Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  It was a dark, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows; black shelves, crammed with hardback volumes, lined the walls. Above the mantelpiece hung an oil painting of three ripe green pears. Angled standard lamps stood stooped and heron-like; light from one of these illuminated Anthony Lockwood, slumped sideways in a comfy chair. His long slim legs were draped elegantly over the chair arm; his forelock hung no less decoratively over his brow. He was reading a magazine.

  I hesitated at the door.

  ‘Oh, Ms Carlyle.’ He jumped up, gave me a grin of welcome. ‘Please – come in. Sit wherever you like, except possibly in that brown chair in the corner. That’s George’s, and I’m afraid he’s been known to lounge there in his pants. I hope that’s a habit he’ll snap out of, now you’re here. Don’t worry, he won’t come in now; he’s already gone to bed.’

  I sat in a leather chair opposite his. It was soft and comfy, and only slightly let down by a shrivelled apple core laid neatly on one arm. Lockwood, who had come over to switch on a light behind my head, plucked it deftly away without comment and put it in a bin. He flung himself back into his seat, where he set the magazine down in his lap and folded his hands on top of it.

  We smiled across at each other. All of a sudden I remembered we were strangers. Now that all the interviews, tours and investigations were over for the moment, I found I didn’t have a clue what to say.

  ‘I saw George going upstairs,’ I said finally. ‘He seemed a little . . . crotchety.’

  Lockwood made an easy gesture. ‘Oh, he’s fine. He has these moods sometimes.’

  There was a silence. I became aware of a steady ticking noise coming from an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace.

  Anthony Lockwood cleared his throat. ‘So, Ms Carlyle?’

  ‘Call me Lucy,’ I said. ‘It’s shorter, and easier, and a bit more friendly. Since we’re going to be working together, I mean. And living in the same house.’

  ‘Of course. Quite right . . .’ He looked down at his magazine, then up at me again. ‘So, Lucy’ – we both laughed awkwardly – ‘do you like the house?’

  ‘Very much. My room’s lovely.’

  ‘And the washroom . . . it’s not too small?’

  ‘No. It’s perfect. Very homely.’

  ‘Homely? Good. I’m glad.’

  ‘About your name,’ I said suddenly. ‘I notice George calls you “Lockwood”.’

  ‘I answer to that, most of the time.’

  ‘Anyone ever call you “Anthony”?’

  ‘My mother did. And my father.’

  A pause. ‘So what about “Tony”?’ I said. ‘Ever been called that?’

  ‘Tony? Look, Ms Car— sorry – Lucy. You can call me whatever you like. As long as it’s Lockwood or Anthony. Not Tony, please, or Ant. And if you ever call me Big A, I’m afraid I’ll have no option but to throw you out into the street.’

  Another silence. ‘Er, has someone actually called you Big A?’ I asked.

  ‘My first assistant. She didn’t last long.’ He smiled at me. I smiled back, listened to the ticking of the clock. It seemed noticeably louder. I began to wish I’d gone up to my room.

  ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ I asked.

  He held it up. The cover showed a blonde woman with teeth as bright as ghost-lamps getting out of a black car. She wore a big spray of lavender on the lapel of her dress, and the windows of the car were fortified with iron grilles. ‘London Society,’ he said. ‘It’s a dreary rag. But you get to see what’s going on in town.’

  ‘And what is?’

  ‘Parties, mainly.’ He tossed the magazine across. It consisted of endless photographs of smartly dressed men and women preening in crowded rooms. ‘You’d think the Problem would make people consider their immortal souls,’ Lockwood said. ‘But for the rich, it’s had the opposite effect. They go out, dress up, spend all night dancing in a sealed hotel somewhere, thrilling with horror at the thought of Visitors lurking outside . . . That party there was thrown last week by DEPRAC, the Department of Psychical Research and Control. The heads of all the most important agencies were there.’

  ‘Oh.’ I scanned the photos. ‘Were you invited? Can I see your picture?’

  He shrugged. ‘No. So no.’

