Not out of fear but respect, and out of gratitude . . . yes, and if he was truthful out of fear, too. Harry was Harry and a vampire. In that respect, anyone who didn’t feel at least some trace of fear had to be an idiot.
The telepath had paid for a bed but couldn’t sleep. There was just too much on his mind. He was a man back from the dead and he couldn’t get used to it, probably never would. Not even a man who makes a full recovery from a desperate illness could feel like Jordan felt. For he had gone beyond illness – beyond life itself- and returned. And it was all down to Harry.
Unknown to Jordan, unknown even to Harry himself, was the fact that there was a lot more than that down to him. For the one thing Jordan hadn’t taken into account was that Harry had been in his mind: the Necroscope had touched upon his mind – ‘fingered’ it, however briefly -but enough that he’d left his prints there. And no way to erase them.
To E-Branch – certainly to the two espers who had followed Jordan on to the train, one a spotter and the other a telepath – those prints took the form of a reeking mental mist called mind-smog. Of course, they couldn’t probe too deeply, because Jordan was himself a quality telepath and he’d know it; indeed Gareth Scanlon, one of the two men who shadowed him, had once been Jordan’s pupil, brought on by him until his own talent had matured and taken shape. Jordan would know his mind (not to mention his face, his voice) immediately. Which was why the two kept well away from him, boarded a carriage far down the train, on the other side of the buffet car, and sat for the first part of their journey with their hats on, hiding behind newspapers which they’d already read four or five times.
But Jordan never once headed in their direction or sent a single thought their way; he was satisfied just to sit in his sleeper compartment, listen to the clatter of the wheels on the tracks, and watch the night world roll by beyond his window. And be glad he was once more a part of that world, without once pausing to wonder for how long.
As the train slowed down a little for a viaduct crossing between Alnwick and Morpeth, Scanlon sat up straighter in his seat and closed his eyes in sudden, half-fearful concentration. Someone was trying to get through to him. But the thoughts were sharp, clean and entirely human, with nothing of vampire mind-smog about them. It was Millicent Cleary at the HQ in London, from where she, the Minister Responsible and the E-Branch Duty Officer were co-ordinating and running the show.
She kept it short: Gareth? Do you have a Sitrep?
Scanlon relaxed his screen of static and gave a brief situation report, finishing: He’s in a sleeper, coming all the way into London.
Maybe not, she came back. It depends how things are going, but the Minister says we might pull the plug on all three of them very soon now.
What? Scanlon’s concern was obvious; also his horror, that at any moment he and his colleague might be called upon to kill a man – indeed, to kill a former friend.
Clearly picked that up. A former friend, yes, but now a vampire. And a moment later: The Minister wants to know, is there a problem?
There wasn’t, except: I mean, we are on a train, remember? We can’t very well burn him on the bloody train!
The train will be stopping in Darlington, and we already have agents there. So be ready for the word. You may have to get off the train there and take Trevor . . . er, Jordan, with you. That’s it for now. We’ll get back to you.
Scanlon passed the message on to his companion, the spotter Alan Kellway, who was one of the Branch’s more recent recruits. ‘I didn’t know Jordan all that well,’ Kellway answered, ‘and so have no problem that way. All I know is he was dead and now is alive – life of a sort -and that it isn’t natural. So we’ll only be restoring the natural order of things.’