him something.
Yet they'd told him nothing. And he believed them; they simply didn't know. So where did that leave Harry? What chance did he stand? A very slim one, at best.
Yet there he'd been in Seattle, Washington, USA (why, he couldn't say), allegedly 'searching' for two people who were, or should be, very dear to him. And he wasn't even sure about that last part, either! Love Brenda? But she didn't love him, didn't even know the him he was now! And love the baby? What, little Harry, who knew more than he did about everything that made him what he was?
And yet Harry must search, if only to find out why they'd left him. No, not even that, for he knew why: because he wasn't him, and because the things he'd done - and others he might yet do - were dangerous. The baby loved his Ma, that was all, just as Harry loved his Ma. Except this baby wasn't about to let anything happen to Brenda.
And so back to that word: 'search.' Big joke! In England it had seemed to make sense. Close to Brenda's source, she had felt more real, she'd seemed feasible. Here she seemed impossible. So what it boiled down to was Harry wandering about in a strange body in a strange city in a strange land, praying he'd somehow collide with someone who was trying her best to avoid him! And she had a million other places in which to do it. And things were mainly a blur anyway, because he felt like hell...
Maybe if he hadn't run out of B.J. 's wine he would have stayed on even longer, doing nothing much. But it was starting to look like the wine wasn't the only thing that had him under its spell. B. J. herself kept coming back to mind: some beguiling thing about her, some promise he'd made, or she'd made. Or maybe some unspoken promise that he wished they'd made.
Harry wasn't too pleased with himself that he had stolen B.J. 's wine, but whatever else he did he knew (or hoped) that he wouldn't have to steal any more. With any luck it was out of his system now. And truth to tell his 'problem' - his, or Alec Kyle's alcoholism - had narrowed itself down, become specific. For it was now an established fact that the Necroscope couldn't or didn't want to drink any other kind of liquor. What was the point when it had little or no effect on him, except in massive doses? So maybe that was why he'd come home at this time: to be closer to B.J., and to her wine.
HeU of a note!
And what the hel kind of alcoholism was this anyway? Was it possible for a smoker to be addicted to just one brand? What if they stopped making it? After he'd finished his last pack of Brand X, what then? He'd never smoke again? The Necroscope had never heard of anything like it. And neither had his Ma.
Have it analysed, she told him. See what's in it. Maybe it has an antidote.
Harry was sitting on the river bank where he had materialized, his first port of call upon his return. It had been just after six a. m. in Seattle when he'd woken up, lifted his head, and looked at an empty bottle sitting there on a shelf at the side of his bookcase headboard. An empty bottle and an empty glass. And his first thought had been that he had used up the wine and there'd be none for tonight. That had been some twenty minutes, a wash, shave and a good stiff toothbrushing while he was still brave enough to put something in his mouth, ago - plus a minute or two to get dressed. While here in Scotland it was mid-afternoon. A decently warm spring day; the sun shining, birds singing and all ... and Harry feeling rotten.
'Mobius-lagged!' he grumbled, and at once bit his tongue. He shouldn't be talking about that stuff to anyone - or even thinking about it where the dead were concerned. Even his Ma. He'd have to learn to guard his thoughts about... about that sort of thing.
Nonsense! his Ma answered. But she was talking about his comment, not about his regretting it. You're not any kind of lagged! You're hung over, that's all.
He was glad to change the subject. 'Yes, probably. Except it doesn't go away.'
So do as I tell you! And anyway, if that's