Free Necroscope 9: The Lost Years by Brian Lumley

often been stated, the future is a most devious, difficult thing, and not much given to displaying itself to common curiosity. Even the Necroscope, the least common of men, could not be allowed to know or remember too much. And as is frequently the way of it with dreams, this one was already fading from the eye of memory. In a moment all that remained of it was the fear of it, whatever it had been. That and the cold sweat, and Harry’s tumbled bedclothes.
    And his sweet mother’s anxious query, sighing in his metaphysical mind across all the miles between: What is it, son?
    Harry stopped panting, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and told her, Nothing, Ma. Just a dream, that’s all.
    A nightmare.
    And: Well, she said after a little while, and isn’t it to be expected? (He could picture her troubled frown.) After all, you’ve known some strange times, Harry. Oh, yes, she was right there! And there were also times when the Necroscope’s Ma was the very master (or mistress) of understatement. But:
    Strange times, yes, Harry answered quietly, wryly.
    Then, in a moment, seeing her son was all right, she was lighter at heart. When will you come to see me, Harry? You’ve always a home here with me, you know. Her words might easily have chilled another man to the bone, but Harry felt only her warmth.
    Soon, I think, he told her. Pretty soon. But right now … He sighed and shivered a little, for the sweat of fear was beginning to dry on him. Oh, you know … there are problems.
    He sensed her nod of understanding. There always will be problems, Harry, among the living. And, as you know well enough, even among the dead! But whenever, I’ll be waiting here, knowing that soon you’ll be close tome …
    Her incorporeal voice faded slowly away.
    Problems among the living, and among the Great Majority. And all too often their problems were Harry’s. His nightmare had disappeared completely now, forgotten, sunk back into the depths of his subconscious mind … but however briefly, his mother’s words had struck a chord there.
    Problems among the living and the dead.
    And … the undead?
    II
    BUT WHERE IS HARRY KEOGH?
     
    ‘Er, Harry?’
    Darcy Clarke stuck his head round the door of the Necroscope’s E-Branch ‘suite’: a long, narrow room, realy, fited out like a smal hotel room for Harry’s convenience, until he could find the time and opportunity to look round for a place for himself and his family in London … if he could convince his wife to stay.
    Right now, though, the way it was going with Brenda and al, Clarke considered it a hel of a big if…
    In fact, in years gone by when this entire top-floor complex had belonged to the hotel below, Harry’s apartment had been one of the rooms. In front, it was simply an overnight bedroom some four or five paces square. At the rear, partitioned behind a sliding door, there was a wash-basin, a shower and WC. The floor space of the main room was occupied along one wal by a computer console with a swivel-chair and space beneath for the operator’s feet; it was of little or no use to the Necroscope, who had his own unique ways of solving problems. In a corner a wardrobe stood open. Some items of Harry’s clothing were hanging there; others lay folded on shelving to one side.
    Harry had been about to shave. He wore a towel round his waist and foam on his face, and was leaning over the wash-basin with a plastic shaver in his hand. And he looked just a little sick: pale and sick and tired. Well, Darcy thought, he’s looked pale ever since I’ve known him … ever since I’ve known him as Harry, anyway! Because of course that had only been for seventeen months; but he’d once known him a lot longer than that as someone else. It was that previous person whom Darcy was looking at now - on the outside, at least.
    Harry was only twenty-one, but his body (or Alec’s) was ten years older. The Necroscope’s hair was russet-brown, plentiful and naturally wavy; but even in the