After more drinks, it was Darcy’s turn. He told them what he knew, which wasn’t much, and finished up: ‘So Paxton must have reported how I sent you the files on those girls, Harry, which was sufficient to get me suspended. As for them coming after you: you know how the Branch works almost as well as I do. Of course they’ll be coming after you, sooner or later.’
Trevor said, ‘And me?’
‘No,’ Darcy told him, ‘because tomorrow first thing, I’ll go into town and put them in the picture. I could ‘phone the Minister Responsible right now, but at this hour he wouldn’t thank me for that. So I’ll go in and speak to everyone who is anyone in E-Branch, and make sure they fully understand what’s going on. It might do the trick and get them off Harry’s back for a while.’
‘I hope it gets them off my back,’ said the Necroscope, unemotionally. ‘I really do.’ And he took off his dark-lensed glasses and asked Darcy to dim the lights.
When E-Branch’s suspended boss saw Harry’s face in the darkened room, he quietly said, ‘Harry, I hope so too … for their sake, every last one of them!’
Harry supposed that Darcy was genuine, supposed he was one of only a very few men in the entire world whom he could trust; but the Necroscope’s vampire weirdness was strong in him now, and looking at Darcy Clarke he saw a man who was half-friend and half-enemy. Harry couldn’t read the future, not with any certainty – and in any case he knew that prognostication was a dangerous game, fraught with paradoxes – but he could make a damn good guess at what was coming. If he had to stay here in this world longer than he’d planned, if this task he’d set himself took longer than just a few more days, then it could well be that Darcy would be obliged to join the other team. Darcy was an expert, and as Harry’s metamorphosis progressed the Branch would need all the expert help it could get. Eventually, one way or another, even Darcy would turn against him. He’d have no choice: sooner or later the plague carrier would have to be destroyed. It was as simple as that.
‘Darcy,’ Harry said, as he turned the lights up again, ‘if we ever did come up against one another, why, you’d be just about the only one who could stop me! For which reason I’m half afraid of you. You know I’m a telepath now? Well, I am. And I wonder: would it bother you if I took a closer look into your mind?’
Darcy’s talent sensed no danger. Of course not, for Harry intended him no harm. What he did intend was to take out a sort of insurance policy, one which could be cancelled later, when the danger was past. No harm at all to Darcy Clarke the man, only to his talent itself. For that was what the Necroscope feared: to come up against Clarke knowing he couldn’t win, that the deflector’s guardian angel would protect him. But with his talent taken away from him, Clarke would be impotent. At least for what remained of Harry’s term here. Afterwards . . . he would give it back to him.
‘Look into my mind?’ Darcy repeated him.
‘With your permission,’ Harry nodded. ‘But it has to be of your own free will.’
Darcy read nothing into the Necroscope’s words. ‘But can’t you read my mind, just like Trevor here?’
This is different,’ said Harry. ‘For this you need to invite me in, as if your mind was a door which you were opening for me.’
‘Anything you say.’ Darcy shrugged; and his eyes met the other’s and locked on them, and in another moment Harry was into his mind.
The mechanism Harry sought wasn’t difficult to find, and he saw at once that it was a freak, a mutation. It was Clarke’s unique talent, which all of his life had protected him from external dangers but was impotent to save itself from the internal danger which was Harry Keogh. And even if it could save itself it did nothing, because Harry meant no harm.