Deadspeak Page 19

  Haaarry—for God’s sake find us and make an end of it!

  “How can I find you?” Harry shouted into the night, wanting to cry from the sheer frustration of it. “And what’s the point of it? I won’t even remember, not when I’m awake.”

  And then—the merest whisper fading into nothing, and yet powerful enough to call up a wind that howled along the riverbank and snatched at Harry, causing him to lean into it—there came that final exhortation which chilled the ex-Necroscope’s blood to ice water, sent gooseflesh creeping on his spine, and wrenched him back into the waking world.

  Find us and put us down! the unknown voice implored. Put an end to these scarlet threads right now, before they can grow. You know the way. Harry: sharp steel, the wooden stake, the cleansing fire. Do it, Harry. Please … do … it!

  Harry sprang awake. Sandra was clinging to him, trying to hold him down. He was drenched in cold sweat, shaking like a leaf; and she was frightened, too, her eyes wide from it, her mouth forming a frozen “O.”

  “Harry, Harry!” She lay sprawled half across him. She let go his shoulders, hugged his neck, felt his heart pounding against her breast. “It’s all right, it’s all right. It was a bad dream, a nightmare, that’s all.”

  Eyes wide and darting, shivering and panting for breath, he stared all around the room and let its familiarity wash over him. Sandra had put on the light the moment his shouting had brought her awake. “What?” he said, his hands trembling where they clutched her. “What?”

  “It’s all right,” she insisted. “A dream, that’s all.”

  “A dream?” Her words sank in and something of the gaunt vacancy went out of his eyes. He gently pushed her away, began to sit up—then drew air in a gasp and started bolt upright! “No,” he blurted, “it was more than just a dream—much more. And Christ, I have to remember!”

  But too late; already it was receding, draining back to the roots of his subconsciousness. “It was about … about”—he desperately shook his head and sent a spray of sweat flying—“my mother! No, not about her but … she was in it! It was … a warning? Yes, a warning, and … something else.”

  But that was all. It was gone, driven out against his will by the will of some other—the will, or legacy, of his son—by the post-hypnotic commands he’d planted there in Harry’s mind.

  “Shit!” Harry whispered, damp and shivering where he sat on the edge of the bed …

  That had been at 4:05 A.M. Harry had had maybe three and a half hours’ sleep, Sandra an hour less. When he’d finally calmed down and put on his dressing gown, then she had made a pot of coffee. And as he sat there shivering and sipping at his drink, so she had tried to bring his dream back to mind, had urged him to remember it … all the while cursing herself inside that she’d slept right through it! For if she had stayed awake, she might just have caught a glimpse of the terrible thing he’d experienced, whatever it had been. That was her job: help him sort out his mind and get back what he’d lost. Whether he wanted it or not, and whether or not it was good for him.

  But: “No use”—he shook his head after long minutes of patient questioning—“it’s gone. And probably best that it’s gone. I have to be … careful.”

  Sandra had been tired. She hadn’t asked why he must be careful because she knew. But she should have asked because she wasn’t supposed to know. And when she’d looked at him again, his soulful eyes had been steady on her, his tousled head tilted a little on one side, perhaps questioningly. “What’s your interest, anyway?” he’d wanted to know.

  “Only that if you get it off your chest, you’ll feel better about it.” At least her lie had the ring of logic to it. “Once a nightmare is told, it’s not so frightening.”

  “Oh? And that’s your understanding of nightmares, is it?”

  “I was trying to be helpful.”

