Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy

by Jonathan Stroud

  “He’s not the only one.” George gave the paper a prod. “I’m not sure I approve of Kipps getting equal billing with you here.”

  “Oh, that’s just to keep him sweet. To be honest, we do owe him for supporting us, and it’s paid off for him now. Did you hear he’s been promoted? Section leader or something, wasn’t it, Luce? You’re the one who told me.”

  “Yeah, Fittes Division Leader,” I said.

  “That’s it. Awarded by Penelope Fittes herself. Still, that didn’t prevent Kipps from having a massive fight with me about the way we handled the Room of Bones at the end. He was furious that the Rotwell team got there before anyone from his agency.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell them to go in, did you?” George said.

  “No. I don’t know who did, actually. I suppose it must have been Barnes….” All at once, Lockwood fixed me with his dark eyes. “Are you all right, Lucy?” he asked.

  “Yes! Yes….” He’d startled me; I’d been drifting. Just for a moment the living Lockwood, sitting at the table, cutting himself a piece of Holly’s trendy delicatessen cheese, had been lost, hidden beneath the gory, white-faced apparition of the underground room….

  I blinked the mirage away. It was fake! I knew it was. I knew it was a lie. I’d seen Lockwood himself slice the Fetch in two just as cleanly as he did that cheese.

  But try as I might, I couldn’t shake my mind clear.

  I show you the future. This is your doing.

  “Have a piece of Parma ham, Lucy,” Holly said. “Lockwood likes it. It’ll really put the blood back in your cheeks.”

  “Er, yeah, sure—thanks.”

  Holly and me? We’d adopted a mutual policy of careful toleration. Over the last few days, for want of anything better, we’d kind of muddled by. Don’t get me wrong—we still riled each other. Her new habit of sweeping up crumbs around my plate while I was eating, for example—that got my goat. Meanwhile, she was less than thrilled by my (justifiable) habit of rolling my eyes and gasping aloud whenever she did something especially finicky, precious, or controlling. But things didn’t threaten to ignite the way they once had. Perhaps it was because we’d already said everything there was to say, that awful night at Aickmere’s. Or perhaps it was simply because we no longer had the energy to be furious anymore.

  “Speaking of the Room of Bones,” George said, as he moved his plate of ciabatta crusts to one side, “I’d like to show you something, courtesy of the noble Thinking Cloth.” In front of him was his diagram, multicolored and carefully inscribed. Imagine a square with a circle inside it, and inside that circle nine precisely arranged dots. Right in the middle of that, another small circle, crosshatched in black, with several thin, spidery pencil lines radiating from opposite sides of it like broken bicycle spokes. On one side of the circle stretched a long red stain.

  George smoothed out the cloth. “This is my plan of the room,” he said, “taken from the measurements Flo and I noted down the other day. Lucy and Lockwood were absolutely right. Someone else was here, and they were doing something very specific. Look how the skeletons were pushed back to form a kind of perfect circle around the edges. I know they weren’t originally like that, because I found bone fragments in the center of the room. Someone carefully arranged them that way. They then rigged up nine candles in a ring: the wax marks show how these were positioned. After that, something happened in the middle of the room, right here.” He pointed to the crosshatched circle. “It’s an ectoplasm burn. I studied it particularly closely. The stones there were still very cold. The burn reminds me of others we’ve seen, where something otherworldly came through.”

  He didn’t mention it, none of us did: but there was an example of a burn like that in our very house, on the mattress in the abandoned room upstairs.

  “Interesting,” Lockwood breathed. “And what’s this sinister red stain?”

  “That’s some jam from breakfast this morning.” George pushed his glasses up his nose. “But check these out.” He pointed to the pencil marks radiating from the center. “The lines mark the position of a number of odd scrapes and scuff marks on the floor. They’re very odd.”

  “Maybe where the bones were being dragged?” Lockwood suggested.

  “It’s possible. But to me they look more like they were made by metal.” He chuckled. “Like that time I pulled those chains across the office floor, Lockwood, and left scratches on the wood?”

  Lockwood frowned. “Yes…you still haven’t revarnished that.”

  “You know what it reminds me of?” I said slowly. I felt sluggish; a weight pressed down on me. It was all I could do to speak. “The diagram as a whole, I mean?”

  “I think I know what you’re going to say,” George said. “And yes, I agree.”

  “The bone glass from Kensal Green. Obviously it was much smaller, but it had a bony perimeter too, arranged in a kind of circle. There’s no mirror or lens or anything here, I know, but…”

  “Unless someone brought one in,” Lockwood said.

  “When I was up in the department store,” I went on, “I could feel a kind of…psychic buzzing—a disturbance, if you like, which reminded me of the bone glass. Only it was gone when I actually got down to the room of bones.”

  “I wonder…” George said. “Maybe they were still at work down there when we first turned up. Maybe, Luce, you only just missed them.”

