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‘Makes sense,’ Lockwood called over his shoulder. ‘If you’re going to hang one criminal and bury him near a crossroads, you might as well hang two. We should have anticipated this.’ ‘Well, how come we didn’t, then?’ I said. ‘Better ask George that one.’
In the glow of the torches and explosions, their rapiers and jackets shone an unreal silver, perfect and pristine. ‘Fittes agents,’ I said. ‘Oh great,’ George growled. ‘I think I preferred the Wraiths.’
Being diplomatic, I’d say Kipps was a slightly built young man in his early twenties, with close-cut reddish hair and a narrow, freckled face. Being undiplomatic (but more precise), I’d say he’s a pint-sized, pug-nosed, carrot-topped inadequate with a chip the size of Big Ben on his weedy shoulder. A sneer on legs. A malevolent buffoon. He’s too old to be any good with ghosts, but that doesn’t stop him wearing the blingiest rapier you’ll ever see, weighed down to the pommel with cheap paste jewels.
If she’d repeatedly fallen over while crossing soft ground, you could have sewn a crop of beans in the chin-holes she left behind.
Her grey Fittes jacket, skirt and leggings were always spotless, which made me doubt she’d ever had to climb up inside a chimney to escape a Spectre, or battle a Poltergeist in the Bridewell sewers (officially the Worst Job Ever), as I had. Annoyingly, I always seemed to meet her after precisely that kind of incident. Like now.
It hadn’t struck me before, but when Kipps smiled, he rather mirrored Lockwood – a smaller, showier, more aggressive version, a spotted hyena to Lockwood’s wolf. Lockwood wasn’t smiling now.
The days were long, the nights short; ghosts were at their weakest. It was the time of year when most people tried to ignore the Problem. Not agents, though. We never stop. Look at us go.
Lockwood just grinned at me, flicking his blade to and fro so that the air sang. It was hard to say no to him. It always is.
‘So what do you think of the Swiss rolls?’ I said, with my mouth full. ‘They’re all right. It’s things like Kuriashi turns that I can’t stomach,’ George said. ‘Nothing but trendy claptrap, invented by the big agencies to make themselves look fancy. In my book, you thwack a Visitor, avoid being ghost-touched, and peg it home. That’s all you need to know.’
George glanced at me. ‘You know he doesn’t like opening up too much,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’ ‘It’s just the way he is. I’m surprised he told you as much as he did.’ I nodded. George was right. Small anecdotes, here and there, were all you got from Lockwood; if you questioned him further he shut tight, like a clam.
he and I were getting along better now. In fact, we’d only had one full-on, foot-stamping, saucepan-hurling row that month, which was itself some kind of record.
Little else seemed to interest him. He never discussed old cases. Something propelled him ever onwards. At times an almost obsessive quality to his energy could be glimpsed beneath the urbane exterior. But he never gave a clue as to what drove him,
Occasionally, and usually at inconvenient moments, such as when you were going past with a hot drink or a full bladder, it congealed violently into a grotesque transparent face, with bulbous nose, goggling eyes and a rubbery mouth of excessive size. This shocking visage would then leer and gape at whoever was in the room. Allegedly George had once seen it blow kisses.
‘I wondered that,’ George said. ‘I wondered about a lot of things. It used to annoy me that I got no answers. Anyway, in the end I asked so many questions that they fired me.
‘Oh, come on. You love all that mystery about him. Just like you love that pensive, far-off look he does sometimes, as if he’s brooding about important matters, or contemplating a tricky bowel movement.
‘Does Edmund Bickerstaff mean anything to you?’ The words echoed around us, bouncing off the ghost-goads and spirit-charms that lined the walls. We sat there. The echoes faded. ‘In all honesty, no,’ Lockwood said. Mr Saunders sat back on the sofa. ‘No – to be fair, I’d never heard of him either. But Joplin here, whose speciality it is to poke his nose down odd and unsavoury byways of the past, he’d heard the name. Hadn’t you, eh?’ He nudged the small man. ‘And it makes him nervous.’ Mr Joplin laughed weakly,
‘It’s all very strange,’ I said. ‘How come no one knew where he’d been buried? Why wasn’t it in the records?’ George nodded. ‘And what exactly killed him? Was it the rats, or something else? There are so many loose ends here. This article is clearly just the tip of the iceberg. It’s crying out for further research.’ Albert Joplin chuckled. ‘Couldn’t agree more. You’re a lad right after my own heart.’
