact—that Bonnie Jean hadn’t yet definitely been proved guilty of fouling up his life. Not one hundred per cent guilty; fifty-fifty at worst, if in fact E-Branch had had a hand in it, too.
And the idea, again a fact, that B.J. was in danger. Their enemies were abroad, probably searching for her even now, while Harry languished in here! And if indeed she loved him—and he was suddenly sure that who or whatever she was, she did—then her enemies were his. But he also knew that they were big enemies, not just little ones like the one he had here.
Willis! Morning! Breakfast!
No way! No fucking way!
Harry turned his head this way and that, stared wildly all about his cell, opened his channels to the dead. It was as good and better than a cry for help, a Mayday, an SOS.
Harry! said R.L. Stevenson Jamieson, in a hell of a hurry. Is you listenin’, Necroscope? There’s this guy headin’ your way right now, and he ain’t exactly a friend!
“How long do I have, R.L.?” Harry tugged uselessly at his bonds, the leather straps binding his hands to the arms of the chair. He dangled his legs, tried kicking them, couldn’t bring any pressure to bear for his feet were off the floor.
How long? I don’t deal in time, just distances, Harry! I only knows this guy is closing with you, lookin’ to bein’ with you. I sees your flame burnin’, and this one’s bent on snuffin’ it!—well, a mite. He ain’t got no good plans for you, that’s for sure.
Harry quit fighting his wrist straps, strained against the broad belt across his chest. There was some give in it but nothing to use as a lever except his lungs! It was useless. Even if he got out of the chair, he’d still be in a straitjacket.
And panting now, he sent: “Is there anyone else out there? Is there a … a morgue in this place?” There wasn’t, but even if there had been the thought had already crossed Harry’s mind that it mightn’t be such a good idea to call a madman back from the dead!
So, no physical help, not from a physical source, anyway. But there was someone else out there. You have a lot of friends down among the dead men, Harry Keogh, said an entirely new but definitely friendly voice, the voice of a total stranger. And I have to admit I’ve been interested in you a long time, but they told me you were kind of busy.
“Still am,” the Necroscope grunted, shaking himself about like a real madman in his chair. And: “Friend,” he let himself loll a while, tried to reserve his strength, “unless you’ve got some damn good suggestion, would you mind making room for someone who has? Who are you, anyway?”
Harry’s my name, said the other, with a grin that only the Necroscope could ever hope to perceive. Well, that was my stage name, anyway.
“Some kind of joke?” Almost exhausted, defeated, the Necroscope gave a shake of his head. “If so, bad timing.”
Amazing! said the other Harry. I spent a lot of time—er, in my time—proving that you and your kind couldn’t exist. And maybe at that time you couldn’t. But then you came along. Since when I’ve been able to talk to my mother again just as you talk to yours! That’s one great big debt I owe you, Harry Keogh. But it’s also why I held off for so long: because I was afraid that you’d turn out to be a charlatan, too. Obviously you’re not.
“Er, Harry?” said Harry, “I’m sorry if I can’t give you my full attention right now, but …”
… Harry Houdini, said the other. I’m here to do a benefit on the behalf of the Great Majority—and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.
“Harry Houdi—!” Harry started to say, before his jaw fell open.
Houdini, yes, the dead showman said, from his plot in the Machpelah Cemetery, Cypress Hills, Queens. And out of the blue: How much slack have you worked into those things?
The Necroscope said. “What?” Then finally got himself together again and sighed his relief. “My straps, you mean? This straitjacket? Why not come on in and see for yourself?” And he opened his mind more yet.
May I? said Houdini, touching him mind-to-mind.
“Be my guest,” the Necroscope sighed again, gladly. “Come right on in, Harry, and make yourself at home. But you’ll have to excuse me if it’s none too comfortable around here. In fact, even knowing who you are and something of what you’ve done, it still seems pretty hopeless to me.” He felt some of the elation of a few seconds ago evaporating. “Time isn’t on our side, and this jacket would be bad enough without the chair …”
The jacket nothing, said the other Harry. I made a study of such restraints. The reason you’re still in it is to make it easier for your “keepers.” When they want to move you, they’ll simply release your arms from the chair, fold them across your chest and tie them. So your only real problem is the chair. And Harry, while I never tried it, I think I could probably get out of one of those things underwater! OK, so just let go and let me take it from here.
The Necroscope did as instructed, relaxed as best he could, and let the expert take over. And a moment later he felt a new and different kind of magic in his life …
Fifteen minutes later Willis arrived with Harry’s breakfast. In the control cell, the CCTV screen had been down, which meant he hadn’t been able to do a remote check on the ward’s inmates. It didn’t matter; the padded cells had safety-glass windows; Harry was sitting in a corner, like little Jack Horner, and he’d soon be eating his curds and whey—or was that little Miss Muffet? Whichever, he’d eat it or get it stuffed into him!
A single glance into the dim cell had been sufficient—no change since last night. Just the nutter with his arms strapped down and his head on his chest. Asleep? Well, he’d soon be wide awake.
Willis put the tray on a rounded shelf surface built into the padded wall, turned and closed the door, then turned again to face Harry—who was facing him!
“Good morning, Mr. Willis,” said Harry from where he stood not two feet away. And then, to someone Willis couldn’t see and wouldn’t have believed in anyway:
Sergeant, he’s all yours!
And as Willis’s thick-lipped mouth formed its incredulous “O,” “Sergeant” Graham Lane—an ex-ex-army physical training instructor—did the rest …
Director Cyril Quant got in to work just half an hour later, in time for all hell to break loose. It broke as he finished reading the note on his desk for the second time:
To Whoever Probably Isn’t Much Concerned—
You have an ape called Willis on your staff. I wouldn’t let this man clean out the monkey house in Edinburgh Zoo. He’s brutal and sadistic and has just had his arse kicked. When I get the time, I’ll be sending a full report to the proper authorities. Or, you can investigate yourself and save us both a lot of trouble.
Harry
P.S.
Leave me out of your investigations—unless you want to end up in one of your own straitjackets.
It was the name that did it. Director Quant tore open his desk drawer, ripped out a handful of the paper contents, tilted the rest onto the floor. But the only evidence that “Harry” had ever been here—his scribbled, meaningless notebook—was no longer there.
&nbs
p; And ten minutes later, down in C-Section of D-Ward, Quant saw that indeed Dave Willis had had his arse kicked. The other orderlies were in the process of freeing the unconscious, simian Willis from the chair. He had a broken nose and collarbone, a black eye and fat lip—and his hair was matted with congealing porridge …
Back home, the Necroscope could scarcely believe the change in himself. After a shower, some decent food, a sleep lasting well into the afternoon, he felt … well, not quite as good as new, but better than he’d been for a long time. His memory was still at fault, (the post-hypnotic commands that governed many of his thoughts, actions and mental processes were still in place, however shakily), but there was this newfound sense of freedom in him that wasn’t just the result of his actual freedom. In fact he felt uplifted and reasoned that it was because he now had a sense of direction, a course to follow, and things to do. Just how those things would work out … remained to be seen.
But it was more than just that. In the madhouse Harry had regained a little of his faith in the teeming dead—therefore in himself. He was no longer so shy of them; he knew that when he needed them, they’d be there for him. Without knowing what it signified, he felt a weakening of James Anderson’s original commands, brought about by Mesmer’s probing. And he no longer felt so restricted, so fearful in his use of the Möbius Continuum. These things had been major shackles but were now falling away from him.