Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co - The Whispering Skull

‘Er, no, we didn’t contain the Source, actually,’ George said. ‘As I rather conclusively proved. All that iron and silver, and still Bickerstaff’s ghost was able to get out. That’s unusual. Surely even you would admit it’s worth investigating.’

Lockwood uttered an oath. ‘No! No, I don’t! You dislodged the net, George – that was how the Visitor was able to escape and ghost-lock you. You could have died! The problem is that, as always, you’re too easily distracted. You need to get your priorities straight! Look at this mess in here . . .’

He stabbed a finger in the direction of the coffee table, where the ghost-jar sat, the skull dully visible, the plasm as blank and greenish as ever. George had conducted further experiments that afternoon. Noonday sun hadn’t done anything, and nor had brief exposure to loud bursts of classical music on the radio. The table was strewn with a little sea of notebooks and scribbled observations.

‘This is a perfect example,’ Lockwood went on. ‘You’re wasting too much time on that wretched jar. Try spending a bit more time on solid case research, help the company out a little.’

George’s cheeks flushed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean that Wimbledon Common business the other day . . . The stuff about the history of the gallows, which you completely missed. 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.’

‘Fine.’

There was a silence. ‘How about I make some cocoa?’ I said in a bright voice. Hot chocolate helps soothe things in the early hours. The night was growing old. It would soon be dawn.

‘I’ll make it,’ George said. He stood abruptly. ‘See if I can do that right. Two sugars, Luce? Lockwood . . . I’ll make yours an extra frothy one.’

Lockwood frowned at the closing door. ‘You know, that last comment makes me uneasy . . .’ He sighed. ‘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.’

‘You just chucked it. In fact, it was pure blind luck that George lost his balance and fell out of the way. That’s why he wasn’t kebabbed by you.’

‘Yup.’

He smiled at me. ‘Still . . . that doesn’t stop it being a great piece of work. You were the only one who reacted in time.’

As always, the full warmth of his approval made me feel a little flushed. I cleared my throat. ‘Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Bickerstaff’s ghost . . . What kind was it? I’ve never seen anything like it before. Did you see how it rose up so high? What Visitor does that?’

‘I don’t know, Luce. Hopefully all the rest of the iron we piled on will keep it quiet till dawn. Then, I’m glad to say, it becomes DEPRAC’s problem.’ He sighed, rose from his chair. ‘I’d better go and help George. I know I’ve offended him. Also I’m slightly worried about what he’s doing to my cocoa.’

After he’d gone, I lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Whether it was my weariness or the events of the night, the room didn’t seem quite still. Images spun before my vision – George and Joplin frozen by the coffin; the blackened grinning face of the Bickerstaff corpse; the terrible ghost in its long grey shroud rising, rising towards the stars . . . The figures moved slowly round and round in front of me as if I was watching the least child-friendly carousel ride in the world.

Bed; I needed bed. I closed my eyes. It didn’t do any good. The images were still there. Plus, it made me remember the cold, yet wheedling voice I’d heard as I stood there in the pit, urging me to look at . . . To look at what? The ghost? The mirror?

I was glad I didn’t know.

‘ Feeling rough? ’ someone said softly.

‘Yeah. A little.’ Then something like a lift shaft opened in my belly, and I felt myself drop through it. I opened my eyes. The door was still closed. Two rooms away I could hear Lockwood and George talking in the kitchen.

There was a greenish light revolving on the ceiling.

‘ Because you sure as hell look it. ’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before.

I raised my head slowly and looked at the coffee table, which now shone in emerald ghost-light. The substance in the jar was pulsing outwards from the centre like boiling water on the hob. 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 struggled to my feet, breathing too fast, fierce exultation surging through me. So I’d been right: it was a Type Three. Fully conscious, able to communicate! But Lockwood and George weren’t here – I had to show them, had to prove it somehow. I started towards the door.

‘ Oh, don’t bring them into it .’ The whispering voice sounded pained. ‘ Let’s keep it intimate, you and me .’

That made me pause. Seven months had passed since the skull had last chosen to speak. I could well believe it would clam up the moment I opened the door. I swallowed, tried to ignore my heart hammering in my chest. ‘All right,’ I said hoarsely, facing it directly for the first time. ‘If that’s how you want it, let’s have some answers. What are you, then? Why are you talking to me?’

‘ What am I? ’ The face split open, the plasm parted, and I had a clear glimpse of the stained brown skull at the bottom of the jar. ‘This is what I am ,’ the voice hissed. ‘ Look on me well. This fate awaits you too .’

‘Oh, very sinister,’ I sneered. ‘You were just the same last time out. What did you say then? Death is coming? Well, so much for your predictions. I’m still alive, and you’re still just a dribble of luminous slime trapped in a jar. Big deal.’

At once the plasm drew together like two lift doors closing, and the face re-formed. Its reproving look was slightly undermined by the fact that its re-joined halves didn’t quite match, giving it a grotesquely lopsided appearance. ‘ I’m disappointed ,’ it whispered, ‘ that you didn’t heed my warning. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death – that’s what I said. Problem is: you’re stupid, Lucy. You’re blind to the evidence around you .’

Far off in the kitchen I could hear the clink of cutlery. I moistened my lips. ‘That claptrap means nothing to me.’

The voice gave a groan. ‘ What, you want me to draw you a picture? Use your eyes and ears! Use your intelligence, girl. No one else can do it. You’re on your own .’

I shook my head, as much to clear my brain as anything. Here I was, hands on hips, arguing with a face in a jar. ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not alone. I have my friends.’