Ahhhh! And that’s why you’re here. You want answers—from the teeming dead!
Knowing that she would sense his nod, Harry answered: “Yes, for as things stand right now the victims—the murdered man or men themselves—are probably the only ones who know the answers. If I knew how to find their poor dead bodies, I could perhaps ask them myself…or there again, perhaps not. For there are lots of places where even I can’t go, and the deep blue sea is only one of them. But I know that with the help of the Great Majority you will be able to discover their whereabouts so much faster and put me in touch with them no matter where they are!”
A terrible murder, or murders…she mused. Then went on:
But there are many murders, Harry; there always have been. What makes this one so important that you’ve decided to investigate it personally?
“Ma, I have no choice!” he replied. “I must investigate it, because it’s entirely possible the murderer could jeopardize my own talents and bring them into disrepute, even among the teeming dead! Also because I experienced something of it, and found it strange and monstrous…”
And then Harry told her all about it, everything in detail; for unlike his conversation with Darcy Clarke, there was little need for security or scrambler devices here.
When he was done his Ma assured him: You can leave it with me and the Great Majority, Harry. For if there’s anything to be learned you can be sure we’ll find the answers for you.
“I don’t for a moment doubt it,” said the Necroscope. “But right now, Ma, there are matters I can look into for myself. So if you’ll excuse me, I promise that from now on my visits shall be far more regular. And maybe next time our conversation won’t have to be so morbid…”
That afternoon, at around the same time as yesterday’s “incident”—more properly the unknown victim’s murder: his violent forced exit from his three-dimensional life and his subsequent death in the Möbius Continuum—Harry took a taxi into Princes Street to see if he could locate the actual scene-of-crime.
It was surprisingly simple; remembering how the Castle-on-the-Rock’s base had appeared from his time-stream viewpoint, he quickly positioned himself accordingly in a cobbled, dog-legged and generally unfrequented alley toward the northern extreme of the street.
There, in the shade of the wall with its Edinburgh Festival poster, Harry began to feel something of a psychic chill at the unpleasant fact that he was now standing on the very spot where a terrible, predetermined and completely unconventional killing had taken place.
Unaccustomedly dizzy and leaning against the brick wall to counter the sensation, the Necroscope shivered, hugging himself to stay warm—as if the chill on his soul was a physical thing rather than spiritual. And closing his eyes he waited for it to pass.
But unbidden behind his closed eyelids—entirely unsanctioned, yet nevertheless etched deep on the screen of his memory—he pictured once again the fat murderer’s face: that look of malignant satisfaction as those heavy features reddened, bloating into an unnatural, florid mask of evil!
For a single moment frozen, in the next Harry started massively when a hand fell on his arm!
Then as his eyes jerked open and the awful face was driven from his mind, a gruff but concerned voice inquired: “’Ere, are ye all right, ma friend? Leanin’ on the wall like that? Needin’ a wee fix, maybe? Or hae ye perhaps had too much a’ready?”
Recovering quickly from the shock, Harry shook the speaker off, straightened himself up and said, “What did you say? Do I need a fix?” But then, as understanding dawned he snapped: “No, I don’t need any kind of fix!”
The man stepped back at once and said, “Ah see the noo that ye dinnae. But them that normally gets taegether here, they usually do. So what are ye? The polis maybe?” And then, hurriedly: “Mind ye, ah’m no dealer ye ken! Just a concerned citizen.”
Now Harry inspected the other more closely. The man was in his middle years; weathered and unshaven, he wore badly scuffed shoes, faded jeans, and a patched jacket at least two sizes too small for his burly chest. But he appeared amicable enough, and his face was or had been open and friendly until the Necroscope had taken offence.
That could have been a mistake, and now Harry took a different tack. “I’m sorry but you startled me. And no—I’m not a policeman. I was simply resting, that’s all…a dizzy spell. Maybe I got too warm out on the street. But it’s cooler in the shade of this wall, and I was just taking it easy. I’m sorry if I snapped at you. You surprised me…” Well, Harry excused himself, at least the first and last parts of that statement were the truth.
