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

“No,” Lockwood said firmly. “That’s your answer, Lucy. Now—”

“Oh, well, there are plenty of theories about ghosts and time,” George interrupted. “Some people think they’re not bound by its rules at all—that’s what allows them to keep coming back. They’re fixed in a particular place , but able to roam back and forward across the years. If you follow that argument, why couldn’t they make predictions? Why shouldn’t they see things we don’t?”

Lockwood shook his head. “I don’t believe a word of that. Now, Luce, this Fetch you faced: did it have the shape of Ned Shaw, like the others said? You haven’t told us much about it.”

Not everything you see is what has passed. Sometimes it is what is yet to be….

I pulled myself back, looked at him—the real Lockwood. The current, living one. “Oh—no. No, it was dark. I don’t think I recognized who it was. Listen,” I said, pushing back my chair, “I’m just nipping upstairs for a minute. Put the kettle on. I’ll be back soon.”

On the way up to my attic, I passed the sister’s room. The pang I got from it wasn’t quite the one of old. It wasn’t the throb of curiosity; more of simple regret—regret at what I’d done there, and what those actions had revealed.

I understood now why Lockwood kept that room the way he did, empty and unused. It echoed the effect his sister’s loss had had on him in the intervening years. He too had an emptiness—a ruined space—inside, a hollowness that no amount of activity could fill. He’d admitted this when I spoke to him (the real him) in the prison tunnels. It would keep driving him on. He would never stop; he would keep taking risks, tackling the hated enemy, protecting the people he worked with, the ones he cared for.

And if I were one of those…

I reached the attic bathroom, went in, and locked the door. It was only when I stood there with the taps running and the hot water splashing over my hands and banging away along the pipes below my sink, that I raised my pale and blotchy face, looked into the mirror through the stream, and knew I’d made my decision.

I show you the future. This is your doing.

It wouldn’t be if I could help it.

I washed my face, went into my room. I stood by the window, staring out at the darkening sky and winter rain.

“Is this a private sulk or can anyone join in?”

“Oh, I forgot you were up here.” I’d used the ghost-jar as a doorstop after taking him out of the kitchen. The phantom face was barely perceptible, just a few sketched lines superimposed on the glinting skull. But the sockets gleamed like dark stars.

“How’s the party going? Holly Munro grooving away?”

“She’s eating her walnut salad with reckless abandon, yes.”

“Typical. So let me get this straight: she’s still here?”

“I’d have thought you’d be used to that fact by now.”

“Oh, I am. But it’s like waking in the morning and finding you’ve still got a massive wart on your nose. Sure, you’re used to it, but it doesn’t exactly make you skip around the room.”

I smiled bleakly. “I know. Still, don’t forget she did you a favor. She pulled you from the rubble at Aickmere’s.”

“I’m supposed to be grateful? That means more tedious time with you!” The face in the jar shook disgustedly side to side. “It’s all going to pot around here. Take your boyfriend, Lockwood. He’s getting far too much praise. His head’s being turned. You watch—he’ll be cuddling up to the Fittes Agency more and more now. Ha, look at you! I’m right. I can see it.”

“He’s meeting the director for breakfast, as it happens, but that doesn’t mean…And by the way—”

“Breakfast? That’s how it starts. Coy smiles exchanged over omelets and orange juice. Won’t be long before you’re one of their departments, in all but name.”

“Absolute rubbish. He’s stronger than that.”

“Oh, sure. Lockwood’s noted for his lack of vanity and ego. You know that tousled bed-head thing he’s got going on? Takes him hours at the mirror to get that fixed just right.”

“No, it doesn’t. Does it? How do you know that? You’re making it up.”

“Am I? What’s your company called? Remind me. The Portland Row Agency, maybe? Marylebone Ghost-hunters…? No! It’s Lockwood and Co. Jeez. How modest. I’m surprised your official logo isn’t a photo of his grinning face, maybe with a cheesy sparkle glinting on his teeth.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yeah. I am now, yes.”

“Right. Good. I’ve got to get downstairs.”

As usual, when you removed the sarcasm and filtered out the malice, the skull made a surprising amount of sense, but it was hard to be grateful. He was a ghost. I was talking to him. He was a symbol of my problem too.

In the kitchen the tea had been brewed and fresh cups newly poured. On the table the giant chocolate cake now solely occupied center stage. George was hovering close by, flourishing a knife. He beckoned me in with it. “You returned at just the right time, Luce. I’ve been saving this cake all day, ready for our final celebratory toast. So far I’ve been thwarted by Lockwood’s boasting, Holly’s unkind remarks about the Thinking Cloth, and your disappearing act. But now—”

“ And by your endless theorizing,” Lockwood pointed out. “That part was the worst of the lot.”

“True. Anyway, now you’re here, Lucy, there’s nothing to stop us giving this beauty the attention it deserves.” With a flex of the fingers, George angled the knife toward the icing.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve got something to say first.”

The knife halted; George, poised, looked at me with a plaintive expression. The others put down their cups, alerted perhaps by the tremor in my tone. I didn’t retake my place but stood behind my chair with my hands clasping the back.

“It’s an announcement, I suppose. I’ve been doing a bit of thinking recently. It seems to me some things haven’t been working out so well.”

Lockwood stared at me. “I’m surprised to hear that. I thought you and Holly—”

Holly half stood up. “Perhaps I should go outside…?”

“It has nothing to do with Holly,” I said. I did my best to smile at them. “It really doesn’t. Please, Holly, sit down. Thanks….No, it has all to do with me. You all know what really happened at Aickmere’s—it’s not quite the same as the story we sold to the newspapers. The Poltergeist that wrecked everything—it got its strength from me.”

“And me,” Holly said. “There were two of us in that argument, you know.”

“I do know that,” I said. “But I started it, and it was my anger that mostly fueled its power. No, sorry, George”—he’d tried to interrupt—“I am quite sure about this. It’s my Talent that did it. It’s getting stronger, and it’s getting harder to deal with, too. When it stirred up the Poltergeist it was working completely negatively, but even when I’m more in control—when I’m talking to ghosts, or listening to them talk—I’m sort of not in control anymore. And this is growing dangerous now. You all know what happened in Miss Wintergarden’s house. And the other day, in the prison, underground, when I spoke with Visitors, they kind of called the shots, not me. I know none of you were present then, but I can’t be sure that this loss of control won’t happen again. In fact, I’m sure it will . And that’s not acceptable for any psychic investigation agent, is it?”

“You mustn’t put too much emphasis on this,” George said. “Things happen to all of us. I’m sure we can all support you going forward, and—”