‘You know everything about me?’ Harry wasn’t sun he liked the sound of that. ‘Well that won’t come to much. There’s not a lot to know.’
‘Oh, I disagree with you,’ said the other. ‘You’re far too modest.’
Now, in the brighter light from the windows, Keogh looked at his visitor more closely. His age could be anything between fifty and sixty, but probably at the top end; his green eyes were a little muddied and his skin full of small wrinkles; his well-groomed hair was grey on a large, high-domed head. About five-ten in height, his well-tailored jacket just failed to hide slightly rounded shoulders. Sir Keenan Gormley had seen better days, but Harry Keogh would think he had a way to go yet.
‘What do I call you?’ he said. It was the first time he’d spoken to a ‘Sir’.
‘Keenan will do, since we’re to be friends.’
‘You’re sure of that? That we’re to be friends, I mean? I must warn you I don’t make many.’
‘I don’t think we have any choice,’ Gormley smiled. ‘We have too much in common. Anyway, the way I hear it you have lots of friends.’
‘Then you’ve heard it wrong,’ Harry frowned, shook his head. ‘I can count my real friends on one hand.’
Gormley believed he might as well get straight to the point. And anyway, he wanted to see Keogh’s reaction if he was caught off balance. It might just provide the final ounce of proof. ‘Those are the live ones,’ he quietly answered, easing the smile gradually off his face. ‘But I think the others are rather more numerous . . .’
It hit Harry like a grenade. He’d often wondered how he would feel if anyone should ever confront him like this, and now he knew. He felt ill.
He reeled, found a rickety easy chair, sank down into it. Pale as death he shivered, gulped, gazed at Gormley
through the eyes of a cornered animal. ‘I don’t know what you’re – ‘ he finally began to croak his denial, only to have Gormley cut him off with:
‘Yes you do, Harry! You know very well what I’m talking about. You’re a necroscope. And you’re probably the only real necroscope in the entire world!’
‘You have to be crazy!’ Harry gasped desperately. ‘Coming in here and accusing me of … of things. A necroscope? There’s no such thing. Everyone knows you can’t. . . can’t. . .’ Trapped, he faltered to a halt.
‘Can’t what, Harry? Talk to the dead? But you can, can’t you?’
Clammy sweat broke out on Harry’s forehead. He gasped for air. He was caught and he knew it. Trapped like a ghoul with a dripping heart in his hands, like a rapist in the beam of a policeman’s torch, gasping between his battered victim’s thighs. It hadn’t felt like a crime before – he’d never hurt anyone – but now . . .’
Gormley stepped forward, took his shoulders, shook him where he sat. ‘Snap out of it, man! You look like a grubby little boy caught masturbating. You’re not sick, Harry – this thing you do isn’t an illness – it’s a talent!’
‘It’s a secret thing,’ he protested weakly, his face shining. ‘I … I don’t hurt them, I wouldn’t do that. Without me, who would they have to talk to? They’re so lonely!’ He was almost babbling now, convinced that he was in deep trouble and trying to talk his way out. The last thing Gormley wanted was to alienate him.
‘It’s okay, son, it’s okay. Take it easy – no one’s accusing you of anything.’
‘But it’s a secret thing!’ Harry insisted, gritting his teeth, growing angry now. ‘Or at least it was. But now, if people know about it -‘
‘They won’t get to know.’
‘You know!’
‘It’s my business to know these things. Son, I keep telling you: you’re not in trouble. Not with me.’
He was so persuasive, so quiet. Was he a friend, a real friend, or was he something else? Harry couldn’t control his panic, the shock of knowing that someone else knew. His head whirled. Could he trust this man? Dared he trust anyone? And if Gormley meant the end of him as a necroscope, what of his revenge on Viktor Shukshin? Nothing must interfere with that!