Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

There were dozens of them, milling in little huddles by folding tables where food, drink, and various implements of their profession were on display. Some were young, like Flo; others, bent and weathered like windblown trees, showed evidence of age and long privation: all were dirty, calloused, and hard of jaw and eye. They conversed in low voices, guarding their words carefully; the atmosphere was heavy with distrust.

“Look at them.” Lockwood had dropped down beside me. “It’s like a medical textbook come to life.”

“I know. I wonder if we gave ourselves quite enough warts.”

Most of the relic-men seemed to be gravitating toward the arches on the right. A thrum of palpable excitement echoed from within, with many voices raised. And beneath that was a deeper psychic hum, like wasps buzzing in a buried pot. Muffled by silver-glass, maybe, but significant nevertheless.

And these weren’t the only things I heard.

“Lucy…Lucy, help me….”

I dug Lockwood in the ribs. “We need to go that way. Come on.”

We passed through the arch into what had once been the northbound platform. Now it was an immensely long, low-curving room, lit along its length by candles and hanging lanterns. Nearby gaped one of the tunnel mouths, plugged in part by an enormous wall of sandbags. Some of the bags were filled with iron filings, some with salt; they’d been slashed open, and the gray-white powder lay across the surface of the wall, as dirty and crusted as month-old snow. Cold air drifted out of the tunnel and with it came strong psychic unease. Again I sensed the distant screaming.

At the base of the sandbags, the old tracks could still be seen, but along most of the room these had been concealed beneath rough wooden boards, built out from the edge of the platform. They had the effect of doubling the width of the space. A good many relic-men were congregating here, talking, arguing, making their slow, shuffling way toward a table halfway up the platform.

It was well-lit by black candlesticks, tall as a man, that had been arranged behind it; and even from a distance, I knew who sat there. I recognized their silhouettes: a woman, large-boned, with massive arms and shoulders; and a short, squat person wearing a broad-brimmed bowler hat.

Adelaide Winkman and her son, Leopold: the most powerful black marketeers in London.

One by one, the relic-men were arriving at the table, showing their psychic wares, being paid (or not), and moving on. I could hear the clink of coins. Beside the table stood three impassive, muscular men. My eyes narrowed. It was not too hard a stretch to imagine them being the murderers of Harold Mailer, the ones who had chased me across the gardens of Clerkenwell.

“Watch where the flunkies go, Luce.” Lockwood was mouthing in my ear. “They’re not storing the objects at the table, so they must be taking them somewhere….”

It was hard to advance far along the platform. Most of the people there were hoping to reach the Winkmans’ table, and they resented our efforts. Staying in character, we shrugged off their insults and shouldered our way on. Once I caught a glimpse of Flo, arguing with someone in the crowd. Her eyes met mine, but passed on without any sign of recognition.

And then, that voice again. “Lucy…I’m here.”

My stomach twisted with exhilaration. We were close! I turned my face toward the wall so that no one would see me speak. “Skull? Skull—is that you?”

“Let me see…Ooh, no, it’s another Type Three disembodied spirit who knows your name and your purpose and happens to be stored nearby.”

That settled the matter. No other spirit could be that sarcastic. “It’s you.”

“Of course it’s me! Get me out of this dungeon right now!”

“It’s not that easy. And a bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, either. Where are you?”

“Some tiled room. Old cloakroom, maybe. Probably a former ladies’ room, knowing my luck. Neon light flickering over the door.”

I looked along the platform; a short way beyond where the Winkmans sat, I did notice a faintly flickering light. Its source was lost in the room’s curve. “I think I see it. We’re in line to get to you.”

“What, are you queuing now? Just how British are you people? Don’t just stand in line! Kill somebody!”

“Lucy…” Lockwood’s dirty face loomed near. “You’re mumbling to yourself.”

“It’s the skull. I can hear it. It’s close by.”

Lockwood glanced around at the shuffling, stinking relic-men. “I think we’re all right. Half of these bozos talk to themselves all the time anyway. Still, keep it down.”

“Lucy, you’ve got to get me out of here.” The skull’s voice broke in on my thoughts again. “They’re taking me to the place of blood.”

“The place of blood? What does that mean?”

“Well now, I should think it’s quite a jolly spot where nice things happen and everyone’s good chums together….How do I know what it is? With a name like that, it’s got to be bad news, even for me! There’s some hideous stuff piled up here…Your friend Guppy’s Source, for one.”

“Guppy’s Source?” I stared at Lockwood, who grimaced. “Not that jar of teeth?”

“Yeah. They were very pleased with that.”

“Who’s ‘they’? The Winkmans?”

“Search me. A woman in a flowery dress that makes her look like last year’s sofa, and some kid with a face like a slapped butt.”

“That’s them.”

“It’s their men who brought me here. They’re not the bosses, though. There’s a guy here, too. At the end of all this, they’ll sell me to him.”

“Ah! The collector! What’s he look like?”

“Erm…” The voice grew vague. “Just a bloke. About yay high, neither this nor that….He’s actually quite difficult to describe. Tell you what, you might see him yourself if you swing past and rescue me. Are you alone?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me. I know who it is. Stands to reason he’d help you.” Even at a distance, the appalling parody of Lockwood’s voice was clear. “‘What? A suicidal mission, you say, Lucy? Certain death, you say? Just what I enjoy. Sign me up!’ Well, all the better if it is Lockwood. You can sacrifice him to rescue me. I call that a very decent swap.”

Fury filled me. “You foul skull! I swear I’m going to leave you right there.”

There was a pause. The voice spoke again, more quietly. “This isn’t just about me, Lucy. This is big. Come and get me, and I’ll tell you what they’re doing. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death, Lucy. This is the proof of it.”

I snorted. “Proof of what? What does that actually mean ?” But the psychic connection had broken off, and Lockwood was shaking my arm. Taking a breath, I told him what I’d heard.

He scratched at his black wig; beneath the cheek paste and eyeliner, his face was genuinely pale. “It’s not going to be easy, Luce,” he said, “but I can get you access to that room. The catch is, you’ll need to deal with whoever’s in there on your own. Up for it?”

My anger at the skull still boiled inside me. The comments about Lockwood had made me feel queasy with guilt. But there would only be one answer. I nodded. “Yup.”

“I’ve missed you so much, Lucy.”

Okay, what with the wig and the makeup, and his blacked-out teeth, he didn’t look too great right then; but behind his gappy grin shone the old Lockwood smile, and that smile and those words together swept everything else aside. All guilt and queasiness were gone, and I was conscious of nothing other than the thrill of being there with him.