Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (21 page)

“It was something to do with internal reorganization,” Lockwood cried. “She suddenly found herself working for someone she didn’t get along with, and she asked to move.
They wouldn’t do it, so she resigned. Nothing too mysterious, is it?”

“I guess not!”

“So that’s fine, then!”

“Yes!” I said. “It’s fine!”

“Good!” Lockwood’s pajamaed legs subsided on the bed. He flopped back against the pillow. “Good,” he said, “because my head hurts.”

“Lockwood, I—”

“You’d better go and get some rest. You need it. We all do.”

You know me. I’m obedient. I spent the next few hours up in my bedroom. I dozed a bit, but I was too wound up to rest and too tired to do anything else. I spent a lot of
time staring at the ceiling. At one point I heard George whistling in the shower, but otherwise the house was silent. Lockwood and George were in their rooms; Holly, so I supposed, had gone home
early.

I
was
grateful to her, of course I was. I was grateful to all of them. Oh, how good it felt to be
so, so
grateful….I let out a long, sad sigh.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

I craned my head and squinted at the windowsill. Since coming back from our first trip to the Wintergarden house, I’d not heard a peep from the skull in the jar. It had been sitting on my
sill, next to my pile of laundry bags, deodorants, and assorted crumpled clothes. Now a faint mint-green glow hung around the glass, barely perceptible against the drab November sun. The plasm was
as translucent as I’d ever seen it, the worn brown skull mostly silhouetted, though the light caught some notches and wiggling sutures on its dome. There was no sign of the horrid face. It
was just the horrid voice today.

“I know what it’s like,”
it remarked.
“Everyone hates me, too.”

“I’ve got a question for you,” I said, shuffling up on my elbows. “It’s lunchtime, it’s daylight, and you’re a ghost. Ghosts don’t come out in
daylight. And yet still you’re here, annoying me.”

It gave a throaty chuckle.
“Maybe I’m different from the others. Just like
you’re
so very different from those around you, Lucy.”
The voice grew cavern
deep; it rang like a corpse-bell.
“Different, isolated—and ALO-O-ONE….Ooh, that was spooky,”
it added.
“Almost frightened myself there.”

I glared at it. “That’s no answer, is it?”

“To be honest, I’ve forgotten the question.”

“You’re able to manifest in daylight. How?”

“Actually,”
the voice said,
“the main reason’s probably the properties of my silver-glass prison. Just as it stops me from getting out, so it weakens the
power of the light coming in. I’m in a perpetual twilight, in which I can function perfectly well.”
The glow dimmed; for a moment I thought it had gone.
“So thrill
me,”
it said.
“Why are you so mournful? Maybe I can help.”

I leaned my head back against the pillow. “It’s nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ nothing. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the last hour. That never does anybody any good. Next you’ll be cutting your throat with that pink
disposable razor there, or trying to flush your head down the john. I’ve seen girls do that,”
it added conversationally.
“Don’t tell me. It’s that new
assistant.”

“It’s not. I’m fine with her now. She’s okay.”

“She’s suddenly okay?”

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

“Wrong!”
The voice spoke with sudden passion.
“She’s a cuckoo in your nest! She’s an interloper in the nice little kingdom you’ve made your own.
And she knows it. She loves the effect she’s having on you. That kind always does.”

“Yeah, well.” I groaned and rolled into a sitting position on the side of the bed. “She saved my life last night.”

It chuckled again.
“Big deal. We’ve all done that. Lockwood. Cubbins. There’s me, of course; I’ve saved you loads of times.”

“I was talking to a ghost. I got so obsessed with it, I threw away my defenses. Holly saved me. And that means,” I went on doggedly, “that I’m okay with her now.
Understand? You don’t need to go on about her. It’s not a problem anymore.”

“In fact, who
hasn’t
saved your bacon? I expect even old Arif at the corner shop’s done it once or twice, you’re that hapless.”

I threw a sock at the jar. “Shut up!”

