Peter’s father was a tall, thin, callused man, but a kind one. ‘The boy told us he thought Paddy must be dead,’ he said, pouring Harry a liberal whisky, after Peter and his pup had disappeared for the night. ‘Broken bones, blood and brains from his ear, a spine all out of joint – it had us worried. He loves that pup.’
‘It looked a lot worse than it was,’ Harry answered. ‘The pup was unconscious, which made his limbs flop; there was some blood from a few scratches, and that always looks bad; and he’d coughed up some slaver. Shock, mostly.’
‘And his shoulders?’ The other raised an eyebrow. ‘Peter said they weren’t working, that they were definitely broken.’
‘Dislocated.’ Harry nodded. ‘Once we fixed that everything else came right.’
‘We’re grateful to you.’
That’s OK.’
‘What do we owe you?’
‘Nothing.’
That’s very kind of you . . .’
‘I just wanted to be sure that Paddy was the same dog,’ said the Necroscope. ‘I mean, that the bump he took hadn’t changed his personality. Did he seem the same to you?’
There came a yelp and a bark, and laughter from Peter’s bedroom.
‘Playing.’ The boy’s mother nodded, and smiled under-standingly. They shouldn’t be, but tonight’s special. Oh, yes, Mr . . .?’
‘Keogh,’ said Harry.
‘Oh, yes, Paddy’s just the same.’
Peter’s father saw Harry to the garden gate, thanked him again and said goodnight. When he went back inside his wife said: ‘What an uncommonly decent, nice person. His eyes, so soulful!’
‘Hmm?’ Her husband was thoughtful.
‘Didn’t you think so?’
‘Oh, aye, certainly. But – ‘
‘But? Didn’t you like him, then? Is there something you can’t trust in a man who won’t accept payment for a job well done?’
‘No, no, it’s not that! But, his eyes . . .’
‘Soulful, weren’t they?’
‘Were they? Down at the garden gate, in the darkness, when he looked at me -‘
‘Yes?’
But: ‘Nothing,’ said Peter’s father, shaking his head. ‘A trick of the light, that’s all . . .’
Back home Harry felt good. Better than at any time since Greece, when he’d got his deadspeak and numeracy back. Maybe he could feel even better, and cause others to feel better, too.
In his study he sat in an easy chair and talked to an urn where it stood shadowed in one corner of the room. Or it would appear that he talked to an urn, but urns don’t talk back: Trevor, you were a telepath and a good one. Which means that you still are. So I know that even when I don’t speak to you, still you’re listening to me. You listen to my thoughts. So … you know what I did tonight, right?’
I can’t help what I am, Harry, Trevor Jordan answered, his deadspeak voice ‘breathless’ with excitement. No more than you can. Yes, I know what you did – and what you’re planning to do. I can’t believe it yet, and don’t suppose 1 will for quite some little time after it has happened, if it happens. It’s like a wonderful dream that I don’t want to wake up from. Except there’s a chance it will be even more wonderful when I do wake up. There was no hope, none, and now there is . . .
‘But surely you knew my intention all along?’
Knowing what someone wants to do doesn’t make them capable of doing it, the other answered. But now, after the dog. . .
Harry nodded. ‘But a dog’s a dog, and a man’s a man. We still can’t be sure until . . . we’re sure.’
Do I have anything to lose?
‘I suppose not.’
Harry, any time you’re ready, then so am I. Boy, am I ready!
Trevor, just a second ago you said you can’t help being what you are any more than I can. Did that mean more than it sounded? You must have read quite a lot, in my mind.’
And after a long pause: I won’t lie to you, Harry. I know what’s happened to you, what you’re becoming. You don’t know how sorry 1 am.
‘Pretty soon,’ said the Necroscope, ‘the whole damn rat pack will be after me.’