  I flipped through the pages a little longer; they made a rhythmic flapping sound. ‘When you said in your advert that Lockwood’s was a well-known agency,’ I remarked, ‘that was a bit of a lie, wasn’t it?’

  The pages flapped, the clock ticked. ‘I’d call it a mild exaggeration,’ Lockwood said. ‘Lots of people do it. Like you, for example, when you said you had the full Agency qualifications up to the Fourth Grade. I rang up DEPRAC’s north of England branch straight after your interview. They said you’d only completed Grades One to Three.’

  He didn’t seem angry; just sat there looking at me with his big dark eyes. All of a sudden my mouth was dry, my heart thumping in my chest. ‘I – I’m . . . sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘I mean, the point is, I’m good enough to have that qualification. It’s just that my traineeship with Jacobs ended very badly and I never took the test. And when I came here . . . well, I really needed the job. I’m sorry, Lockwood. Would it help if I told you about Jacobs – how it happened?’

  But Anthony Lockwood had held up a hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened then is in the past. What counts now is the future. And I already know you’re good enough for that. For my part, I can assure you that one day this will be one of the three most successful agencies in London. Believe me, I know it will. And you can be part of that, Lucy. I think you’re good, and I’m glad you’re here.’

  You can bet my face was flushed right then – it was a special triple-combo of embarrassment at being found out, pleasure at his flattery and excitement at his spoken dreams. ‘I’m not sure George agrees with you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he thinks you’re special too. He was amazed by what you did in the interview.’

  I thought back to George’s vocal range of snorts and yawns, to his spikiness that evening. ‘Is that how he usually shows approval?’

  ‘You’ll get used to him. George dislikes hypocrites – you know, people who say nice things to your face, and criticize you behind your back. He takes pride in being the reverse. Besides, he’s an excellent agent. He had a job at Fittes once,’ Lockwood added. ‘They value courtesy, secrecy and discretion there. Know how long he lasted?’

  ‘I should think about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Six months. That’s how good he is.’

  ‘If they put up with his personality that long, he must be superb.’

  Lockwood gave me a radiant smile. ‘My view is: with you and George on my team, nothing can stand in our way.’

  For a moment, as he said this, it all made perfect sense. I soon learned that when he smiled like that, it was hard not to agree with him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope so too.’

  Lockwood laughed. ‘There’s no “hope” about it. With our combined talents, what can possibly go wrong?’

  III

  The Necklace

  9

  It’s amazing how quickly a fire can spread in an average suburban house. Even before Lockwood and I toppled from the window, perhaps while we were still grappling with the ghost-girl, a neighbour must have sounded the alarm. The emergency services responded quickly too; they arrived in minutes. But by the time special night crews in their chain-mail tunics came charging into the garden, escorted by a troupe of Rotwell agents, the upper floor of Mrs Hope’s house was thoroughly ablaze.

  White flames poured from the first-floor windows like upturned waterfalls. Roof-tiles cracked and shimmered in the heat, their edges glowing in the night like rows of dragon scales. Thin fiery pennants twirled and twisted from the chimneytops, sending sparks raining down on nearby trees and buildings. Below, the mists churned orange; agents, medics and fire-fighters
ran frantically through a cloudscape of light and shadow.

  At the centre of it all Lockwood and I sat hunched at the base of the bushes that had saved our lives. We answered the medics’ questions; we let them do their thing. Around us hoses gushed and timbers snapped; supervisors shouted orders at grim-faced kids in jackets scattering salt across the grass. Everything seemed unreal – muffled and far away. Even the fact that we’d survived was hard to comprehend.

  It was fortunate for us that neither Mr nor Mrs Hope had ever been keen gardeners. They’d let the bushes behind the house grow large and sprawling, thick and tall and spongy-boughed. And so it was that when we’d struck them – smashing through the upper branches, ripping through the lower ones, coming to an abrupt and painful halt almost at the ground – our clothes had torn and our skin had been pierced, but we hadn’t done the obvious thing, which was to break our necks and die.