“Keep your hair on,”
the voice said.
“I’m on your side. Not that you appreciate me. A helpful comment here, a shrewd opinion there—that’s what I
offer, free of charge. The least I deserve is a quick thanks once in a while.”

I got up from the bed. My legs felt weak. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. I was talking to a skull. Was it any wonder I felt weird? “I’ll thank you,” I said,
“when you tell me something useful. About death. About dying. About the Other Side. Think of all the things you
could
speak about! You’ve never even told me your
name.”

A whispered sigh.
“Ah, but it’s not as simple as that. It’s hard to bring life and death together, even in speech. When I’m here, I’m not there—it all
becomes misty for me. You should understand what it’s like—you of all people, Lucy—to be in two worlds at once. It’s not easy.”

I went to the window and looked at the skull, at its battered landscape of nicks and marks, at the sutures winding like zigzag rivers through a wasteland of bone. It was the nearest I’d
ever been to it without its repulsive ectoplasmic face popping into view. Two worlds…Yes. The thing is, that
was
what it seemed like, in those brief moments when I made a psychic
connection. On the attic landing, I’d experienced two realities at once, and one undercut the other. Throwing my rapier away had been crazy, suicidal…yet, in the context of communicating
with a ghost, it made perfect sense. Perfect sense, providing you found the right ghost. I thought of the bloodstained boy.

“Why do you think you threw away your sword?”
the voice said.
“Why do you think you became so confused? None of your friends have a hope of understanding.
It’s complex, and confusing, to do what others can’t. Trust me, I know.”

“Why
are
you different?” I said. “There are so many Visitors…”

“Ah.”
The voice was a trifle smug.
“But I
want
to come back. That’s the difference.”

The doorbell rang, far off in the house.

“I’d better go,” I said, “or Lockwood will try to answer it….” When I got to the door, I looked back at the jar. “Thank you,” I said. I went
downstairs.

George and I converged on the landing just as the bell rang again. Lockwood’s turbaned head was already poking around his door. “Who is it? A client?”

“Not your concern!” George called. “You’re staying in bed!”

“It might be an interesting client!”

“None of your business if it is! I’ll deal with it, understand? I’m your deputy! Do not get out of bed!”

“All right….”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Lockwood disappeared. Shaking our heads, George and I went to the door. Standing on the step was Inspector Montagu Barnes, looking more hangdog and weatherworn than ever. In the drab light of
afternoon, it was hard to know where the folds of his face ended and his saggy trench coat began. “Cubbins,” he said, “Miss Carlyle. Mind if I come in?”

If we
did
mind, we couldn’t have done anything about it. We ushered him into the living room, where Barnes came to a halt, bowler hat in hand.

“You’ve tidied up a bit,” he said. “Didn’t know you had a carpet.”

“Just getting on top of things, Inspector.” George pushed his glasses up his nose and spoke authoritatively. “What can we do for you?”

Barnes looked about as relaxed and at ease as a man wearing fiberglass underpants. He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve just had Miss Fiona Wintergarden on the phone. A very…influential
lady. It’s slightly hard for me to believe, but she’s seemingly delighted with you after a job you did last night, and she’s
requested
”—he emphasized the
word, glaring around as if daring us to contradict—“that I employ your services for the Chelsea outbreak. I’ve come over to officially ask Mr. Lockwood if your company might join
the investigation.” The inspector’s mouth snapped shut. With his unpleasant duty over, he visibly relaxed. “Where
is
Lockwood, in fact?”

“Ah,” I said. “He’s ill.”

“He was injured at the Wintergarden house,” George said. “Bump on the head.”

I nodded. “Might be a concussion. Very serious. I’m afraid he’s unavailable.”

“But it’s all right,” George said. “I’m his deputy. You can talk to me.” He waved the inspector to a seat and lowered himself into Lockwood’s chair.