While it was true that the vast majority of the dead still slept quietly in their graves, even agents were reluctant to spend much time among them. It was like entering enemy territory. We were not welcome there.
For a moment it was touch and go whether another small ghost might soon be haunting the margins of the Harrow Road, but I resisted the temptation.
A number of figures stood at the top of the chapel stairs, silhouetted against the open doors. We heard raised voices; fear crackled like static in the air.
This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly round the face and boot her moaning backside out into the night. Which is why he’s the leader, and I’m not. Also why I have no female friends.
George spoke – and at that moment I was enveloped by a wave of clawing cold. You know when you jump into a swimming pool, and find they haven’t heated it, and the freezing water hits your body? You feel a smack of pain – awful and all over. This was exactly like that. I let out a gasp of shock. And that wasn’t the worst of it – as the cold hit me, my inner ears kicked into life. That vibration I’d sensed before? It was suddenly loud.
This box is made of iron.’ ‘Iron . . .’ Lockwood said. ‘An iron coffin—’ ‘Can you hear it?’ I said suddenly. ‘The buzzing of the flies?’ ‘But they didn’t have the Problem then,’ George said. ‘What did they need to trap in there?’
‘Remind me never to get buried in an iron coffin,’ George said. ‘It gets so tatty.’ ‘And it’s no longer doing its job either,’ Lockwood added. ‘Whatever’s inside is finding its way out through that little gap.
Are you all right, Lucy?’ I was swaying where I stood. No, I didn’t feel great. My head pounded; I felt nauseous. The buzzing noise was back. I had the sensation of invisible insects running up and down my skin. It was a powerful miasma – that feeling of deep discomfort you often get when a Visitor is near. Powerful, despite all that iron.
‘What do you think, Luce? Heads or tails?’ ‘I think—’ ‘Heads? Interesting choice. Let’s see.’ There was a blur of movement, too fast for the eye to follow. ‘Ah, it’s tails. Unlucky, Luce. Here’s the crowbar.’ Lockwood grinned. ‘Nice try, George, but you’re doing it. Let’s fetch the tools and seals.’ Breathing a sigh of relief, I led the way to the duffel bags. George followed with ill grace.
With a clang, the lid shot up; George’s end of the bar shot down. George jerked backwards, lost his balance and landed heavily on his backside in the mud, with his glasses slightly askew. He sat himself up, stared stupidly down into the coffin. And screamed.
His hands (bony, these) cradled something shrouded in tattered white cloth. Whether because of the angle of the burial, or because of the movement of the earth in the long years since, the object had slid from beneath the cloth, and was peeping out between the skeletal fingers. It was a piece of glass, perhaps the width of a human head, with an irregularly shaped rim.
‘So what did you see, George?’ Lockwood asked.
‘I mean, I know Bickerstaff looked bad,’ Lockwood went on, ‘but, let’s face it, we’ve seen nastier. Remember Putney Vale?’ George had been very subdued for the past few minutes. He had barely spoken, and there was an odd expression on his face. His eyes showed numb distress, but they also held a yearning, far-off look; he kept gazing back towards the pit as if he thought he had left something there. It worried me. It reminded me a little of ghost-lock,
He shook his head at Lockwood. ‘It wasn’t the body,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve seen worse things in our fridge. It was the mirror that he held.’
my eyes were drawn to it. I saw in it . . . I don’t know what I saw. It was all black, basically, but there was something in that blackness, and it was awful. It made me scream – I felt like someone was sucking my insides out through my chest.’ George shuddered. ‘But at the same time, it was fascinating too – I couldn’t take my eyes away. I just wanted to gaze at it, even though it was doing me harm.’
‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said. ‘Did I hear correctly? No one’s to go near the coffin?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘Better stop your friend, then. Look at him go.’ I turned. George and Joplin had crossed the iron chains. They’d approached the coffin. They were talking excitedly, Joplin bunching his papers tighter under his arm. ‘George!’ I called. ‘What on earth are you—?’ Then I realized. The lid. The inscription.
Norris said something to me, but I didn’t hear him, because at that moment I’d become aware that a third figure was standing alongside Joplin and George. It was still, silent, very tall and thin, and only partially substantial.
