Lockwood & Co. The Hollow Boy

Our route to Whitechapel had taken us via the center of the city. We were in Trafalgar Square. As I got out of the taxi, I saw that a crowd had gathered below Nelson’s Column, lit by the sputtering white light of many ghost-lamps. They were ordinary citizens, a rare sight after dark. Some carried signs; others were taking turns to make speeches from a makeshift platform. I could not hear what was being said. A ring of police and DEPRAC officers surrounded them at some distance; farther out still, and spilling out into the street, stood a large mass of psychic investigation agents, presumably there to protect the assembly. They wore the brightly colored jackets that most agencies use. Silver Fittes ones; the burgundy splendors of the Rotwell agency; the canary yellow of Tamworth; Grimble’s green pea-soupers: all these and many more were present and correct. A DEPRAC tea van had parked on one side and was doling out hot drinks; and many other cars and taxis waited close by.

Lockwood made a beeline straight across the square. I hurried after him.

I don’t know what the collective noun for a group of psychic investigation agents is, but it ought to be a posture or a preen. Knots of operatives stood in color-coded groups, eyeing their hated rivals, talking loudly and uttering barks of raucous laughter. The smallest agents—kids of seven or eight—stood drinking tea and making faces at one another. Older ones swaggered to and fro, exchanging insulting gestures under the noses of their supervisors, who pretended not to notice. Chests swelled, swords glinted in the lamp-light. The air crackled with condescension and hostility.

Lockwood and I passed through the throng to where a familiar figure stood, gloomily regarding the scene. As usual, Inspector Montagu Barnes wore a rumpled trench coat, an indifferent suit, and a bowler hat of dark brown suede. Unusually, he was holding a Styrofoam cup of steaming orange soup. He had a weathered, lived-in face, and a graying mustache the approximate size and length of a dead hamster. Barnes worked for DEPRAC, the Department of Psychic Research and Control—the government bureau that monitored the activities of agencies and, on occasions such as this, commandeered them for the common good. He wouldn’t have won any prizes for grace or geniality, but he was shrewd and efficient, and not noticeably corrupt. That didn’t mean he enjoyed our company.

Beside him stood a smallish man resplendently decked out in the plush livery of the Fittes Agency. His boots shone, his skintight trousers gleamed. An expensive rapier swung from a jeweled belt strap at his side; his silver jacket was soft as tiger’s pelt, and perfectly matched by exquisite kidskin gloves. All very swish; impressive, even. Unfortunately, the body within the uniform belonged to Quill Kipps, so the overall effect was like watching a plague rat lick a bowl of caviar. Yes, the classy element was there, but it wasn’t what you focused on.

Kipps was red-haired, scrawny, and pathetically self-satisfied. For a variety of reasons, possibly connected to the fact that we often said this to his face, he had long disliked us here at Lockwood & Co. As a team leader for Fittes’s London Division, and one of the youngest adult supervisors in that agency, he had regularly worked with Barnes at DEPRAC; in fact, he was reading to him from a three-ring binder as we approached.

“…forty-eight Type One sightings last night in the Chelsea containment zone,” he said. “And, if you take the reports as gospel, a possible seventeen Type Twos. That’s a staggering concentration.”

“And how many deaths so far?” Barnes asked.

“Eight, including the three tramps. As before, the Sensitives report dangerous emanations, but the origin is not yet clear.”

“Okay, once this demonstration is over, we’ll head down to Chelsea. I’ll want the agents split across the four sectors with the Sensitives organized into supporting bands that—Oh, gawd.” Barnes had noticed our arrival. “Hold on a minute, Kipps.”

“Evening, Inspector.” Lockwood wore his widest smile. “Kipps.”

“They aren’t on the list, are they?” Kipps said. “Want me to run them off?”

Barnes shook his head; he took a sip of soup. “Lockwood, Miss Carlyle…To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Since he spoke with all the joy of a man giving a speech at his mother’s funeral, “pleasure” was evidently a relative thing for Barnes. It wasn’t that he hated us—we’d helped him out too often for that—but sometimes mild irritation went a long way.

“Just passing by,” Lockwood said. “Thought we’d say hello. Looks like you have quite the gathering here. Most of the agencies in London are represented.” His smile broadened. “Just wondering if you’d forgotten our invitations.”