“Afternoon, Barnes.” Lockwood strode briskly into the room. He wore his long dressing gown, pajamas, and Persian slippers, and his turban looked bigger, bloodier, and more lopsided
than ever. Barnes stared at him as one in a trance. “Something wrong?” Lockwood asked.

“Not at all…” The inspector collected himself. “I like it. Head wounds clearly suit you.”

“Thanks. Right. Hop out of that chair, George. So…did I hear right? You’re finally asking for our help?”

Barnes rolled his eyes, puckered his lips, and made some important adjustment to the brim of his hat. “Yes,” he said, “in a manner of speaking. The outbreak is raging, and we
could frankly do with any assistance you might provide. There were riots last night too; and the affected area of London is…Well, you’ll have to come and see.”

“Bad, is it?”

Barnes rubbed his eyes with stubby fingers. He had short, ragged nails, bitten to the quick. “Mr. Lockwood,” he said slowly, “it’s like the end of the world.”

T
he next evening, we saw it for ourselves.

DEPRAC had set up temporary headquarters in Sloane Square at the eastern margin of the containment zone. The square had been cordoned off from the public; giant warning posters hung from
billboards, and unsmiling officers stood at entry points. Lockwood, George, and I showed our passes and were waved through.

The surrounding streets had been silent, dark and empty, though we’d seen broken windows, overturned cars, and other scattered evidence of recent protests. The square, however, was bright
and filled with feverish activity. Spotlights on trucks had been drawn up in the center, illuminating everything in stark and pitiless detail. The grass was bleached out, the faces of hurrying
agents and officers seared white as bone. Black rubber cables coiled across the shining asphalt like monstrous veins, supplying power to temporary ghost-lamps on the roofs and to outdoor heaters
near the catering vans.

Everywhere we looked, people thronged. Bands of agents, trotting after their supervisors, patting their belt pouches, testing their swords; long-haired Sensitives, lining up drippily at the tea
urns like rows of weeping willow trees; night-watch kids, be-scarfed and watch-capped, clustering as close to the heaters as they dared; suited adult DEPRAC workers rushing back and forth like they
actually did something for a living beyond letting children enter a psychically ravaged area of London on their behalf. A hair salon on one corner had been commandeered; here representatives of
Mullet and Sons, the rapier dealers, had created an outpost where swords could be replaced, repaired, or just scraped free of ectoplasm, once each team returned from its nightly expedition into the
haunted wastes of Chelsea.

At the western end of the square, imposing iron barriers, ten feet high and fixed into concrete bases, had been dragged across to block the entrance to the street beyond. This street was the
King’s Road, which ran from Sloane Square for more than a mile southwest to the lavender factories of Fulham Broadway. In more ordinary times, it was the spine of a popular shopping district,
with residential streets radiating from it like the barbs of a feather. The past six weeks had changed all that. Now a single gate in the barrier, locked and guarded, provided the only access, with
a squat watchtower of scaffolding and wooden boards rising beside it.

As arranged with Barnes, we made straight for the tower.

The inspector’s deputy, Officer Ernest Dobbs, met us at the foot of the gantry. He was a stolid young man, a typical DEPRAC officer from the tip of his cauliflower ears to the
spit-and-polish predictability of his studded boots. He regarded us skeptically, eyes lingering on the wad of gauze now taped to Lockwood’s forehead above his left eye. Then he led us up the
steps. At the top he stood aside and waved a negligent hand.

“Here you go,” he said. “Welcome to Chelsea.”

The ghost-lamps of the King’s Road were still on. They stretched away into the wintry dark, two strings of flickering white orbs, carrying with them the dark fronts of the buildings on
either side. Dark, but not
entirely
dark: at certain windows, faint spectral glows could be seen, dim blues and greens that pulsed and wavered, and here and there went suddenly out. Far
off, at the junction with a side street, a pale figure flitted away into the night. I heard snatches of screaming carried on the wind—fragments of noise that neither started nor stopped, but
just repeated on a mindless loop.