  “That’s quite a creepy thought,” Lockwood said, and oddly, since it involved meeting the living, not the dead, I found he was quite right. “Seems your earlier theory was correct, anyway, George,” he said. “The spirits of the prison were stirred up by this weird activity, and that caused a ripple effect out across Chelsea. Flo swears the tunnel entrance wasn’t there a few months ago, so it’s very recent. I wonder what they were doing, and what they got out of it….And who they were.”

  “We’ve got that cigarette butt you found,” George said. “I took it to a tobacconist friend of mine. He says it’s a Persian Light, quite an exclusive brand. But where that leaves us, I don’t know. I didn’t have time to find any other clues. It’s just a shame those Rotwell agents took everything apart so fast.”

  Lockwood nodded. “Yes, isn’t it? What do you think, Holly?”

  “I still think that cloth is an eyesore,” Holly said. “I don’t know why you don’t use pieces of paper, which I could then file away nicely. Look at the way you’ve got jam all over your drawing, George.” She picked up a plate. “Right, who wants more hummus sandwiches?”

  “Only a couple more for me,” George said. “I’m saving myself for that whopping chocolate cake at the end.”

  Lockwood took a sandwich. “Penny for your thoughts, Lucy. You’ve been really quiet today.”

  It was true; over the last few days a new understanding had settled over me, slowly, softly, like a blanket or feather eiderdown. Its force was gentle, yet I buckled under the implications. Words weren’t so easy to come by, then.

  “I was just wondering,” I said, in a small voice. “Do you think any ghost can show the future? I mean, obviously they show the past, mostly. That’s what they’re made of. But if Fetches—or other kinds of Visitor—can burrow into people’s minds and sift their thoughts, which they seem to, could they possibly do other stuff? Like make predictions about what’s to come?”

  They gazed at me. “Blimey,” George said. “You do realize that the profoundest thing I’ve been wondering this afternoon is how many chips I can possibly stuff in.”

  “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 belie
ve 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—”

  “I know you would,” I said. “Of course. But it isn’t fair. To you.”

  Holly was frowning, looking down at her lap; George was doing something with his glasses. I pressed my fingers hard against the wood of the chair, feeling its smoothness and its grain.

  “Is that it?” Lockwood asked quietly. “Is that really what this is all about?”

  I looked at him, sitting there beside me.

  “It’s enough,” I said. “I put all your lives at risk, not once but several times. One way or another, I’m becoming a liability to the company, and I care too much about you all to let that happen again.” It was super-hard to smile then, and it wasn’t going to get any easier. So I just got on with it. “And that’s why I’ve made up my mind the way I have,” I said, “and why I’m resigning at once from Lockwood and Co.”

  There was silence in the room.

  “So much for me enjoying this bloody cake,” George said.

  * indicates a Typ
e One ghost

  ** indicates a Type Two ghost

  Agency, Psychic Investigation—A business specializing in the containment and destruction of ghosts. There are more than a dozen agencies in London alone. The largest two (the Fittes Agency and the Rotwell Agency) have hundreds of employees; the smallest (Lockwood & Co.) has three. Most agencies are run by adult supervisors, but all rely heavily on children with strong psychic Talent.

  Apparition—The shape formed by a ghost during a manifestation. Apparitions usually mimic the shape of a dead person, but animals and objects are also seen. Some can be quite unusual. The Specter in the recent Limehouse Docks case manifested as a greenly glowing king cobra, while the infamous Bell Street Horror took the guise of a patchwork doll. Powerful or weak, most ghosts do not (or cannot) alter their appearance.

  Aura—The radiance surrounding many apparitions. Most auras are fairly faint, and are seen best out of the corner of the eye. Strong, bright auras are known as other-light. A few ghosts radiate black auras that are darker than the night around them.

  Chain net—A net made of finely spun silver chains; a versatile variety of Seal.

  Changer**—A rare and dangerous Type Two ghost, powerful enough to alter its appearance during a manifestation.

  Chill—The sharp drop in temperature that occurs when a ghost is near. One of the four usual indicators of an imminent manifestation, the others being malaise, miasma, and creeping fear. Chill may extend over a wide area, or be concentrated in specific cold spots.

  Cluster—A group of ghosts occupying a small area.

  Cold Maiden*—A gray, misty female form, often wearing old-fashioned dress, seen indistinctly at a distance. Cold Maidens radiate powerful feelings of melancholy and malaise. As a rule, they rarely draw close to the living, but exceptions have been known.

  Corpse-bell—A deep-toned bell rung in churches to announce funerals.

  Corpse-light—A pale and sickly supernatural radiance; another name for other-light.

  Creeping fear—A sense of inexplicable dread often experienced in the build-up to a manifestation. Often accompanied by chill, miasma, and malaise.