Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (24 page)

“Oh, I thought you only did healthy.” I went to the stand and got in line for cones.

Beyond the mausoleum I could see the carnival procession waiting—a row of ornate floats, constructed on the open tops of Sunrise Corporation trucks, and decorated with agency colors. On
some, giant logos had been erected. The looped chains of Tendy & Sons wobbled on the end of a white mast; behind them I spotted the Grimble fox and the all-seeing owl of Dullop and Tweed. Each
had been fashioned from papier-mÂché, steel, and wood, then gaudily painted. They were vast effigies twenty feet high. Around them stood willing young agents, ready to lob candy and
pamphlets into the crowds. There were one or two show floats, too, housing troupes of actors who were to recreate famous scenes from agency history. Shivering corpses in white makeup prepared for
battle with gallant agents dressed in historic costumes. They would perform throughout the parade.

At the head of the line stood the largest vehicle, decked out in red and silver, the colors of the two great agencies. Above it, bobbing gently against the darkened sky, hung two vast helium
balloons, firmly cabled—a unicorn and a rampant lion, the symbols of Fittes and Rotwell respectively. You could just see the chairs where Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell would sit.

“Miss Carlyle? Lucy Carlyle?”

“Yes?” The voice had barely carried above the noise of the crowd, and I didn’t recognize it. Nor did I at first make much of the very short and stocky person, swathed in a fur
overcoat, with a broad-brimmed bowler hat concealing his bent head, who stepped suddenly toward my line. His trousers were of soft velvet; beneath them, expensive patent leather boots shone in the
white lamplight. I caught a glimpse of an ivory cane held between heavily jeweled fingers; then, with a swift flick of his wrist, he tipped the hat back so that his face was revealed. It was a boy
with a broad smooth countenance, a wide mouth and cheeks that subsided into his soft thick neck like folds of uncooked dough. Strands of oiled black hair were visible at the temples. Small eyes
glared at me, sharp and blue as crystal shards.

I knew him immediately. There was only one person with a face like that. Or rather, there were two, but the elder one was swarthier, hairier, and in prison. That other individual was the
notorious Julius Winkman, the black marketeer. This youth was his son, Leopold, a chip off the old block.

“What can I do for
you
, Master Winkman?” That’s what I
should
have said, in a cool, collected voice. As it was, I was too surprised; I made a goggling sound
and just stared at him with my mouth open.

George, suddenly at my side, spoke for me. “Can we help you?”

“I have a message,” the boy said. “My father sends his compliments, and says he’ll be seeing you all very soon.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “Your daddy got twenty years, didn’t he?”

Leopold Winkman smiled. “Oh, we have ways and means, as you’ll soon see. And here’s something in the meantime, Miss Carlyle, by way of being on account.”

With that, swift as a portly snake, he stuck out his hand and prodded me sharply in the solar plexus with the head of his cane. The air was driven out of me; I gasped and doubled over. Leopold
Winkman flipped his hat rakishly low across his eyes, spun on his shiny heel, and began to saunter away. His picture of serene progress was interrupted by George, who, whipping his rapier from his
belt, stuck it diagonally between Leopold’s legs so that he tripped, lost his balance, and tumbled forward into the crowd, bumping into three burly workmen and spilling their drinks on their
wives and girlfriends. An altercation ensued, as Leopold unsuccessfully tried to escape, lashing out at all comers with his little cane. As his cries were swallowed by the angry throng, George
helped me upright and led me back across the street.

“I’m all right,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Thanks, George. But you don’t have to bother about me.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Rats—I never got the ice cream cones.”

But it didn’t matter. When we got back, Lockwood was looking at his watch. “We’d better get to our seats,” he said. “Time’s flying. Wintergarden won’t
want us late.”

He led the way among the stalls and under the shadow of the Mausoleum where a row of armed officials studied a guest list and waved us in among the floats. Giant balloons moved above us;
streamers gusted, engines revved. We walked through gas fumes.