Relieved, the other nodded. “So that’s all right, then. But this isnae a verra good place for a decent citizen tae rest, if ye take ma meanin’.” He nodded again, then made to turn away.
“Wait!” said Harry. And as the down-and-out paused he continued: “I was resting, that’s true—but I was also looking for an acquaintance of mine. I…well I promised to help him out. Perhaps you know him? I believe there’s a problem with his leg, and I can’t help feeling sorry for him. I met him on the street close to here just a day or two ago.”
“Oh, aye?” said the other, frowning thoughtfully. “And this yin ye’re on about, does he perhaps limp a wee bit, or maybe a lot? If so there’s more than a chance ah ken him.” And without pause he accurately described the murdered man.
“That’s him!” Harry nodded. “I didn’t enquire his name, but I was supposed to meet up with him yesterday at about this time. As it happened, I got tied up with something and wasn’t able to make it. Is it possible you know his name and whereabouts?”
“His name’s Angus,” the other replied. “Wee Angus, we call him. He limps by reason o’ the TB in the bones o’ his legs. He reckons he’s past helpin’, relies on drugs purely tae ease the pain. But that’s not the, er, prescribed medicines, ye ken. Wee Angus, he reckons doctor’s drugs are no good whatsayever.”
Harry did indeed ken; that this must be a meeting place for various categories of addicts. “TB?” he repeated the other. “He has Tuberculosis?”
“Aye, TB, the poor wee sod!” But then the informant’s eyes narrowed as once again he inquired: “The truth now: ye tell me ye’re no some kind o’ snoopin’ bobby in civilian clothin’, but can a man be sure o’ that?”
Fishing in his pocket for change, Harry replied, “I thought we were clear on that? No, I’m not a plainclothes bobby! I just like helping people out when they’re in trouble.” And he handed over a fistful of loose coins.
“Ah thank ye kindly,” said the other. “And ah wish ah could help ye find Wee Angus’ whereabouts, but ah dinnae ken the spot where he gets his head down.”
Which information, or its lack, made little or no difference to the Necroscope. The name “Wee Angus” might help in his Ma’s enquiries among the Great Majority; but knowing the dead man’s once address, or “the spot where he got his head down,” wasn’t important. There was, however, one more question that might be. And:
“One last thing,” said Harry. “I somehow got the impression that Wee Angus was frightened of something, apart from dying, I mean. It seems a shame to me that a man in his condition should have enemies.”
“Now that’s verra odd,” said the other, scratching his stubble, “and ah’m sure ye’re mistaken. Ye see, from the little ah do ken o’ Angus, the wee man hasnae a single enemy in the whole wide world. And certainly no in Edinburgh. Aye, and wi’ all his problems, well he surely doesnae need any! D’ye no agree…?”
About the same time, in Kirkaldy on the Scottish coast east of Dunfermline, ex-Professor Gordon J. Hemmings—once of Glasgow University, which he continued to claim as a cornerstone of his authority despite his expulsion from that worthy seat of learning—had delivered almost parrot-fashion his standard lecture on metaphysics, esoteric or paragnostic mathematics, and several allied topics to some two-dozen members of the Paranormal Society of Fife, Perthshire and Kinross. Whether they had understood him or not was academic;
each of them had paid a grudging ten pounds sterling to listen to his rhetoric, and the occasion had served to take him out of Edinburgh, distancing him however temporarily from the scene of his latest kill.
Not that he saw what he did as homicide; no, he was simply revitalizing, reinvigorating himself. Common or garden food as such was never enough, for he’d long since discovered that the proverbial staff-of-life, at least in his case, was the actual stuff of life: the lives of others. Oh, he enjoyed filling his belly as well as any man and far more than most; but there was only one real way to feast, to satisfy and energize his other, more darkly transcendent self.