Lockwood, hair flying, coat flapping, ran past me down into the pit. He skidded to a halt beside the chains and scanned the scene with glittering eyes. But it was OK. George was OK. Joplin was OK. The coffin was quiet. The summer stars were shining overhead. The Visitor had gone.
‘What Joplin said shouldn’t have had any effect on you!’ Lockwood cried. ‘You think that’s a good excuse for nearly getting killed? Trying to decipher some scratchings on a foul old coffin? I’m surprised at you, George! Honestly surprised.’
It wasn’t just the skull in our ghost-jar that fascinated him; where possible, he also investigated other objects of psychic power. It figured that the iron coffin fell into that category. It also figured that the tiresome little scholar, Joplin, shared George’s approach.
George wasn’t giving up the argument quite yet. ‘I agree that the coffin and its contents are dangerous,’ he said doggedly. ‘That mirror I saw was horrible. But their powers are entirely unknown. So I think it’s a legitimate agency job to discover anything we can about what it is we’re dealing with
‘Who cares?’ Lockwood cried. ‘Who cares about any of that? It’s not part of our job!’ In many ways, Lockwood was the complete opposite of George, and not just in terms of bodily hygiene. He had no interest in the mechanics of ghosts, and little in their individual desires or intentions. All he really wanted was to destroy them as efficiently as possible.
Even that idiot Bobby Vernon uncovered more useful information than you!’ George sat very still. He opened his mouth as if about to argue, then closed it again. His face lacked all expression. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his jersey. Lockwood ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m being unfair. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.’ ‘No, no,’ George said stiffly. ‘I’ll try to do better for you in future.’
‘Lucy, I’ve been meaning to say: that was an impressive move back there – what you did with the rapier.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘You aimed it perfectly, right between their heads. An inch to the left, and you’d have skewered George right between the eyes. Really sensational accuracy there.’ I made a modest gesture. ‘Well . . . sometimes you just do what has to be done.’ ‘You didn’t actually aim it at all, did you?’ Lockwood said. ‘No.’
There was a face within it, a leering face superimposed upon the plasm. The tip of its bulb-like nose pressed hard against the silver-glass; wicked eyes glittered; the lipless mouth champed and grinned. ‘You,’ I said. My throat was dry; I could barely speak. ‘Not the greatest welcome I’ve ever had,’ the voice said, ‘but accurate. Yes, I can’t deny it. Me.’
I stared at the grinning skull. Rage filled me. I took a swift step forward. If Lockwood hadn’t put out a hand, I believe I would have kicked that jar right across the room. ‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. ‘We believe you.’ I ran a harassed hand through my hair. ‘Good.’
I took a deep breath. ‘It said you were fat.’ ‘What?’ ‘It talked about us, basically. It watches us and knows our names. It said—’ ‘It said I was fat?’ ‘Yeah, but—’
I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean to insult you, and I hope that—’ ‘I mean, if I was interested in my weight, I’d buy a mirror,’ George said. ‘This is just so disappointing. No piercing insights about the other side? Shame.’ He took a bite of sandwich, slumped regretfully in his chair.
‘Lucy,’ Lockwood said, ‘the last time I saw body language like yours was when we were chatting to Martine Grey about her missing husband, and afterwards found him at the bottom of her freezer. Don’t be so shifty, and spit it out.’ He smiled easily. ‘It’s honestly not going to get me upset.’
‘OK, so it told me . . . I mean, I didn’t believe it, obviously, and it’s not something I care about, no matter what the truth may be . . . It implied you had something dangerous hidden in that room. You know, the room upstairs. On the landing,’ I finished lamely. Lockwood lowered his mug; he spoke flintily. ‘Yes, I know the one. The one you can’t stop asking about.’ I gave a hoarse cry. ‘I didn’t bring it up this time! The ghost in the jar did!’
Our ordinary responses in such circumstances would be to either (a) ignore it (Lockwood); (b) ask them politely to ring back (George); or (c) send them away with a shrill torrent of abuse (me: I get grumpy with lack of sleep).
‘All right, then,’ Lockwood said. ‘A race it is. Good luck.’ They shook hands. Kipps and Godwin walked away. ‘There’s a bathroom there,’ George said. ‘You might want to wash that hand.’ ‘No time.’ Lockwood smiled at us grimly. ‘We’ve got a contest to win. Let’s go.’
It was hot; everything was slow and drowsy. Except for Lockwood – he led us along the gravel path at breakneck speed, talking rapidly all the while.
