imparted would sink in, stay there and not get misrepresented. For he was a strange one, this Harry
Keogh, and B.J. couldn't afford any more episodes or mistakes like the telephone farce.
And on that subject, after she had relaxed a fraction and flowed back into human form:
'Harry, about your telephone. Why change the number? What was that all about?'
He stared unblinking into her eyes, feral now in the dark blot of her head, where it was silhouetted against the glowing halo of his reading-lamp across the room. 'I was scared of it,' he croaked from a bone-dry throat.
She said: 'Salivate, moisten your throat, feel well, and talk normally. But remain asleep, and hear and obey.'
'Of course,' he answered after a moment, when the knob of his throat had stopped bobbing.
'But why were you frightened of the 'phone?'
He shrugged (because hypnotized or not, he really didn't know). But he could guess. 'Bad dreams, maybe? I don't want to hear anything bad about Brenda and the baby ...'
B.J. could understand and accept that. But it couldn't be allowed to go on; she must have contact with him. 'Get an answering machine,' she said. 'If you start to hear something that you don't like, you can switch it off. Or you can monitor your calls, and simply cut them off as and when it suits you.'
'Good!' Harry nodded.
'But of course you won't switch off when it's me on the line, because our little rule still applies. You'll hear - '
' - Is that mah wee man?' Harry cut in, talking normally.
'And you'll see - '
' - The moon, your eyes - '
' - And a wolfs head in silhouette, yes.'
'Radu's head,' he nodded.
'Indeed.' B.J. was pleased. 'But now we really must talk about this search of yours - for Brenda and the baby, I mean.' But that wasn't what she meant at all; in fact she didn't even want him to find them. He needed a new direction, that was all, to which his
'search' would be peripheral. His conscious purpose would seem the same to him, but subconsciously ...?•
'Also, you're not as fit as you should be. We have to get you in shape.'
'I've been intending to,' Harry answered.
'And I have a sneaking suspicion that you've been having a hard time of it with alcohol?',
A frown at once etched itself deep into Harry's forehead. 'Alcohol? Well, not so much booze in general as that damned red wine of yours! It seemed to have ... something for me?'
'Something for you?' B.J. shook her head. 'Not any more, Harry. As MANSE AND MONASTERY: AERIES!
of now it's something you can do without. From this moment on you don't need it; indeed, the very thought of it is enough to make you feel sick! Is that understood?'
'Oh, yes!' Harry breathed his relief - but a moment later his face turned pale, his stomach lurched and he belched.
'It's okay now. Put it out of your mind and you'll be just fine.' She had to smile as he sighed and snuggled closer to her warmth, her 'safety'. 'And after we've talked over these other things - your search and what-all - then we'll be able to get some sleep.'
'Afterwards, yes,' said Harry, and she felt the need building in him, beginning to swel against her thigh.
She might have laughed - in surprise, delight, whatever - but knew it would only sap her concentration. And with him she needed all the concentration she could muster. With him, yes.
With this oh-so-mysterious Harry Keogh ...
BONNIEJEAN: BIRTHDAY PARTY.
PART FIVE:
I
BONNIEJEAN: BIRTHDAY PARTY.
HARRY: GETTING IN SHAPE, AND
FUNDING HIS SEARCH.
In the morning, B.J. was up first. It was a few minutes after six, and the light still burgeoning from the east. In the garden the birds had been twitering for some time: enough noise to wake the Necroscope up, albeit gradualy.
He came awake knowing that it was going to be hel again, and was pleasantly surprised, or more properly relieved beyond measure, to find that it wasn't. No headache, no fluff in his head where his brains used to be, no sore throat, and no great urge to drink ... anything! Except maybe a mug or two of black coffee. At which he remembered that both his pantry and fridge were empty.
B.J. was upstairs; he could hear the shower. He dressed quickly, made a Mobius jump into town, the local newsagent's, which doubled as a grocery-cum-post office, and just three or four minutes later was unloading stuff into the fridge; which, as B.J. came down and