Barnes regarded us. The steam from his cup curled around his mustache fronds like mist in a Chinese bamboo forest. He took another sip. “No.”

“Good soup, is it?” Lockwood asked, after a pause. “What sort?”

“Tomato.” Barnes gazed into his cup. “Why? What’s wrong with it? Not quality enough for you?”

“No, it looks very nice….Particularly the bit on the end of your mustache. May I ask why DEPRAC hasn’t included Lockwood and Co. in the whole Chelsea operation? If this outbreak’s so dreadful, surely you could do with our assistance?”

“Don’t think so.” Barnes glared across at the crowd gathered beneath the Column. “It may be a national crisis, but we’re not that desperate. Look around you. We’ve got plenty of talent here. Quality agents.”

I looked. Some of the operatives standing close were familiar to me, kids with reputations. Others, less so. At the base of the steps, a group of pale girls in mustard jackets had been marshaled by an immensely fat man. By his dangling jowls, rolling belly, and self-importantly clenched buttocks, I recognized Mr. Adam Bunchurch, proprietor of that undistinguished agency.

Lockwood frowned. “I see the quantity. Quality, not so much.” He leaned in, spoke softly. “Bunchurch? I mean, come on.”

Barnes stirred his soup with a plastic spoon. “I don’t deny your talents, Mr. Lockwood. If nothing else, those pearly teeth of yours could light our way in the darkest alleys. But how many of you are there in your company? Still three? Exactly. And one of those is George Cubbins. Skilled as you and Ms. Carlyle undoubtedly are, three more agents simply won’t make any difference.” He tapped his spoon on the edge of the cup and handed it to Kipps. “This Chelsea case is huge,” he said. “It covers a massive area. Shades, Specters, Wraiths, and Lurkers—more and more of ’em appearing, and no sign of the central cause. Hundreds of buildings are under surveillance, whole streets being evacuated….The public aren’t happy about it—that’s why they’re holding this protest here tonight. We need numbers for this, and people who’ll do what they’re told. Sorry, but that’s two excellent reasons to leave you out.” He took a decisive sip of soup and cursed. “Ow! Hot!”

“Better blow on it for him, Kipps.” Lockwood’s expression had darkened as Barnes spoke; he turned away. “Well, have a good evening, Inspector. Give us a call when things get difficult.”

We set off back toward the taxi.

“Lockwood! Wait!”

It was Kipps, stalking after us, the binder under his arm.

“Can I help you?” Lockwood spoke coolly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“I’m not coming to crow,” Kipps said, “though heaven knows I could. I’m coming with advice—for Lucy, mainly, since I know you’re unlikely to listen to sense.”

“I don’t need advice from you,” I said.

Kipps grinned. “Oh, but you do. Listen, you’re missing out. There’re weird things going on in Chelsea. More Visitors than I’ve ever seen before. More different kinds, all close together—and dangerous, too, like they’ve been stirred up by something. Three nights running, my team’s covered the same lane behind the King’s Road. First two nights: nothing. Third night, a Raw-bones came out of the dark; nearly got Kate Godwin and Ned Shaw. A Raw-bones! From nowhere! Barnes doesn’t have a clue why. No one does.”

Lockwood shrugged. “I’ve offered to help. My offer’s been rejected.”

Kipps ran fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Of course it has. Because you’re nobodies. What are you doing tonight? Some small, pathetic case, I’m sure.”

“It’s a ghost bringing terror to ordinary people,” Lockwood said. “Is that pathetic? I don’t think so.”

Kipps nodded. “Okay, sure, but if you want to work on the important stuff, you need to be part of a real agency. Either of you could easily find a proper job at Fittes. In fact, Lucy’s got an open invitation to join my team. I’ve told her that before.”

I stared him down. “Yes, and you’ve heard my answer.”

“Well, that’s your choice,” Kipps said. “But I say, scrub up, swallow your pride, and get stuck in. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time.” With a nod at me, he stalked away.

“Bloody nerve,” Lockwood said. “He’s talking nonsense, as usual.” Even so, he said little in the taxi, and it was left to me to give renewed directions to 6, Nelson Street, Whitechapel, and our appointment with the veiled ghost.

