Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

“And the bit about you both being recognized and horribly killed?” George asked.

Lockwood flashed a smile, but it was a token one; his mind was far away. “I haven’t forgotten. All we need’s a good disguise.”

It had to be said that, despite his unshakeable self-confidence, and a large wicker basket under his desk that contained the elements of many costumes, Lockwood’s disguises weren’t always super-successful. He had a weakness for big hats, and a tendency to try curious accents that attracted attention and, occasionally, outright hostility. His famous attempt at a winking East End chimney sweep, used to gain entry to Barleywick Hall in the Case of the Hovering Torso, had so outraged three Cockney footmen it ended with a breakneck chase into the nearest boating lake. As for the blond wig and wimple he’d resorted to while investigating a haunting near the Cobb Street Nunnery bathhouse, the resulting police search had made several papers, and it was probable two sisters and a mother superior would never be quite the same again.

Generally his disguises worked best when kept to a minimum, and that’s the way our relic-men outfits ended up the next evening, after a long day of experimenting in the office, with a floor mirror propped against my old table, and George and Holly on hand to comment and make the tea. Relic-men being notoriously ill-favored, we’d tried all manner of humps, warts, and missing limbs, and clothes ranging from the holey to the ragged to the frankly indecent. In the end we scaled back to dirty black jeans, atrocious jerseys, and two stained leather jackets that George had scooped up in a charity store, while Holly used her extensive makeup kit to subtly worsen our complexions.

“I can blacken some of your teeth, Lockwood,” she said. “Otherwise they’re much too shiny. Some darkening around the eyes should make them look puffier, and a smear of pale paste on the cheekbones will give you a good unhealthy sheen. With a bit of work I can make you look sick, needy, and unattractive. Give me half an hour.”

I was trying on a foul horsehair wig. “How about me?”

“In your case, I don’t need to do too much. Five minutes should be fine.”

The wigs capped things off. Mine was a jumble of dirty yellow strands, like a mop soaked in custard, while Lockwood’s was a spiky black abomination.

He studied himself uncertainly. “I don’t know….It’s like an evil hedgehog is squatting on my head.”

“Think of Flo Bones,” I said. “She looks like that on a good day. You’ll fit in well.”

Next we found two old satchels mildewing in the back of the basement storeroom, and George splashed tea over one and mud on the other. When they were dry, we took the spirit-capes that we’d found in Jessica’s room and put them inside. We were almost ready to go.

“One last thing,” Holly said. “Weapons. I don’t like you going in defenseless.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Can’t take rapiers, for obvious reasons.”

“Well, stuff a magnesium flare down your trousers. You’ll need one if things get nasty.”

“They might search us at the door.”

“Holly’s right,” George put in. “You need something. All the other relic-men will be armed to the teeth. The water boys will have slime-flanges and cockle-hooks, while the housebreakers and tomb-sharks have their loops and grapplers and all manner of weird stuff.”

I looked at him. “You seem very well-versed in relic-man business.”

George did something with his glasses. “Maybe I chat with Flo from time to time. No law against that, is there?”

“No….No, it’s fine.”

In the end Lockwood and I both took daggers, wearing them openly at our belts. They weren’t great for combat, but would provide a final option. Plus, they suited the menacing aura we wanted to project as we entered the den of thieves.

All this took us till nightfall. Shortly after seven, two sinister, swaggering relic-men departed Portland Row and set off for their rendezvous with Flo Bones.

The district of Vauxhall, just south of the river, where the outflowing Thames curves north toward Westminster and the center of the city, was once the site of lovely pleasure gardens, where gentlemen and ladies used to promenade. Their bewigged ghosts still occasionally showed up incongruously among the automobile factories that now filled the area; the fortunes of these, too, had recently declined, and it was an area of deprivation, mostly abandoned after dark. As we crossed the bridge from Westminster, mists hung about the wharves and mudflats, and the lights of Vauxhall Station gleamed dully on the viaduct above like a row of taunting Wisps.

Flo was waiting for us in a deserted lock-up beneath one of the viaduct arches. She had her burlap bag wedged between her boots and sat slumped and pensive on a concrete barrier beside a lantern—like a squatting gargoyle, but with a stronger smell. As we entered, her hand darted to her belt; then she relaxed and spat welcomingly into the mud at her side.

Lockwood gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Aha! These disguises must be good. We had you fooled for a second there.”

“The hair got me,” Flo admitted. “But I recognize your walks. Your profile and her hips as well, but your walks mainly.”

“That’s great. The Winkmans should be fooled, then.”

“Maybe. ’Specially at a distance. It’s still the daftest thing you’ve ever done, Locky, and that’s saying plenty. I can’t take no responsibility for what happens. Licorice or no licorice, you understand the consequences are not on me.”

“That’s all right. We’re fine with that, aren’t we, Luce?”

“Yeah. We’re fine.”

“Hear the way Luce is talking, Flo? We’ve been practicing on the way down. She’s got an estuary accent now.”

Flo grunted. “Is that what she’s got? I thought it was phlegm. Okay, so listen. The boys on the door will want to see your artifacts. Don’t give them any trouble. Once you’re inside, it’s a free-for-all, everyone trying to sell their Sources for the best price. If it’s like last time, the Winkmans will be at one end, looking and buying, with their best stuff safely stored and guarded. How you’re going to get away with this precious object you’re after beats me.” She took off her hat and scratched at her matted scalp. “Particularly the place we’re going tonight.”

“Which is?” This was a detail I was anxious to learn.

“No great distance. Vauxhall Station.”

I glanced at the arch above us. “Doesn’t seem very private.”

“Not Vauxhall Overground , you silly mare. I’m talking about Vauxhall Underground —the station down below.”

That rang a faintish bell with me, but I couldn’t think why.

Lockwood knew. “But that’s been shut off for years, hasn’t it?” he said. “Wasn’t there a rail accident there, some terrible disaster? And since then—too many ghosts. I thought DEPRAC gave the whole thing up, just concreted it all in.”

Something was moving in Flo’s bag. She gave it a nudge with her boot and the furtive motion stopped. “Yeah. There was a gas explosion down there. Forty-five years ago or more. It blew up a train that was just coming in to the station. Killed everyone on board. Wasn’t long before the Visitors started appearing in the tunnels and Vauxhall Underground had to close. They diverted the line; whole area’s bypassed now. And yeah, the entrances were sealed. But we found a way in.”

“But why would you do that,” I said, “if it’s still so dangerous?” I wasn’t hugely excited to hear that, in addition to relic-men and gangsters, we had ghosts to deal with, too.