  “But I keep telling you I can’t remember, and you keep prodding away at me. It was just a dream, and no one tries that hard to winkle someone else’s dreams out of them! Not without a damn good reason, anyway. There’s something not right here, Sandra, and I think I’ve known it for some time. Old Bettley says it’s my fault that what we have isn’t exactly right for me, but now I’m not so sure …”

  There was no answer to that and so she’d kept quiet, acted hurt, drawn apart from him. But in fact she’d known that he was the one who was hurt, and that was the last thing she wanted. And when he finally got back into bed and she joined him there, then it had become obvious how cold he was, how stiff and silent and thoughtful where he lay with his back to her …

  A little over an hour later she was awake again, a call of nature. Harry slept on, heavy in the bed, dead to the world. That thought made her shiver a little as she rejoined him; but of course he wasn’t dead, just exhausted, mentally if not physically. His limbs were leaden, his eyes still, his breathing deep, slow, and regular. No more dreams. Dawn was maybe three-quarters of an hour away.

  Lying beside him, still Sandra felt distanced from him. Their relationship, she felt, was like fancy knitting, which was something she’d never been any good at. One slip of the needle and the whole thing comes undone. And that was a shame. Their lovemaking last night had been very, very good. For both of them, she knew.

  To reinforce delicious, liquid memories of him inside her, she reached across him and down, taking him in her hand. And a moment later she was rewarded when he stiffened and pulsed in the tube of her fingers. An animal reaction, she knew, but she was grateful for it anyway.

  Her loyalties were rapidly breaking down, splitting apart, and she knew that, too. E-Branch paid the bills, but there had to be more to life than fat pay cheques. Harry was what she wanted. He wasn’t just a job anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. And the time was ever drawing closer when she must make the break, say to hell with the branch and tell him the whole thing; damn it, he’d probably guessed it by now anyway …

  Drifting, her thoughts began to run in pointless circles.

  Before falling asleep again, she was aware of noises in the garden where the property fronted on the river. Slow noises, shuffling, sluggish. A badger? She wasn’t sure if there were any badgers up here. Hedgehogs, then … Not burglars, anyway … Not in a district as rundown as this … No money here … Badgers … Hedgehogs … A grating of stones on the gravel of the garden paths … Something doggedly busy in the garden …

  Sandra slept in a fashion, but the noises were still on her mind. Conscious of them, she hovered on the verge of true sleep and wouldn’t let herself be drawn down. But as dawn began to filter its first feeble rays of pale light through the blinds of Harry’s room, the garden sounds gradually faded away. She heard the familiar creak of the old arched-over gate at the bottom of the garden, and what might have been a slow series of shuffling footsteps, and then no more.

  Shortly after that the birds were singing, and Harry came up the stairs in his dressing gown with a steaming pot of coffee and biscuits on a tray. “Breakfast,” he said simply. And: “We had a rough night.”

  “Did we?” She sat up.

  “Up and down a bit.” He shrugged. He was still pale but less weary looking now. And she thought she detected a new look in his eyes. Wariness? Reluctant realisation? Resolution? Hard to tell with Harry. But resolution? What had he resolved to do, to say? She must get to him before he got to her.

  “I love you,” she said, putting down her cup on a small bedside table. “Forget anything else and just remember that. I can’t help it and don’t want to, but I just love you.”

  “I … I don’t know,” he said. But looking at her—sitting up in his bed like that, still pink from sleep and with her nipples achingly stiff—it was hard not to want her. She knew the look in his eyes, reached out, and tugged at the cord of his dressing gown; and he was hard under there and moving with a life of his own.

  Then they were clinging and she curled herself onto him; and her breasts were warm, soft, and pliant against him; and he touched her in those places wh
ere he knew she liked him to, and stroked her at the wet, mobile junction of their flesh. It was the best it had ever been, and their coffee went cold …

  Later, downstairs, with a fresh pot beginning to bubble, he said, “And now I could face a decent breakfast!”

  “Eggs and bacon? Out on the patio?” She thought that maybe the worst was over. She’d be able to break it to him now without fearing it would destroy everything. “Will it be warm enough out there?”

  “Middle of May?” Harry shrugged. “Maybe it’s not so hot at that. But the sun’s up and the sky is clear, so … let’s call it invigorating rather than chilly.”

  “All right.” She turned towards the fridge but he caught her arm.