It was a terraced house in a narrow lane. Our client, Mrs. Peters, had been watching out for us: the door swung open before I could knock. She was a young, nervous-looking woman, made prematurely gray by anxiety. She wore a thick shawl over her head and shoulders and clutched a large wooden crucifix in gloved hands.

“Is it there?” she whispered. “Is it up there?”

“How can we tell?” I said. “We haven’t gone in yet.”

“From the street!” she hissed. “They say you can see it there!”

Neither Lockwood nor I had thought to look at the window from outside. We stepped backward off the sidewalk and into the deserted street, craning our necks up at the two windows on the upper floor. The one above the door was lit; tiles indicated that it was a bathroom. The other window had no light within it, nor (unlike the other windows) did its glass reflect the glare from the streetlight two doors down. It was a dull, black space. And in it, very difficult to see, was the outline of a woman. It was as if she were standing right up against the window with her back to the street. You could see a dark dress and strands of long black hair.

Lockwood and I returned to the door. I cleared my throat. “Yes, it’s up there.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Lockwood said, as we shuffled past Mrs. Peters into the narrow hall. He flashed her his fifty-percent smile, the reassuring one. “We’ll go up and see.”

Our client gave a whimper. “You understand why I can’t sleep easy, Mr. Lockwood?” she said. “You understand now, don’t you?” Her eyes were frightened moons; she hovered close behind him, keeping the crucifix raised like a mask before her face. Its top almost went up Lockwood’s nose when he turned around.

“Mrs. Peters,” he said, gently pushing it down, “there’s one thing you could do for us. Very important.”

“Yes?”

“Could you pop into the kitchen and put the kettle on? Think you could do that?”

“Certainly. Yes, yes, I think I can.”

“Great. Two teas would be marvelous, when you get a moment. Don’t bring them up. We’ll come down for them when we’re finished, and I bet they’ll still be hot.”

Another smile, a squeeze of the arm. Then he was following me up the narrow staircase, our bags bumping against the wall.

There was no landing to speak of, more of an extended top step. Three doors: one for the bathroom, one for the back bedroom—and one for the bedroom at the front of the house. About fifty heavy iron nails had been hammered into this door; they were hung with chains and hanks of lavender. The wood itself was scarcely visible.

“Hmm, I wonder which one it is,” I murmured.

“She’s certainly not taking any chances,” Lockwood agreed. “Oh, lovely—she’s a hymn singer, too. Might’ve guessed.”

Downstairs we’d heard the door close and footsteps in the kitchen, followed by a sudden snatch of shakily warbled song.

“Not sure that does any good,” I said. I was checking my belt, loosening my rapier. “Or the crucifix. It’s pointless if it’s not iron or silver.”

Lockwood had taken a thin chain out of his pack and was looping it at the ready across one arm. He stood so close that he brushed against me. “Gives comfort, though. Half the things my parents brought back are the same. You know the bone-and-peacock-feather tambourine in the library? Balinese spirit-ward. Not an ounce of iron or silver on it….Right, are we ready?”

I smiled at him. There was a horror behind that door. I would see it in seconds. Yet my heart sang in my breast, to be standing beside Lockwood in that house. All was as it should be in the world.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m looking forward to that nice hot tea.”

I closed my eyes and counted to six, to get my eyes ready for the transition from light to dark. Then I opened the door and stepped through.

Beyond the barrier of nails the air was cold, skin-bitingly so. It was as if someone had left a freezer door wide open. As Lockwood closed the door behind us, darkness swallowed us like we’d been immersed in ink. It wasn’t just that the ceiling light was off—it was a more profound blackness. No light came in from the street outside.

But there had been no curtains at the window; it had been a bare piece of glass.

Something was blocking it, preventing light from coming through.

Away in that cold, cold inky dark, a person was weeping—a horrible sound, desolate yet wheedling, as of one spiritually bereft. The noise echoed oddly, as if we were in a vast and empty space.

“Lockwood,” I whispered, “are you still there?”

I felt a friendly prod. “Right beside you. Chilly! Should have put my gloves on.”

“I hear crying.”

“She’s at the window. In the pane. You see her?”

