‘But that’s wonderful, Harry!’ Gormley’s excitement was obvious. ‘When will you come down? There are so many people you must meet. We’ve so much to show you – and so much to do!’
‘But not just yet,’ Harry tried to put the brakes on. ‘I mean, I’ll come down soon. When I can . . .’
‘When you can?’ now Gormley sounded disappointed.
‘Soon,’ Harry said again. ‘As soon as I’ve finished . . . what I have to do.’
‘Very well,’ said the other, a little deflated, ‘that will have to do. But Harry – don’t leave it too long, will you?’
‘No, I won’t leave it too long.’ He put the phone down.
The phone was no sooner in its cradle than it rang again, even before Harry could turn away. He picked it up.
‘Harry?’ It was Brenda, her voice very small and quiet.
‘Brenda? Listen, love,’ he said before she could speak. ‘I think … I mean, I would like . . . what I’m trying to say is . . .oh, hell! Let’s get married!’
‘Oh, Harry!’ she sighed into her end, the sound and the feeling of her relief very close and immediate in his ear. ‘I’m so glad you said that before – before -‘
‘Let’s do it soon,’ he cut her short, trying hard not to choke on his words as once more he saw, in his mind’s eye, the legend on Brenda’s marker as it had appeared to him in his dream.
‘But that’s why I called you,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m glad you asked me. You see, Harry, it was looking like we were going to have to anyway . . .’
Which came as no surprise at all to Harry Keogh.
Chapter Twelve
It was mid-December, 1976. Following one of the longest, hottest summers on record, now Nature was trying to even up the score. Already it promised to be a severe winter.
Boris Dragosani and Max Batu were coming to England from a place far colder, however, and in any case climate had no part in their scheme of things. It was not a consideration. If anything the cold suited them: it matched precisely the emotionless iciness of their hearts, the sub-zero nature of their mission. Which was murder, pure and simple.
All through the flight, not too comfortable in the rather stiff, unyielding seats of the Aeroflot jet, Dragosani had sat and thought morbid thoughts: some of them angry and some fearful or at best apprehensive, but all uniformly morbid. The angry thoughts had concerned Gregor Borowitz, for sending him on this mission in the first place, and the fearful ones were about Thibor Ferenczy, the Thing in the ground.
Now lulled by the jet’s subdued but all-pervading engine noise, and by the hiss of its air-conditioning, he sank down a little farther into his seat and again turned over in his mind the details of his last visit to the cruciform hills . . .
He thought of Thibor’s story: of the symbiotic or lamprey-like nature of the true vampire, and he thought of his agony and his panic-flight before merciful oblivion had claimed him half-way down the wooded slope. That was where he had found himself upon regaining consciousness in the dawn light: sprawled under the trees at the edge of the overgrown fire-break. And yet again he had cut short a visit to his homeland, returning at once to Moscow and putting himself directly into the hands of the best doctor he could find. It had been a complete waste of time; it appeared he was perfectly healthy.
X-ray photographs disclosed nothing; blood and urine samples were one hundred per cent normal; blood-pressure, pulse and respiration were exactly what they should be. Was there any condition that Dragosani was aware of? There was not. Had he ever suffered from migraine or asthma? No. Then perhaps it had been the altitude. Had his sinuses been causing him any concern? No. Had he perhaps been overworking himself? Hardly that! Did he himself have any idea as to the source of the trouble? No.
Yes, but it didn’t bear thinking about and couldn’t be mentioned under any circumstances.