  “I’ll do it, if you like,” he said. “I think I’d enjoy making breakfast for you.”

  “Fine.” She smiled and went through the old house to the front. It was the back, really, but facing the river like that, it always seemed to her to be “the front.”

  As she opened large patio windows where they overlooked the high-walled garden, the first thing she noticed was the gate under its stone archway, hanging ajar on rusting scroll hinges. And she rembered hearing it creaking just as dawn was breaking. A puff of wind, maybe, though she couldn’t remember the night as being especially breezy.

  She walked down across the crazy-paving patio with its weathered garden furniture. The garden was a sun trap, seeming to gather all of the early-morning May sunlight right into itself. Already the wall of the house was warm, basking in the glow. It wouldn’t at all be a bad place to live, she thought, if Harry would only get it fixed up.

  He had, in fact, done a little work on the house and grounds in the last four or five years. He’d had the central heating put in, for one thing, and had at least made an effort to sort out the garden. She crossed the patio to the lawn and made her way down the gravel path which divided it centrally. The grass was longer than it should be but still manageable, barely. At the bottom of the lawned area the garden had been terraced on one side, with a shallow dry-stone wall holding back the soil. This was the alleged “vegetable garden,” though the only vegetation here now consisted of large areas of stinging nettles, brambles run wild, and a huge patch of rhubarb!

  She saw that several of the stones were missing from the top tier of the wall, and at once remembered the grating sounds she’d heard when she lay half-asleep. If a section of the wall had simply fallen, perhaps pushed over by an expansion of dew- or rain-sodden soil, then its debris would be lying here at the foot of the wall. But there was nothing, just a missing top tier; and for her life she couldn’t see someone sneaking in here just to steal stones! Perhaps Harry would know something about it.

  She carried on down to the gate and looked out across the reedy bank to the river, whose surface was inches deep in undulating mist. It was a calm scene but very eerie: the mist lying there like cream on milk, turning the river to a twining white ribbon for as far as the eye could see. She’d never seen anything quite like it before. But maybe it augured well for a warm day.

  Then, closing the gate and wedging it with a half brick, she paused and sniffed at the morning air. Just for a moment then she had thought to smell something … gone off? Yes, gone entirely off, in fact. But just as quickly the smell had disappeared. So maybe that was what last night’s snuffling and shuffling had been about: local nocturnal creatures sniffing at the body of some poor dead thing or other where it lay in the reeds there at the river’s rim. Which might also explain the maggots squirming in a tangle on the overgrown path just outside the gate!

  Maggots! Ugh! Loathsome things!

  And there were robins on the high garden wall, too, watching her and the maggots both—speculatively, she thought. If she went away, the redbreasts would likely make short work of the horrid things. Bon appétit! She wasn’t a bit envious.

  And then, frowning, turning back from the gate and looking up the path towards the house, at last she saw where the stones from the wall had gone. Obviously it had been Harry’s doing after all. He’d been laying them out as stepping-stones on the gentle slope of the lawned area. And on some whim or other, he’d caused them to form letters.

  Before she could connect the letters up to see if they had any meaning, Harry appeared at the patio windows with a steaming jug of coffee, cups, milk, and sugar on a tray. “Breakfast in five minutes,” he called down to her. “By the time you’ve poured I’ll be back with the eats.” And so she forgot the business with the stones and went back up the path to where he’d left the coffee on the garden table.

  But halfway through breakfast she remembered and asked, “What’s this thing with the stones?”

  “Hmm?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Stones?”

  “In the garden, on the lawn.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, nodding, “there are stones surrounding the lawn. What about it?”

  “No,” she insisted, “on the lawn! Stones forming letters.” She smiled and teased, “What is this, Harry? Are you sending secret messages to the jumbo pilots flying into Edinburgh airport or something?”

  “On the lawn?” He paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “Messages to the … ?” He put his fork down and, frowning now, asked, “Where on the lawn?”