Miss Wintergarden had said she was important, a friend of high society. As with other matters, she hadn’t lied. It turned out that she was on the first and biggest float, the VIP one. Up a
gangway we went and out onto a wooden platform fixed to the top of the truck. It was very broad, extending out on both sides. Flags flew from poles above, and plastic lions and unicorns stood at
intervals along the sides like sentries on castle battlements. Rows of chairs were already filled with the broad backsides of the great and good, men in dark, expensive overcoats, women heavily
be-furred. Young members of the Fittes and Rotwell agencies moved along them, pouring out mulled wine and offering sweetmeats. From a far-off seat, Miss Wintergarden saw us, fluttered her fingers
condescendingly, then paid us no further attention.

Lockwood, George, and I hung back, uncertain where to sit, but Holly Munro seemed galvanized. She smoothed down her coat, adjusted her hat, and sashayed between the seats, nodding to people that
she passed, exchanging little waves with others. She seemed miraculously at ease. At the front of the platform she looked back and beckoned. By the time we reached her, she was already talking to
several of the most important people on the float, among them the leaders of the two great agencies, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell.

We knew Ms. Fittes already, and were on good, if distant, terms. A striking woman of indeterminate age, the twin auras of beauty and of power were intertwined about her and could not be easily
separated. She wore a long white coat that dropped almost to her ankles; the collar and cuffs were made of brilliant white fur. Her long dark hair had been lifted and ornately styled; it was fixed
in position by a curling silver band. She greeted us warmly, which is more than could be said of the man beside her—Steve Rotwell, chairman of the Rotwell agency.

It was the first time I’d seen him in the flesh. He was a big man, solid beneath his heavy coat, and handsome in a ponderous sort of way. He was thick-jawed and clean-shaven, with unusual
green eyes. His dark hair was turning gray behind his ears. He nodded at us distantly, his gaze wandering elsewhere.

“A wonderful evening,” Lockwood said.

“Yes. A remarkable attempt to entertain the people.” Penelope Fittes pulled her coat more tightly around her neck. “It was Steve’s idea.”

Mr. Rotwell grunted. “Cakes and carnivals,” he said. “Keeps everyone happy.” He turned away from us, looking at his watch.

Ms. Fittes smiled at his back. You could possibly surmise her impatience with the whole proceeding, but she was too well bred to reveal it. “And how is Lockwood and Company
faring?”

“Oh, trying to make our mark,” Lockwood said.

“I heard about your job for Fiona Wintergarden. Well done.”

“I’m busy researching,” George put in. “Wanting to achieve big things. I’m hoping to join the Orpheus Society one day. Have you heard of it?” He looked at
her.

Penelope Fittes hesitated, then her smile broadened. “Most certainly.”

“Not sure I have,” Lockwood admitted. “What is it?”

“It’s a loose association,” Ms. Fittes said. “Industrialists who are trying to understand the mechanics of the Problem. I encourage their work. Who knows what we might
uncover if we use our ingenuity? We would be pleased to welcome you one day, Mr. Cubbins.”

“Thanks. Though I’m not sure I really have the brains.”

She laughed prettily. “Now, Mr. Lockwood, you must meet one of my companions. This is Sir Rupert Gale.”

The person beyond her had been leaning on the rail around the platform. He turned: a young man with blond hair, cut short at the back and sides, but tightly curled above his forehead. He had a
neatly manicured mustache, full lips, and very bright blue eyes. His cheeks were pink with cold. Like most of the others on the float, he was smartly dressed; unlike them, he leaned idly on a
polished cane. He transferred this to his left glove, so that he could shake Lockwood’s hand.

“Sir Rupert.” Lockwood didn’t betray, in the causal way he spoke, the fact that we had encountered the man before. Last time we saw him, he’d chased us up a drainpipe
onto a factory roof, expertly wielding a sword-stick hidden in his cane. He was a collector of forbidden artifacts, and we’d stolen a very important one from under his nose after
Winkman’s black market auction. True, we’d been wearing ski masks at the time and had jumped into the river to escape him, but we were under no illusions. Our role had since become
common knowledge. He knew us, too.

