‘Darcy,’ Harry said, taking hold of his arm, ‘listen, take it easy – but there’s someone with me.’
‘Someone with – ?’ Darcy started to say as Jordan stepped into view. He saw him and said, ‘Trevor . . .?’ Then he started violently and took a pace to the rear.
Harry, following him in, said: ‘It’s OK, it’s OK!’
‘Trevor!’ Clarke breathed, his eyes bulging in his suddenly pale face. ‘Trevor Jordan! Oh, my God! Oh, sweet Jesus!’
Harry wished people wouldn’t keep using these Names of Power so casually, but on this occasion he understood and made nothing of it.
Trevor Jordan pushed past Harry and took Clarke’s other arm; Clarke at once strained back and away from both of them. But again it was a ‘normal’ reaction, nothing to do with his talent. Jordan said, ‘Darcy, it really is me. And I’m OK.’
‘OK?’ Clarke’s mouth open and closed and the word came out like a croak. He tried again. ‘Really you? Yes, I can see that. But I know you’re dead. I was with you in that Rhodes hospital, remember, when you put a bullet in your brain!’
Harry said, ‘Can we go inside, sit down, talk?’
Talk?’ Clarke looked at him – at both of them – as if they were mad, or as if he was. But then he nodded. ‘Sure, why not? And then I might wake up!’
In the living room Clarke pointed to chairs, poured drinks like a robot, actually apologized for the untidiness and said he wasn’t quite settled in yet. And then he very carefully sat down and tossed back his large whisky in one . . . and at once sprang to his feet again and said, ‘So for fuck’s sake, talk! Convince me that I haven’t cracked!’
Harry calmed him down and very quickly explained everything – or almost everything – but without going into the fine details. And when he was through: ‘So we’ve come to see you to find out what’s going on, what it is that you and E-Branch are up to. Actually I’m pretty sure I already know. So I’m counting on you to keep them off my back until I get done with what I’m pledged to do.’
Finally Clarke closed his mouth and turned to stare hard at Jordan. Jordan, yes – looking exactly as Clarke had always known him – but still he took the other’s hand and squeezed it, and stared even harder just to be one hundred per cent sure. But in the end there was no way round it; this could only be Trevor Jordan. The telepath suffered Clarke’s astonished scrutiny and made no complaint as this old friend of so many years’ standing checked him out, checked every well-remembered line of his face and form.
Jordan’s face was fresh, oval and open, and with his fair, thinning hair falling forward over grey eyes, it would normally look boyish; except that now it was lined with worry and not a little astonishment of his own. His feelings were reflected in the line of his mouth: naturally crooked, it would tighten and straighten out if something was wrong. Which was how it looked now, straight and tight. Well, and Clarke could well understand that.
And Clarke thought: Good old easy-going Trevor! Transparent as a window, readable as an open book. Such has always been your guise, anyway. As if you’d like people to be able to read you as easily as you read them, like you were trying to compensate for your metaphysical talent, or even apologize for it. Trevor Jordan: sensitive but always determined, I never met the man who didn’t like you. And if there was such a one, why, you’d simply avoid him. And if you really are you, you’ll know exactly what I’m thinking.
Jordan grinned and said, ‘You missed out the handsome, rangy-limbed, athletic bit! But what’s this about “boyish”? Are you calling me a big kid, Darcy?’
Clarke sat back in his chair and touched his feverish brow with a trembling hand. He didn’t know which one of them to look at, Harry Keogh or Trevor Jordan. Finally he said, ‘What can I say? Except . . . welcome back, Trevor!’