Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates: and Other Tales from the Lost Years by Brian Lumley
Authors: Brian Lumley
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felt the need to protect during dangerous times.
“And what better opportunity for the occasional young fellow to abscond, ‘presumed dead’—as often as not along with a special loved one—than during one of those German air-raids, eh? Oh, a terrible thing, to be blown to bits by a German bomb! And yes, people
did
get blown to bits and go missing in London! But here, in the north-east, the collieries? Why, you can count the casualties, meaning genuine,
proven
casualties, on one hand! Okay, Miller has his dossier of so-called ‘disappearances,’ but does he also have one for all the cases that the Redcaps had to deal with?”
“Redcaps?”
“The Military Police, Harry, who were stuck with the task of tracking down all the AWOLs and deserters. They worked hand in hand with local police authorities, and I’ve read plenty of their notes, reports, accounts in old ledgers. You want to know something? Up until seven or eight years ago—all those years later—men were
still
turning themselves in! Middle-aged fellows who ‘disappeared, presumed dead’ in 1942–’43, the middle of the war years. Sometimes they had wives, who ‘disappeared’ with them! As for how they got away with it for so long—well, who can say? They changed their names, kept moving from job to job, brought up families . . . you name it. But the point I’m making, the girls who ran off with these AWOLs or deserters under cover of German air-raids and/or in other circumstances: they weren’t killed by Miller’s bloody forest monster. They moved away, went underground, that’s all; they escaped from unhappy, unfortunate situations. Miller’s dossier and the ‘evidence’ that his lawyer produced: these things were just a bunch of red herrings thrown into the mix to confuse and deceive. . . .”
Listening to all this, remaining silent as he took it in, Harry found his faith in himself and his own beliefs beginning to falter; but he wasn’t about to give in. Eager to regain control, perhapstoo eager, and letting the words tumble from his mouth, he said, “Did you know that Miller has even traced similar cases back to Roman times?” But having blurted it out, he just as quickly realised how weak, even ridiculous, that statement must have sounded. And so:
“I mean . . .” He began again, more cautiously.
But Forester was slowly shaking his head, peering at the Necroscope curiously and with the suggestion of a wry, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, and now who’s crazy?” he said. “What’s all this, Harry? Another of Miller’s ‘dossiers’? What, Roman times? Now we really are scraping the bottom of the barrel!”
Harry sighed and said, “Well, while I suppose you’ll find it risable, I’ve seen documents dating back to the second century A.D. showing how a centurion put great swaths of Hazeldene to the torch, set it ablaze, to stop a ‘forest demon’ stealing away young women from a nearby hamlet—which would just have to be Harden, of course.”
“You know,” Forester replied, “it’s true I’m just another son of a miner, born and bred right here in the north-east, but if there’s one subject I was good at in school it would have to be history. And the Romans—for all their achievements in the arts, empire building, warfare, their structuring of social and governmental systems—still they were probably as superstitious a so-called civilised people as ever existed. They stocked their religious or supernatural pantheons and demonologies with stolen and borrowed gods and devils from almost every race they encountered, and having been ambushed by ‘foreign demons’—the barbaric tribes of the period—in every thicket and copse they bulldozed their way through in France, Germany, Belgium, indeed the whole of Europe . . . well, it hardly surprises me they credited the existence of monsters in Britannic woodlands too! What you should remember, Harry: in those days forests were
“And what better opportunity for the occasional young fellow to abscond, ‘presumed dead’—as often as not along with a special loved one—than during one of those German air-raids, eh? Oh, a terrible thing, to be blown to bits by a German bomb! And yes, people
did
get blown to bits and go missing in London! But here, in the north-east, the collieries? Why, you can count the casualties, meaning genuine,
proven
casualties, on one hand! Okay, Miller has his dossier of so-called ‘disappearances,’ but does he also have one for all the cases that the Redcaps had to deal with?”
“Redcaps?”
“The Military Police, Harry, who were stuck with the task of tracking down all the AWOLs and deserters. They worked hand in hand with local police authorities, and I’ve read plenty of their notes, reports, accounts in old ledgers. You want to know something? Up until seven or eight years ago—all those years later—men were
still
turning themselves in! Middle-aged fellows who ‘disappeared, presumed dead’ in 1942–’43, the middle of the war years. Sometimes they had wives, who ‘disappeared’ with them! As for how they got away with it for so long—well, who can say? They changed their names, kept moving from job to job, brought up families . . . you name it. But the point I’m making, the girls who ran off with these AWOLs or deserters under cover of German air-raids and/or in other circumstances: they weren’t killed by Miller’s bloody forest monster. They moved away, went underground, that’s all; they escaped from unhappy, unfortunate situations. Miller’s dossier and the ‘evidence’ that his lawyer produced: these things were just a bunch of red herrings thrown into the mix to confuse and deceive. . . .”
Listening to all this, remaining silent as he took it in, Harry found his faith in himself and his own beliefs beginning to falter; but he wasn’t about to give in. Eager to regain control, perhapstoo eager, and letting the words tumble from his mouth, he said, “Did you know that Miller has even traced similar cases back to Roman times?” But having blurted it out, he just as quickly realised how weak, even ridiculous, that statement must have sounded. And so:
“I mean . . .” He began again, more cautiously.
But Forester was slowly shaking his head, peering at the Necroscope curiously and with the suggestion of a wry, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, and now who’s crazy?” he said. “What’s all this, Harry? Another of Miller’s ‘dossiers’? What, Roman times? Now we really are scraping the bottom of the barrel!”
Harry sighed and said, “Well, while I suppose you’ll find it risable, I’ve seen documents dating back to the second century A.D. showing how a centurion put great swaths of Hazeldene to the torch, set it ablaze, to stop a ‘forest demon’ stealing away young women from a nearby hamlet—which would just have to be Harden, of course.”
“You know,” Forester replied, “it’s true I’m just another son of a miner, born and bred right here in the north-east, but if there’s one subject I was good at in school it would have to be history. And the Romans—for all their achievements in the arts, empire building, warfare, their structuring of social and governmental systems—still they were probably as superstitious a so-called civilised people as ever existed. They stocked their religious or supernatural pantheons and demonologies with stolen and borrowed gods and devils from almost every race they encountered, and having been ambushed by ‘foreign demons’—the barbaric tribes of the period—in every thicket and copse they bulldozed their way through in France, Germany, Belgium, indeed the whole of Europe . . . well, it hardly surprises me they credited the existence of monsters in Britannic woodlands too! What you should remember, Harry: in those days forests were
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