‘Uaaah!’ The final exclamation wasn’t quite a snarl – and it was answered a moment later by a cry almost of agony!
The Necroscope stepped back as swirling purple smoke filled the cellar, stinging his eyes. It gouted, mushroomed, spilled from or was residue of the chemical materia. It was the very essence of jinni: its massive volume spilling from such a small source. And staggering forward out of it, crying out the pain of his rebirth, came the naked figure of Trevor Jordan. But the Necroscope was ready, in case this birth must be aborted.
For a moment Harry could see very little in the swirl of chemical smoke, and for another only a glimpse: a wild, staring eye, a twisted, gaping mouth, head only partly visible. Only partly there?
Jordan’s arms were reaching for Harry, his hands shuddering, almost vibrating. His legs gave way and he fell to one knee. Harry felt the chill of absolute horror and the words of devolution sprang into his mind, were ready on his desiccated lips. Then –
– The smoke cleared and it was . . . Trevor Jordan kneeling there.
Perfect!
Harry sank to his knees and embraced him, both of them crying like children . . .
Then it was Penny’s turn. She, too, thought she was dreaming, couldn’t believe what the Necroscope told her with his deadspeak. But it was one dream from which he soon awakened her.
She fell into his arms crying, and he carried her up out of the cellar to his bedroom, laid her between the sheets and told her to try to sleep. All useless: there was a maniac in the house, running wild, laughing and crying at the same time. Trevor Jordan came and went, slamming doors, rushing here and there – pausing to touch himself, to touch Harry, Penny – and then laughing again. Laughing like crazy, like mad. Mad to be alive!
Penny, too, once the truth sank in, once she believed. And for an hour, two hours, it was bedlam. Stay in bed? She dressed herself in Harry’s pyjamas and one of his shirts, and . . . danced! She pirouetted, waltzed, jived; Harry was glad he had no neighbours.
Eventually they wore themselves out, almost wore the Necroscope out, too.
He made plenty of coffee for them. They were thirsty; they were hungry; they invaded his kitchen. They ate … everything! Now and then Jordan would leap to his feet, hug Harry until he thought his ribs must crack, rush into the garden and feel the sunshine, and rush back again. And Penny would burst into a fresh bout of tears and kiss him. It made him feel good. And it disturbed him. Even now their emotions were no match for his.
Then it was afternoon, and Harry said: ‘Penny, I think you can go home now.’
He had told her what she must say: how it couldn’t have been her body the police found but someone who looked a lot like her. How she had suffered amnesia or something and didn’t know where she’d been until she found herself in her own street in her own North Yorkshire village. That was all, no elaboration. And no mention, not even a whisper, of Harry Keogh, Necroscope.
He made a note of her sizes, Möbius-tripped into Edinburgh and bought her clothes, waited while she frantically dressed herself. He had forgotten shoes: no matter, she’d go barefoot. She would go naked, if that were the only way!
He took her home – almost all the way, only breaking the jump for a final word of warning on the rolling moors – via the Möbius Continuum, which was something else for her not to believe in. And he cautioned her: ‘Penny, from now on things will be normal for you, and eventually you may even come to believe this story we’ve concocted for you. Better for you, me, everyone, if you do believe it. Most certainly better for me.’
‘But . . . I’ll see you again?’ (The realization of what she had found, and what she must lose. And for the first time the question: did she have the better of the bargain?)