As for his need to distance himself from such gluttony: it wasn’t guilt, though he was fully aware how the police and judicial authorities would react to his activities in the unlikely event that an enlightened individual might one day discover and accept the reality of his modus operandi and the esoteric means he used to be rid of the denuded remains of his deadly repasts; but even so there would be no one who could duplicate his methods or in any way offer proof of his involvement. Not unless he was actually observed feeding.
No, it wasn’t guilt but simple prudence. To indulge himself too frequently within the narrow perimeters of a single town or city: that would be foolhardy, despite the limitations of criminal investigations. Apart from which he enjoyed organizing his lecturing schedules, escaping from Edinburgh and taking himself off to various far-flung venues. None of the cretins who attended the lectures ever fully understood them—that was certain—but they did pay for the privilege, which afforded Hemmings a few small physical luxuries. In addition to which, and more importantly, during such trips he would often seize the opportunity to seek out prey, thus supplementing the grotesque requirements of vampiric nourishment…
Today’s lecture had been a midday occasion. Not the best of timings or venues, it had taken place in a disused cinema which now functioned as a bingo hall, normally only in use each evening. At the event’s conclusion Hemmings had answered the almost inevitable questions: on Pythagorian doctrines regarding mysticism and mathematics—particularly Pythagoras’ interpretation of the physical world through numbers, and his belief in transmigration—and the ex-Professor’s own thoughts on the connection between math, extrasensory perception, and PSI abilities in general.
Of the latter: his answers had never once served to explain in any detail his knowledge and use of such subjects; which was mainly, obviously, because he was not about to chance revealing to anyone—not even “cretins” who couldn’t possibly understand him—a single iota of everything he knew or had learned or was monstrously capable, but also because he could not have done so even if he’d wanted to. For despite an interminably frustrating series of mental trial-and-error mathematical experiments, Hemmings knew that he had not discovered and so was not capable of explaining everything, not even to himself. Not yet…
Now, a little over an hour since his lecture in the drafty Kirkaldy bingo hall, as he walked the promenade between the sea and the coastal road, Hemmings reflected on one of those questions concerning transmigration: the passing of the life-force—the immaterial so-called “soul”—from a person at the point of death to the physical form of some living other, possibly a newborn or even foetal child.
That the life-force (which was how Hemmings preferred to think of it) was no mere theory but a reality was hardly in any doubt; his own existence was proof positive of that. But he did wonder about its alleged continuation beyond the grave. Yes, it continued in him for a while, when extracted as provender from his prey; but as for those many millions of others who expired each year far beyond his reach: did they all find refuge, however unconscious and unenlightened, in the corporeal shapes of others? And were they then immortal?
But if so, without self-awareness, sentience, of what possible use were they? And in the case of the unfortunate few, the question of their continuation: immortal? Well not in Gordon J. Hemmings they weren’t! For just like their shrivelled cadavers, they too expired—and all too quickly!
That was disconcerting, worrying: the gradually increasing rapidity with which they melted away, leaving him hungry again—which in turn resulted in ever diminishing intervals between his need to once again partake of such psychic sustenance. For on the one hand, while he enjoyed to gorge himself in this way as and when it suited him, on the other—as a necessity over which he had no control but must avail himself—he sometimes found it irksome.
It all depended, he had discovered, upon the strength, the vitality of the individuals in question. For example, that most recent one in Edinburgh; there hadn’t been much to him! A crippled derelict, it was highly unlikely that he would be missed—which was one of the main reasons he’d been chosen—but at the same time, by reason of those same ailments and destitute circumstances, the life-force had been weak in him.
The ex-Professor knew that was so for a certainty; on exiting the old seafront hall on completion of his lecture and its subsequent question-and-answer session, he had paused to check out his appearance in a full-length mirror in the foyer. There in the glass had lain the proof of it: a face no longer ruddy, already turning pale and even somewhat jaundiced, despite that little more than twenty-four hours had passed since last he indulged himself; and in addition his “ample figure”—as he was inclined to consider his corpulence—which however improbably appeared less than “fully rounded,” so that his clothes seemed to hang on him far too loosely…though it was possible that he had imagined that last.
