There were only a few people on the platform and fewer in the compartment where Gormley picked up a discarded copy of the Daily Mail to keep him company during the journey. He found it mildly alarming that the headlines seemed completely alien to him. Was he really that much out of touch? Yes, he probably was! His work had been putting a lot of strain on him and taking up far
too much of his time; this was the third night in a row he’d worked late; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really read a book right through or entertained friends. Maybe Kyle was right to be concerned about him – and on a purely personal level at that – not from the point of view of an ESPer. Maybe it was time he took a break and left his second in command to mind the shop. God only knew he would have to sooner or later. And he made himself a promise that he would take a break . . . just as soon as he’d initiated young Harry Keogh into the fold.
Keogh . . .
Gormley had given a lot of thought to Keogh, had considered some of the ways his talent might be put to use. Fantastic ways. All in the mind for now, but fascinating anyway. He would have started to go over them again, but just as it crossed his mind to do so the train pulled into St James’s and Gormley found himself distracted by an incredibly pretty pair of legs in a tiny skirt that passed directly in front of his eyes and out of the twin doors. It was a wonder the lovely creature didn’t freeze to death, he thought – and wouldn’t that be a loss!
Gormley grinned at his own thoughts. His wife, God bless her, was always complaining he had an eye for the girls. Well, his heart might be tricky but the rest of him seemed to be in working order. An eye wouldn’t be all he had for that young lady, if he were thirty years younger!
He coughed loudly, returned to his newspaper and tried to get himself reacquainted with the world. A brave effort but he lost interest half-way down the second column. It was pretty mundane stuff, after all, compared with his world. A world of fortune-tellers, telepaths, and now a necroscope.
Harry Keogh again.
There was a game Gormley played with Kyle. It was a
word-association game. Sometimes it startled Kyle’s future-oriented mind into action, opening a window for him. A window on tomorrow. Normally Kyle’s talent worked independent of conscious thought; he usually ‘dreamed’ his predictions; if he consciously tried for results they wouldn’t come. But if you could catch him unawares . . .
They had played their game just a few days ago. Gormley had had Keogh on his mind and had wandered into Kyle’s office. And seeing the ESPer sitting there he’d smiled and said: ‘Game?’
Kyle had understood. ‘Go right ahead.’
‘It’s a name,’ Gormley had warned, to which Kyle had nodded his head.
‘I’m ready,’ he’d said, sitting up and putting down whatever he was working on.
Gormley paced a while, then turned quickly and faced the other where he sat at his desk. ‘Harry Keogh!’ he had snapped then.
‘Mobius!’ answered Kyle at once.
‘Maths?’ Gormley frowned.
‘Space-time!’ Now Kyle went white, scared-looking, and Gormley had known they’d got something. He gave it one last shot:
‘Necroscope!’
‘Necromancer!’ the other shot back at once.
‘What? Necromancer?’ Gormley had repeated. But Kyle was still working.
‘Vampire!’ he’d shouted then, starting to his feet. Then he was swaying, trembling, shaking his head, saying, ‘That . . . that’s enough, sir. Whatever it was, it … it’s gone now.’
And that had been that. . .
Gormley came back to the present.
He looked up and found they’d passed through Victoria and that the train was almost empty. Already they were
mid-way to Sloane Square. And that was when he began to feel a strange depression settling over him.
He felt that there was something wrong but he couldn’t just put his finger on it. It might simply be the train’s emptiness (which even at this hour was a rare enough occurrence in itself) and that he missed the bustle of life and contact with other human beings, but he didn’t think so. Then, as the train pulled into the station he knew what it was: it was his talent working.