Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co. Book Three - The Hollow Boy

I gathered my rapier from where I’d chucked it the night before, and also a few scattered salt-bombs that had been dumped beside the sofa. As I made for the door, a hoarse voice spoke from the shadows. “Lucy! Lucy…”

“What now?” With the onset of evening, dim flecks were swirling in the glass. The hunched mass of the battered skull faded from view. The flecks congealed to form a malicious face, glowing green and soft in the darkness.

“Going out?” the ghost said agreeably. “I’ll come along.”

“No, you won’t. You’re staying here.”

“Oh, do a skull a favor. I’ll get bored.”

“So dematerialize. Rotate. Turn inside out. Stick around and enjoy the view. Do whatever it is ghosts do. I’m sure you can find ways to amuse yourself.” I turned to go.

“Enjoy the view? In this hellhole?” The face swiveled in the jar, the tip of its nose dragging against the inside of the glass. “I’ve been in mortuaries with better standards of housekeeping. I wish I didn’t have to see the squalor I’m surrounded by.”

I paused with my hand on the door. “I could help you with that. I could bury you in a hole and solve your problem altogether.”

Not that I was truly likely to do this. Of all the Visitors we’d encountered—of all the Visitors anyone had encountered in recent times—the skull was the only one capable of true communication. Other ghosts could moan, knock, and utter snippets of coherent sound; and agents such as me, who were skilled at psychic Listening, were able to detect them. But that was a long way from the skull’s ability to engage in proper sustained conversation. It was a Type Three Visitor, and very rare—which was why, despite great provocation, we hadn’t thrown it in the trash.

The ghost snorted. “Burying requires digging, and digging requires work. And that’s plainly something none of you is capable of. Let me guess…I bet it’s Whitechapel again tonight? Those dark streets…those winding alleys…Take me! You need a companion.”

“Yep,” I said. “And I’m going with Lockwood.” In fact, I had to hurry. I could hear him putting his coat on in the hall.

“ Aha…Are you? Oh, I see. Better leave you to it, then.”

“Right. Good.” I paused. “Meaning what?”

“Nothing, nothing.” The evil eyes winked at me. “I’m no third wheel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going on a case.”

“Of course you are. It’s a perfect contrivance. Quick, better run upstairs and change.”

“Lucy—got to go!” That was Lockwood in the hall.

“Coming!” I shouted. “I don’t need to change,” I growled at the skull. “These are my work clothes.”

“They don’t have to be.” The face regarded me critically. “Let’s take a look at you. Leggings, T-shirt, raggedy old skirt, moth-eaten sweater….Like a cross between a demented sailor and a bag lady. How does that make you look pretty? Who’s going to notice you if you go out like that?”

“Who says I want to look pretty for anybody?” I roared. “I’m an agent! I’ve got a job to do! And if you can’t talk sense…” I scuttled over to the sideboard and grabbed the tea cozy.

“Ooh, have I hit a nerve?” The ghost grinned. “ I have! How fascin—”

Regrettably, the rest was lost. I’d turned the lever, jammed the cozy over the jar, and stalked out of the room.

Lockwood stood waiting in the hall, immaculate, inquiring. “Everything okay, Luce? Skull giving you trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I smoothed back my hair, blew out flushed cheeks, gave him a carefree smile. “Shall we go?”

No ordinary taxis were licensed in London after Curfew, but a small fleet of Night Cabs operated from well-protected night stations, catering mainly to agents and DEPRAC officials whose business took them out after dark. These cars—shaped like conventional black cabs, but painted white—were driven by a hardy breed of often bald middle-aged men, taciturn, unsmiling, and efficient. According to Lockwood, most of them were ex-convicts, let out of prison early in return for taking on this dangerous and unsociable task. They wore a lot of iron jewelry and drove very fast.

The nearest Night Cab station was at Baker Street, not far from the Tube. Our driver, Jake, was one we’d had before. Silver earrings swung wildly at his neck as he pulled out of the underground garage and accelerated eastward along Marylebone Road.

Lockwood stretched out on the seat and grinned across at me. He seemed more relaxed now that we were out on a case; his weariness of the morning had fallen away.

By contrast I still felt flustered after my conversation with the skull. “So,” I said in a businesslike voice, “what’s this Visitor we’re after? A domestic job?”

He nodded. “Yes, an apparition spotted in an upstairs room. Our client is a Mrs. Peters. Her two young boys saw a sinister veiled lady, dressed in black, seemingly imprinted within the glass of the bedroom window.”

“Ooh. Are the kids okay?”

“Just barely. They were driven to hysterics. One’s still heavily sedated….Well, I expect we’ll soon see this lady for ourselves.” Lockwood stared out at the deserted sidewalks, the grid of empty streets stretching away.

The driver looked over his shoulder. “Seems quiet tonight, Mr. Lockwood. But it isn’t. You’re lucky to get me. I’m the only cab left in the station.”

“Why’s that, Jake?”

“It’s that outbreak in Chelsea. There’s a big push on to try to quash it. DEPRAC’s calling up agents left, right, and center. They’ve commandeered a lot of taxis to stand by.”

Lockwood frowned. “So which agencies are they using?”

“Oh, you know. Just the major ones. Fittes and Rotwell.”

“Right.”

“Plus Tendy, Atkins and Armstrong, Tamworth, Grimble, Staines, Mellingcamp, and Bunchurch. Some others, too, but I forget the names.”

Lockwood’s snort sounded like a moped backfiring. “ Bunchurch? They’re not a major agency. They’ve only got ten people, and eight of them are useless.”

“Not my place to say, Mr. Lockwood. Do you want lavender piped through the air conditioner? New car this, got it as an extra.”

“No, thanks.” Lockwood breathed in deeply through his nose. “Lucy and I do have a few defenses of our own, even if we’re not from a ‘major agency.’ We feel safe enough.”

After that he fell silent, but the force of his annoyance filled the cab. He sat staring out of the window, tapping his fingers on his knee. From the shadows of the backseat I watched the intermittent glow from the streetlamps running down the contours of his cheeks, picking out the curve of his mouth and his dark, impatient eyes. I knew why he was angry: he wanted his company to be spoken of as one of the great ones in the capital. Ambition burned fiercely in him—ambition to make a difference against the Problem.

And I understood the reason for that fire too.

Of course I did. I’d known it ever since that day in the summer, when he’d opened the door on the landing and led George and me inside.

“My sister,” Lockwood had said. “This is her room. As you can probably see, it’s where she died. Think I’ll close the door now, if you don’t mind.”

He did so. The little wedge of sunlight from the landing snapped shut around us like a trap. Iron panels lining the interior of the door clicked together softly, cutting us off from all normality.

Neither George nor I said anything. It was all we could do to stand upright. We clung to each other. Waves of psychic energy broke against our senses like a storm tide. There was a roaring in my ears.