he nodded his head. 'So be it...'
By 11:30 the Necroscope was cycling through wild and gorgeous country somewhere west of Edinburgh. He wore his track-suit; a pack on his shoulders contained a pair of decent climbing shoes and some spare items of clothing; he supposed B.J. would see to anything else. Himself: Harry had already seen to something and got himself some expert tuition; or he'd arranged access to it, at least.
Not wanting to make a total fool of himself in the hills, this morning he'd spoken to the dead in a Bonnyrig cemetery and got some leads. The man he had been looking for was in a graveyard in Dalkeith. Harry had gone there along the Mobius way and introduced himself in his fashion; when the excitement had died down, he'd explained his reason for being there. Now he felt a lot happier that he could look after himself on a cliff face.
The dead man he'd spoken to had been a climber of the old school. Not a mountaineer as such, no, but someone who had made himself something of a local legend in his lifetime, as a rock-climbing man without peer. No nylon ropes in they days, Necryscope, he'd told Harry. And I wouldn'ae be caught dead - ye'll excuse mah language - with hammer and piton in mah hand! Lord, no! All that cock wiz fer the so-called 'professionals.' Ah wiz no professional - but man, ah could monkey up a sheer slab o' a rock like a wee lizard! Lookin' back now, all eighty years and more - ah can't say, ah don't know - ah think it wiz the view pure and simple. Toe look doon on the world frae on high, frae a new place, ye ken, and ken that only the eagles had ever perched there afore a man? Ah, that wiz something!
'Will be again,' Harry had told him from his seat on the old lad's sarcophagus in the shade of a tree, breathing in the cool, calming quiet of the cemetery. 'You can see it all again, through my eyes; though I can't promise you the climb is going to excite you. I'm only a beginner. I don't suppose my guide will be letting me tackle anything too adventurous.'
A beginner, is it? Wel, ye're in good hands, be sure, I wouldn'ae dare let anything happen to ye! The dead man had assured him. Me. but ah traveled tae do mah climbing, Harry. Ben Nevis, the Peak District, North Wales, Derbyshire, the Dartmoor Tors, the Cornish and Pembrokeshire sea cliffs ... you name it! But a wee climb will be beter than none at al! Just gi' me a cal, and ah'l be there fer ye. And don't fret none ... ah'l no be letting ye down, Necryscope. No wi' a bump, anyhow!
'Good!' Harry told him. 'See, this lady I'll be climbing with is good at it. I don't want to be made to look, you know, stupid, that's all.'
Eh? A wee lassie, is it? Aye, well there were a few good ones in mah day, too. Ah mind one who ... oh, it's a long time ago. But she wiz the only one who ever beat me up a crag, ah'll tell ye that...!
And shortly it had been time to go.
It was only after the Necroscope had left that his new friend recalled the name of the girl from his time, eighty years ago, who had
'beaten him up a crag.' Then, he'd thought to call out after the Necroscope, but Harry's Ma had got to him first: Don't, she told him. My son ... is in trouble. But we have it under control. We think so, anyway. The thing is, if he were to hear that girl's name ... we really don't know what it would do to his mind. So let it be for now. There will be time later, if it comes to it...
The old climber had asked no questions. Like most of the Great Majority, he'd heard of Mary Keogh and knew her reputation; that whatever she did on Harry's behalf would be for the best. But he really couldn't understand her concern. Why, that young lassie he'd remembered, that Bonnie Jean Mirlu, would be a long time down in the ground herself by now! What, after all these long years? Of course she would.
But because Mary Keogh had spoken, these were thoughts he would keep to himself, always ...
The Necroscope had long since mastered the technique of vacating