  A gout of fire erupted from the chimney stack and fountained out across the roof. I sat there, staring into space, while someone wound a bandage around my arm. I thought of the girl behind the wall. There’d be little left of her by now.

  So much chaos . . . and all because of me. We needn’t have confronted her ghost at all. We could have left her – no, we should have left her when we discovered how dangerous she was. Lockwood had wanted to pull back, but I’d persuaded him to stay and get it done. And because of that decision . . . it had come to this.

  ‘Lucy!’ It was Lockwood’s voice. ‘Wake up! They want to take you to the hospital. They’re going to patch you up.’

  The side of my mouth was puffy. It was difficult to talk. ‘What . . . what about you?’

  ‘I’ve got to speak with someone. I’ll follow in a bit.’

  My vision was woozy; my left eye had completely closed. I thought I saw a man in a dark suit standing just behind the crowd of medics, but it was hard to be sure. Someone helped me to stand; I found myself being led away.

  ‘Lockwood. This is all my fault—’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s my responsibility. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Lockwood—’

  But he was already lost amongst the mists and flames.

  The hospital did their job. They patched me up OK. By morning my cuts were cleaned and covered; my rapier-arm was in a sling. Overall I was stiff and sore and out of joint; still, nothing was broken and I only limped a little. I knew I’d got off lightly. There was talk of keeping me in for observation, but I’d had enough by then. The doctors protested a bit, but I was an agent and that gave me leverage. Just after dawn, they let me go.

  When I got back to Portland Row, the ghost-lamp had recently gone off; I could hear the hum of its electrics sounding inside the stem. At Lockwood’s the office lights were on in the basement, but the upper storeys of the house were dark and quiet. I couldn’t be bothered to look for my keys. I leaned against the doorway and rang the bell.

  Running footsteps sounded. The door opened with violent haste. George stood there, cheeks red, eyes staring. His hair was even more dishevelled than usual. He wore the same clothes as the day before.

  When he saw my scratched and swollen face, he made a small noise between his teeth. He didn’t say anything. He stood aside, let me walk in, and quietly closed the door.

  The hall was dark. I reached over to the crystal skull on the key table and switched on the lantern. It threw a frail halo around us, the skull grinning at its centre. I stared dully at the ethnic knick-knacks on the bookshelf opposite: the pots and masks, the hollow gourds which, according to Lockwood, certain tribesmen wore instead of trousers.

  Lockwood . . .

  ‘Where is he?’ I said.

  George had stayed by the door. His glasses shone with lantern-light, and I couldn’t see his eyes. Something pulsed halfway up his neck. ‘Where is he?’ I said again.

  His voice was so tightly wound I could scarcely hear it. ‘Scotland Yard.’

  ‘With the police? I thought he was at the hospital.’

  ‘He was. DEPRAC has got him now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know. Possibly because you burned someone’s house down, Lucy? Who can tell?’

  ‘I have to go and see him.’

  ‘You won’t get in. I asked to as well. He told me to wait here.’

  I looked at George, then at the door, then down at my boots, still dusted with soot and plaster. ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘He rang me from the hospital. Inspector Barnes was waiting to take him away.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so, but—’ He changed tack abruptly. ‘You look terrible. What about your arm? Is it broken?’

  ‘No. Minor sprain. It’ll be OK in a few days. You just said “but”. But what? What did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing much. Except—’

  Something in the way he said it . . . My heart beat fast; I leaned back against the wall. ‘Except what?’

  ‘He’d been ghost-touched.’

  ‘George—!’

  ‘Would you mind not leaning there? You’re making black marks on the wallpaper.’

  ‘Stuff the wallpaper, George! He wasn’t ghost-touched! I’d have seen!’

  Still he hadn’t moved; still he spoke in a quiet monotone. ‘Would you? He said it happened while you were dealing with the Source. When he was fighting off the Visitor, she got him with a curl of plasm. Touched him on the hand. They gave him a shot of adrenalin in the ambulance and stopped the rot. He says he’s fine.’