But in any case, and however that may be, best not to take chances…
Which was why he had chosen to walk the deserted promenade on a day when the sky was overcast and a damp, unseasonal wind came blustering in off the grey North Sea; so that he shivered and turned up the collar of his overcoat. There remained something less than an hour before he must board his train back to Edinburgh. He knew he could probably find some acceptable item of regular food in the train’s buffet car, until which time he could do without. But of course, that was regular food—
—And in fact the promenade was not entirely deserted…
Tiny stick figures at this distance, a couple walked hand in hand at the northern extreme of the esplanade, their raincoats blowing in the wind. Another couple sat in a parked car, unwilling to brave the weather. To the south, a young boy and his dog ignored the wind and played on the strand, dodging the waves where they foamed on a pebble beach.
But of humanity that appeared to be all, and the situation wasn’t at all to Hemmings’ liking. He had been in error to seek prey here; and now, perhaps exaggerated by frustration, an overactive imagination, his need was beginning to make itself felt, becoming ever more insistent.
Oh, he knew he could withstand it, for weeks and months at a time if absolutely necessary; but not for too long. He would not “starve,” as it were—could not, as far as he was aware, not that he had ever put it to the test—but like any addict he would suffer. Then as he felt his own life-force waning, he would lust yet more urgently after the essence of some other.
Hemmings’ thoughts went back to the first time:
That was about this time of year just two years ago, a few months before his “retirement” from a teaching position at the University. His father, Arthur Hamilton Hemmings—a mathematician before him—had been fighting abdominal cancer for some time. Toward the end, unwilling to submit to pointless intrusive surgery, he had left the hospital, hired a part-time nurse, and gone home to Dalkeith close to Edinburgh to die in a familiar, hopefully anodyne environment.
His only son, Professor Gordon J. Hemmings, had taken leave of absence from the University on compassionate grounds and had gone to Dalkeith to take over the nurse’s duties when she could not be there to look after the old man’s needs.
Now as an ex-Professor, the fat man remembered it well…
He had never enjoyed an easy relationship with his father; which was probably because his mother had died giving birth to him, an event from whi
ch the old man had never quite recovered. Hemmings recalled how, even as a child, he had sensed aversion if not actual animosity in his father.
Later, as he grew into a fat young boy, he had sensed that he was suffering some kind of silent, covert punishment in the way he was forever being tested; though not so much physically as mentally. By the time he was eight years of age the old man had taken to routinely setting him increasingly difficult mathematical problems to solve; indeed, these would have been hard enough even for a majority of numerically accomplished adults, let alone a child! But Hemmings was always up to the challenge and rarely failed to supply the correct answers.
Whether or not his ability pleased his father was difficult to assess; the elder Hemmings was never less than acerbic, even at the best of times; but one such time had always stood out in Gordon’s memory. It had been a warm weekend in the autumn, when he had spent many hours in his room on a particularly obstinate problem. On finally solving the complicated simultaneous equations, and having taken the answer to his father’s study, he believed he’d seen what could only be a look of surprise, perhaps even astonishment on the other’s face if only for a moment. And Arthur H. Hemmings’ words on that occasion were as fresh now in his grown son’s mind as if spoken only yesterday:
“Aye, and you’re the clever one for sure,” he had said, his eyes gazing deep into Gordon’s. “You’re my son without a doubt, with my head for numbers and your poor mother’s warm, fey eyes. But you’re a cold one, too. I can feel it in you—or rather, I feel very little in you—and intelligence alone isn’t enough, not in the company of strangeness.”
And without explaining the latter, he had gone on: “Perhaps as you grow your capacity for compassion will evolve along with your intellect.” (This from his chill and ever distant father!) “To your mother…well, numbers were a mystery, enigmatic. But she radiated warmth like a glowing hearth on a winter’s eve! As one with nature, she gave of herself, and all who knew her knew it! There was no weird magnetism in her, just the opposite.”