“Charmed.” The gloved grip held Lockwood fast. “Haven’t we met?”

“I don’t think so,” Lockwood said. “I’d surely remember.”

“Thing is,” Sir Rupert Gale said, “I remember faces. I never forget ’em. Even parts of faces. Even chins.”

“Oh, there are dozens of people with ugly mugs like mine,” Lockwood said. He kept his hand locked in the other’s; he coolly held the young man’s gaze.

“Sir Rupert is a good friend of the Fittes Agency,” Penelope Fittes said. “His father helped my grandmother, long ago. He helps train young agents in swordfighting and other
martial skills.”

“I’d love to give you a demonstration.” Sir Rupert let go of Lockwood’s hand. “We must have a chat one day—about your business, and mine.”

Lockwood smiled faintly. “Any time you like.”

A horn sounded. Penelope Fittes made her way to the front of the platform; we retreated along the float. Someone pressed hot drinks into our hands. Firecrackers burst above the streets, bathing
us in silver and red; the truck gave a jerk and began to move.

“Bit forward of you to ask about the Orpheus Society, George,” I whispered.

George frowned. “No…she was totally chilled about it, wasn’t she? Kind of surprised me. I thought it might be more hush-hush, somehow.”

He took a chair; Holly Munro stood chatting with members of the Rotwell contingent. Lockwood and I remained standing, staring out over the crowds.

Along the Strand the convoy went, carving its way slowly down the center of the road through wreaths of lavender smoke. Tinned music blared from speakers at the corners of the platform:
dramatic, patriotic songs. Ms. Fittes and Mr. Rotwell waved. Behind us came the first show float, with actors in old-fashioned costumes hunting ghosts through Styrofoam ruins to the accompaniment
of drums. Agents threw candies and other freebies down; the crowd cheered. People leaped and surged to catch them.

Cakes and carnivals,
Steve Rotwell had said.
Keeps everyone happy.

But did it? It seemed to me that ripples of electric energy were running through the crowd. Not quite the random chaos you’d expect. Subtle waves of movement like wind blowing through the
wheat fields close to my childhood home. Behind the cheers rose other noises—hisses and murmurings that lapped against the rumble of the wheels. Pale faces stared up at us beyond the
smoke.

Lockwood had sensed it too. “There’s trouble brewing,” he whispered. “Everything’s wrong. The fair I sort of understand, but this parade thing’s weird. I
don’t know who it’s going to convince. I feel awkward and exposed up here.”

“It’s dire,” I agreed. “Look at those idiots capering on the float behind. And the worst of it is—we’re going so slowly. The whole thing’s going to take
hours
.”

But it didn’t. Our journey was very short.

We were halfway down the Strand, not far from Charing Cross Station and Fittes House, when members of the crowd broke through the cordons and surged across the road. The float stopped, its
engine idling. One of the agents took a tub of candies and tossed them from the float: I watched them fall, glittering like rain. Then something else shot through the air—large and dully
shining. It landed in the float not far from me, striking the middle of the platform with a crack of broken glass. At first I thought it was one of the ghost-lamps strung above us, and that its
cable had somehow broken. Then I felt the wave of cold and sudden psychic fear and realized the truth—but I was still standing rooted to the spot when the first Visitor appeared in the air
before me.

I
t was a pale, bent thing, stooped and thin. Yellowed, diaphanous rags coiled around it. Though its outline held firm, its substance bubbled up and
over like soup in a pot. Glimpses of a rib cage, of a folding, twisting spine, of flesh and sinew welled up, stretched, and were sucked back in again. The head was lowered, the white arms crossed
over the face as if it feared to see us, fingers splayed above like splintered horns.

Those of us young enough—those of us who
saw
—had our rapiers out before the second ghost-bomb landed. That would be Lockwood, George, and me; Holly Munro, observing us,
struggled to pull her rapier free. Some of the younger Fittes agents, the ones not throwing candy, dropped their trays of drinks and reached for their belts. But the adults were blind—even
the ones right by the ghost looked straight through it, merely adjusting their coat collars as if they felt a sudden chill.