  My head was awhirl. Could it have happened? Everything had moved so quickly in the study, and the period in the garden was a blur. ‘Was it bad?’ I said. ‘How far’d it gone?’

  ‘By the time they treated it?’ He shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Well, how do I know?’ I snapped. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  George gave a roar of fury that made me jump. ‘Well, you should have been!’ He slammed his palm against the wall so hard, an ornamental gourd fell off the bookcase and rolled upon the floor. ‘Just like you should have stopped him getting touched in the first place! Yes, I think it was bad! His hand had started swelling. He told me his fingers were bulging like five blue hotdogs by the end, but they still had to manhandle him into the ambulance. Why? Because he wanted to go and find you. See if you were OK! He wouldn’t be told, even though the ghost-touch was on him and he’d have died within the hour if someone with some common sense hadn’t jabbed a needle in his bum. He wouldn’t be told! Like he wasn’t prepared to wait for me to get back last night! Like he wasn’t prepared to let me do some proper research, so I could find out exactly what you were getting into. No! As always, he was in far too much of a hurry. And if he’d only waited’ – he kicked out viciously at the fallen gourd, sending it spinning away to crack in half against the skirting – ‘none of this stupid mess would have happened!’

  Let’s see. In the previous twelve hours I’d almost been murdered by a vicious ghost. I’d fallen from an upstairs window into a small tree. I’d sprained my arm. I’d had a spotty bloke with tweezers pulling twigs and thorns out of sensitive portions of my anatomy half the night. I’d also set fire to a small suburban house. Oh, and Lockwood had been ghost-touched and, whatever state he’d been left in, was now being grilled by the police. What I badly needed was a bath, some food, a lot of rest – and getting to see Lockwood again.

  Instead I got George having a hissy fit. That didn’t make my day.

  ‘Shut up, George,’ I said wearily. ‘This isn’t the time.’

  He wheeled round on me. ‘No? Well, when is going to be the time? When you and Lockwood are both dead, maybe? When I open the door one night and see the two of you hovering beyond the iron line, plasm trailing, worms poking from your eyes? Yeah, fine. Let’s have our little catch-up then!’

  I snorted. ‘Charming. I wouldn’t come back like that. I’d have a nicer guise.’

  George gave a hoot of rage. ‘Really? How do you know what kind of Visi
tor you’d make, Lucy? You know nothing about them. You don’t read anything I give you. You never make notes on what you see. All you and Lockwood care about is going out and snuffing Sources, as quickly as you can!’

  I stepped forward, close to him. Probably, if my arm had been less sore, I’d have prodded him in his puffed-up chest. ‘Because that’s what makes our money, George,’ I said. ‘Faffing about with old papers like you do gets us nothing.’

  His eyes flashed behind the stupid round glasses. ‘Oh? Nothing?’

  ‘That’s right. If you were less obsessed with it, we’d have done twice as many cases in the last few months. Take yesterday. We waited all afternoon for you. You could have got back any time, come along with us. But no. You were too busy in the library. We left you a polite note on the thinking cloth. Didn’t go out till almost five.’

  He spoke quietly now. ‘You should have waited.’

  ‘So what that we didn’t? What difference would it have made?’

  ‘What difference? Come on! I’ll show you what difference!’ He drew back and, turning, led me up the hall and into the kitchen. Ignoring my gasps of disgust at the piled dishes festooning the surfaces, he threw open the basement door and clattered away down the iron steps. ‘Come on!’ he shouted up. ‘If you can be bothered!’

  The curse I gave would probably have curdled the milk if it hadn’t been sitting out on the table for thirty-six hours already. I was really angry now. I too banged down the spiral stairs. In the office the light was on over George’s desk; scattered papers, dirty cups, apple cores, crisp packets and half-gnawed sandwiches marked the scene of his recent vigil. The ghost-jar was sitting there too, uncovered, the skull faintly visible in the yellowish murk. For some reason the disembodied head was floating upside-down.