The next morning Paxton was back.
His presence turned Harry’s mood sour in a moment, but he promised himself that later he would turn the tables and take a look inside Paxton’s mind for a change. He relished the thought of that. But first he would go and see his Ma and find out if she had anything for him.
The sky was overcast and he stood on the bank of the river with his coat collar turned up against a thin but penetrating, persistent drizzle. ‘Any success, Ma?’
Harry? Is that you, son? Her deadspeak was so thin, so far-off sounding, that for a moment the Necroscope thought it was simply background ‘static’, the whispers of the teeming dead conversing in their graves.
‘It’s me, Ma, yes. But . . . you’re awfully faint.’
I know, son, she answered from afar. Just like you, I don’t have a lot of time now. Not here, anyway. It’s all fading now, everything . . . Did you want something, Harry?
She seemed very weary and wandering. ‘Ma,’ (he was patient with her, just like in the old days), ‘since I’ve been having some difficulty with the dead, we’d decided that you would help me out and see if they’d be a bit more forthcoming with you . . . about those poor murdered girls, I mean. You said I should give you a little time, then come and see you again. So here I am. I still need that information, Ma.’
Murdered girls? She repeated him, however vaguely. But then Harry sensed the sudden focusing of her attention as her deadspeak sounded sharper in his unique mind. Of course, those poor murdered girls! Those innocents. Except. . . well, they weren’t all innocents, Harry.
‘In my book they were, Ma. For my purposes, they were. But tell me, what do you mean?’
Well, most of them wouldn’t speak to me, she answered. It seemed they’d been warned off, warned about you. When it comes to vampires, the dead aren’t very forgiving, Harry. The one who would speak to me, she’d been one of the first of his victims – whoever he is – but by no means an innocent. She was a prostitute, son, foul-mouthed and foul-minded. But she was willing to talk about it and said she wouldn’t mind talking to you. In fact, she said more than that.
‘Oh?’
Yes, she said that it would make a nice change to just . . . to just talk to a man! Harry’s Ma tut-tutted. And so young, so very young.
‘Ma,’ said Harry, ‘I’m going to go and see that one -soon. But you’re getting so faint that I don’t know if we’ll ever get to talk again. So I just thought I’d tell you right now that you’ve been the best mother anyone could ever have, and. . .’
– And you’ve been the best son, Harry, she cut him off. But listen, don’t you cry for me. And I promise I won’t cry for you. I lived a good life, son, and despite a cruel death I’ve not been too unhappy in my grave. You were responsible for what happiness I found, Harry, just as you’ve been for so much of what passes for happiness in this place. That the dead no longer trust you . . . well, that’s their loss.
He blew her a kiss. ‘I missed a lot when you were taken from me. But of course, you missed a lot more. I hope there is a place beyond death, Ma, and that you make it there.’
Harry, there’s something else. She was fading very quickly now, so that he must give her all of his attention or lose her deadspeak entirely. About August Ferdinand.
‘August Ferdi – ? About Möbius?’ Harry remembered his last conversation with the great mathematician. ‘Ah!’ He chewed his lip. ‘Well, it could be that I insulted Möbius, Ma . . . inadvertently, you understand? I mean, I wasn’t quite myself that time.’
He said you weren’t, son, and that he wouldn’t be speaking with you again.
‘Oh,’ said Harry, a little crestfallen. Möbius had been one of his very best and closest friends. ‘I see.’