“No.”

“You don’t see her clawing hands?”

“No! Well, don’t describe them to me….”

“It’s a good thing I don’t have any imagination, or I’d be having nightmares tonight. She’s wearing a lacy gray gown, and a sort of ragged veil over her face. Some kind of letter in one hand, spotted with something dark. Don’t know what that’s about—might be blood or tears. She’s clutching it to her chest with her long, shriveled fingers….Listen, I’m laying out the chains. Best thing we can do is smash the window. Smash it and burn it in the furnaces….” His voice was calm; I heard the hasty clink of iron.

“Lockwood, wait.” Standing blind, with air blistering my face, I composed myself—opened my ears and mind to deeper things. The crying sound receded just a little; in among it I heard a whisper, a tiny out-breath….

“Safe…”

“What is?” I asked. “What’s safe?”

“Lucy,” Lockwood said, “you’re not seeing what I’m seeing. You shouldn’t be talking to this thing. It’s bad.” More chinking at my elbow; I could sense him moving forward. The whispers cut out, resumed, cut out again.

“Put the chains away,” I snapped. “I can’t hear.”

“Safe, sa-afe…”

“Lucy—

“Quiet.”

“I kept it safe.”

“Where did you do that?” I said. “Where?”

“There.” As I turned to look, my Sight cleared. I caught the outline of the window in the corner of my eyes—and within it, darkness superimposed on darkness, a long-haired shape, hunch-shouldered, bent arms raised above the head as if caught in the midst of some frenzied dance or rite. The fingers were grotesquely long; they seemed to spear toward me across the room. I cried out. At my side I could feel Lockwood jumping forward, swinging his sword out and upward. The fingers broke, became separate beams of black light, scattered as if by a prism. Screaming filled my ears. Then the noise splintered like shattered glass. It fell away into silence.

My eardrums flexed; pressure left the room. Light filled it. It was only the pale pink streetlight from out on Nelson Road, but it cast everything into three soft, grainy dimensions. How small it was; not a vast echoing chamber at all. Just an ordinary room with a kids’ bunk bed and chairs, and a dark armoire at my back. Warm air sucked in from the landing, caressing my ankles as it came under the door. Lockwood stood in front of me, rapier out, iron chain trailing through the broken window. Lights shone in the houses opposite. Broken glass jutted from the frame like teeth.

He spun around, staring, breathing hard. His disheveled hair hung dark and loose over one eye. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” I was looking at the armoire. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“She was attacking you, Lucy. You didn’t see her face when her veil blew back.”

“No, no,” I said, “it was okay. She was just showing me where.”

“Where what?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think. Shut up.”

I waved him to one side, walked to the armoire. It was a big one, and old, too—the wood so dark it was almost black. It had decorative tracing on it, scuffed with ancient use. The door was stiff when I pulled it open. Inside hung children’s clothes, overlaid with white moth-strips. I stared at them, scowling, then flicked them aside. The base of the interior was a single piece of wood. Its level seemed a full foot higher than the bottom of the armoire when viewed from outside. I took my penknife from my belt.

Lockwood was hovering uncertainly at my shoulder. “Luce…”

“It was showing me where it hid something,” I muttered, “and I think—yes!”

Jamming the knife in a crack at the back did the trick. When I twisted, the panel came up. It took quite a bit of fiddling with angles, and chucking half the clothes out onto the floor, but I got the piece clear. I put away my knife and got my penlight out.

“There you are,” I said. “See?”

Inside the cavity, bundled up: a dusty, folded piece of paper, fixed with a wax seal. Dark spots stained it. Tears or blood.

“She was showing me,” I said again. “You didn’t need to worry.”

Lockwood nodded, his face still doubtful. He was studying me closely. “Maybe…” All at once he broke into a smile. “And better still, that tea will still be warm. I wonder if she’s got biscuits, too.”

Happiness filled me. My instinct had been right. Those few seconds had been all I needed to connect with the ghost and understand its purpose. Yes, Lockwood saw appearances, but I could see beyond that. I could uncover hidden things. He held the door open for me; I grinned at him, squeezed his arm. When we went out onto the staircase, we could hear the frail voice of Mrs. Peters, still singing in the kitchen.