  “Why, just there!” She pointed. “Go and see for yourself.”

  He did, and she could see from the expression on his face that he knew nothing about it. She got up and joined him there, and together they stared at the peculiar stony legend. It was simple enough, looked unfinished, made no sense whatsoever:

  And: “Messages?” Harry said again, thoughtfully, almost to himself. For a moment longer he stared, then nervously licked his lips and glanced quickly all around the garden, peering intently here and there. Sandra wondered what he was looking for. He was suddenly quiet, very pale again, obviously seriously concerned about something.

  “Harry?” she said. “Is there something … ?”

  He sensed more than heard her worried tone of voice. “Eh?” He looked at her. “No, nothing. Some kids must have been in. So they moved a few stones around—so what?” He laughed, but there was no life in it.

  “Harry,” she began again, “I—”

  “Anyway, you were right.” He abruptly cut her short. “It’s too damned cold out here! Let’s get inside.”

  But as they gathered up the breakfast things she saw him sniff at the air, saw fresh lines of concern, of realisation—even of understanding?—gather on his brow.

  “Something dead,” she said, and he actually started.

  “What?”

  “In the reeds, down by the river. Some dead thing. There are maggots on the path. The birds are eating them.” Her words were innocent enough in themselves, but now Harry looked positively haggard.

  “Eating them …” he repeated her. And now he couldn’t wait to be out of the garden and into the house.

  She took the breakfast things from him and carried them through to the kitchen, then returned to his study. He was pacing the floor, pausing every now and then to look out of the patio windows and into the garden. But as she entered he came to some decision or other and tried to adopt a less hagridden look. “So what’s your schedule for today?” he enquired. “Will you be drawing? What have you got on the board right now, eh?”

  Just a few words but they told her a lot.

  Sandra was a fashion designer—ostensibly. In fact she did design fashionable women’s clothes and had enjoyed several small successes, but mainly it was a front for her work within E-Branch. Last night she had told Harry that she wasn’t doing anything today. She had thought they might spend it together. But now, for reasons of his own, he obviously wanted her out of here. “You want me to go?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “Sandra.” He gave up his weak attempt at subterfuge, sighed, and looked away. “I need to be alone to do some thinking. Can you understand that?”

  “And I’ll be in the way? Yes, I can understand
that.” But her tone said she couldn’t. And before he could answer: “Harry, this thing about the stones in the garden. I—”

  “Look,” he grated, “I don’t know about the stones! For all I know they’re only a small part … of … of … oh, whatever!”

  “Part of what, Harry?” Surely he must hear how concerned she was?

  But it seemed he didn’t. “I don’t know.” His voice was still harsh. He shook his head, then shot her an enquiring, almost vindictive glance. “Maybe I should ask you, eh? I mean, maybe it’s possible you know more about what’s going on here than I do, right?”

  She made no answer but began to collect up her things. When this—whatever it was—had blown over, then there’d be time enough to try to explain about her connections with E-Branch. And it would be a good time, too, to quit the branch entirely and make a clean start. With Harry, if he’d have her.

  He threw some clothes on and was waiting for her in the car when she was ready. They drove along the service road from the old houses, crossed the stone bridge, and joined the major road into Bonnyrig. From the village she could get a bus into Edinburgh. She’d done it before and it was no great chore.

  She hadn’t meant to speak to him again right now, but getting out of the car she found herself saying, “Will I see you tonight? Should I come up here?”

  “No.” He shook his head. And as she turned away: “Sandra!” She looked back into his pale, troubled face. But he could only shrug helplessly and say, “I don’t know. I mean I really don’t.”

  “Will you call me?”

  “Yes.” He nodded, and even managed a smile. “And Sandra … it’s okay. I mean, I know you’re okay.”

  That took a big lead weight off her heart. Something only Harry Keogh could do as easily as that. “Yes.” She leaned down and kissed him through the open car window. “We’re okay, Harry. I know we’re okay.”