The Hollow Boy

by Jonathan Stroud

  “For not shutting up.”

  He blinked at me over his spectacles. “Why? It’s interesting.”

  “We’re talking about his sister! Not the bloody pot!”

  George jerked a thumb at Lockwood. “He says it’s ancient history.”

  “Yes, but he’s clearly lying. Look at this place! Look at this room and what’s in it! This is so right now.”

  “Yes, but he’s let us in, Luce. He wants to talk about it. I say that includes the pot.”

  “Oh, come on! This isn’t one of your stupid experiments, George. This is his family. Don’t you have any empathy at all?”

  “I’ve got more empathy than you! For a start I can see the bleeding obvious, which is that Lockwood wants us to discuss it. After years of emotional constipation, he’s ready to share things with us—”

  “Maybe he does, but he’s also completely brittle and hypersensitive, so if—”

  “Hey, I’m still standing here,” Lockwood said. “I didn’t go out, or anything.” Silence fell; George and I broke off and looked at him. “And the truth is,” he went on, “you’re both right. I do want to talk about it—as George says. But I also don’t find it very easy, so Lucy’s spot-on too.” He sighed. “Yes, George, I believe the pot had a layer of iron on the inside. But it cracked, okay? And maybe that’s enough for now.”

  “Lockwood,” I said. I looked toward the bed. “One thing. Does she—?”

  “No.”

  “She’s never—?”

  “No.”

  “But the glow—”

  “She’s never come back.” Lockwood tipped the lavender seeds into one of the vases on the sill and wiped his long, slim hands. “In the early days, you know, I almost hoped she would. I’d come up here, when I was in the house, thinking I might see her standing at the window. I’d wait a long time, looking into the light, expecting to see her shape, or hear her voice….” He smiled at me ruefully. “But there was never anything.”

  He glanced over at the bed, his eyes still penned in behind the blank black glasses. “Anyway, that was early on. It wasn’t healthy, my just hanging out in here. And after a while, when I’d had rather more experience with death-glows and what goes with them, I began to dread her return as well as want it. I couldn’t bear to think how she might appear to me. So then I stopped coming in here much, and I set up the lavender to…to discourage surprises.”

  “Iron would be stronger,” George said. He was like that, George; cutting, in his bespectacled way, to the nub of the issue quicker than everyone else. “I don’t see any iron here—apart from on the door.”

  I looked at Lockwood; his shoulders had gone tight, and for a moment I wondered whether he was going to get angry. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But that’s too much like dealing with an ordinary Visitor—and she’s not that, George, she’s not ordinary. She’s my sister. Even if she does come back, I couldn’t use iron on her.”

  Neither of us said anything.

  “The funny thing is, she loved the smell of lavender,” Lockwood said, in a lighter voice. “You know that scrubby bush of it around the side of the house, out by the trash bins? When I was a kid she used to sit with me and make lavender garlands for our hair.”

  I looked at the vases with their plumes of faded purple. So they were a defense—but a welcome, too.

  “Anyway, lavender’s good stuff,” George said. “Flo Bones swears by it.”

  “Flo just swears in general,” I said.

  We all laughed, but it wasn’t really a room for laughter. Nor for tears, oddly, or for anger, or for any emotion other than a sort of solemnity. It was a place of absence; we were in the presence of something that had left. It was like coming to a valley where someone had once shouted, loud and joyously, and the echo of that shout had resounded between the hills and lasted a long time. But now it had vanished, and you stood on the same spot, and it was not the same.

  We didn’t go back to the room. It was a private place, and George and I left it alone. After that first seismic revelation, Lockwood didn’t bring up the subject of his sister again, nor did he hunt out the photograph he had promised. He rarely mentioned his parents, either, though he did let slip that they had left him 35 Portland Row in their wills. So—somehow, somewhere—they had died, too. But they and Jessica stayed in shadow, and the questions hovering around the silent bedroom largely remained.

  I tried not to let it worry me, and instead be satisfied with what I had learned. Certainly I felt closer to Lockwood now. My knowledge of his past was a privilege. It made me feel warm and special at times like this, speeding with him in the back of the taxi through the London dark. Who knew—perhaps one night, when we were working alone together, he might open up and tell me more?

  The cab braked suddenly; both Lockwood and I jerked forward in our seats. In front of us, moving figures filled the street.

  The driver cursed. “Sorry, Mr. Lockwood. Way’s blocked. There are agents everywhere.”

  “Not a problem.” Lockwood was already reaching for the door. “This is exactly what I want.” Before I could react, almost before the car had stopped, he was out and halfway across the road.

  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.