Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy

by Jonathan Stroud

  “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.

  It 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.

  Another crack of glass; another Visitor unfolding, up by the front of the float. Other ghost-bombs landed in the crowd. Almost at once we heard the screams begin.

  Lockwood and I started forward; George, too. Sir Rupert Gale had also reacted. He pulled at his cane, drawing out a silver blade. Above us, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell turned, responding to the outcry of the crowd. A few startled dignitaries began to rise.

  The first ghost moved. Its head rotated impossibly; it flowed backward, through the nearest seat, straight through its occupant, a short, fat tweedy woman. Threads of plasm lingered on her contours as it pulled around her and away. Her eyes rolled upward, her arms jerked in rhythmic spasms; she slid soundlessly onto the floor.

  “Medics needed!” Lockwood roared. A wave of fear had engulfed the company; people were throwing chairs back, milling back and forth, too stupid to wait and listen to their senses. Old as they were, faint sensations might have alerted them to the ghosts, and so kept them alive.

  The Visitor moved with random darts and scurries, hiding its head as if in pain. Two men toppled as it touched them, collapsing against others, redoubling the panic. I was almost on it. I raised my sword.

  A Rotwell oper
ative stepped out in front of me, a magnesium flare in his hand.

  “No! Not here!” I shouted. “You’ll—”

  Too late. He threw it. The flare shot past the ghost, bounced off the back of the nearest seat, and exploded against the side of the platform. Fragments of wood blasted into space; Greek Fire rained down upon the crowds. The platform gave way. A whole section crumbled like a sea cliff, propelling three people, including a screaming Miss Wintergarden, out onto the street below. Sir Rupert Gale, caught by the explosion, was spun to the very edge, left clinging to the broken boards. George escaped unharmed; he reached the ghost and carved the air around it with his rapier, seeking to prevent it from touching the people on either side.

  The Visitor had been peppered with burning iron, and the ghost-lamps hanging above the street weren’t doing it much good, either. Plasm steamed from it. As it cringed back from George’s blade, it removed its arms from its face. It had no features, no eyes or nose; nothing but a sagging triangular mouth. At the front of the platform neither Penelope Fittes nor Steve Rotwell had lost their heads. From beneath his coat, Rotwell had drawn a sword—longer, thicker than a normal rapier. Ms. Fittes had taken her hair band off, shaken her dark hair free. The band was a crescent moon—sharp, made of silver. She held it like a knife.

  Rotwell jumped down among the seats, swatting a chair aside. He strode toward the second Visitor—a Phantasm—which several of his agents had pinned back. Holly Munro had been shepherding people to the far corner of the platform. She reached the fallen woman, and knelt down at her side.

  Lockwood clutched my arm. “Forget the ghosts!” he cried. “The bombs! Where’d the bombs come from?”

  A squawking lady in furs and silver collided with me; I cursed, shoved her away. I jumped onto a seat, spun around, looking down into the street. There were Visitors here, too, fracturing swiftly in the glare of the ghost-lamps. Around them the crowd bent and crumpled, then tore itself to tatters as it fled in all directions.

  “I can’t see anything,” I said. “It’s carnage.”

  Lockwood was beside me. “The bombs weren’t thrown from the crowd. Above us….Check the windows.”

  I stared at the buildings all around. Rows of windows, black, blank, identical. I couldn’t make out the details of what was inside. High above us, the Fittes and Rotwell balloons dinked and swayed.

  “Nothing….”

  “Take it from me, Luce. Whoever did it is somewhere up—”

  There. Two windows changed shape; two patches of darkness grew and gathered form. Two figures leaped from the first floor windows directly overhead, hurtling down to land upon the platform. Twin thuds of booted feet.

  Only Lockwood and I saw them; everyone else was fixated on the ghosts. For a split second I had a clear view of the man nearest to me. He wore black sneakers, faded jeans, a black zip-up top. His face was hidden behind a black ski mask, but through the mouth-hole poked an overhang of bright white teeth. In one hand he had a rapier; in the other a snub-nosed gun. Strapped across his spindly chest—his top was half unzipped—a leather belt held odd devices. They looked like short batons, the kind relay runners use, with clear glass bulbs at one end. Pale light swirled in them. I knew what they contained.

  An instant’s glimpse; then he was away, he and the other man, flitting across the platform. They went toward the front of the float where Penelope Fittes stood in her bright white coat, a crescent dagger in her hand.

  Lockwood and I ran, too; but we were too far away to intercept them.

  As they drew close, the nearest raised his gun.

  Lockwood threw his rapier, hard and horizontal, like a javelin; it nicked the assailant’s arm, knocking the gun away.

  Then I was on him, striking left and right. He parried my blows with quick defensive moves. It told me he was agent-trained.

  The other man ignored us. He walked quickly toward Penelope Fittes, reaching in the pocket of his jacket. Now his hand too held something small, snub-nosed, and black.

  Ms. Fittes saw it. Her eyes widened. She fell back against the rails.

  The edges of the float were decorated with plastic lions and unicorns. Lockwood grasped a unicorn by its horn and snapped it off its pole.

  The assailant aimed his gun—

  Lockwood dived forward, swinging the unicorn in front of him.

  Two blasts; two thuds, so close in time they became one thing, a start-stop noise. The unicorn spun out of Lockwood’s grasp, a pair of neat round holes halfway up its neck.

  Now the man I was fighting brought his greater strength to bear; his swordplay became faster. His blows jarred my rapier in my hand.

  All at once he stopped, looked down in some surprise. I was surprised too. He had a sword point poking through his chest.

  The man swayed, then toppled sideways. Behind him Mr. Rotwell pulled his blade clear.

  The remaining assailant had turned toward Lockwood. But now from the other side Sir Rupert Gale strode forward, rapier raised and moving fast. The man paused, fired at Sir Rupert, and missed. With a spring, he bounded away along the platform.

  Lockwood was scooping up his rapier. “We can catch him yet, Luce,” he cried. “Come on!”

  We ran along the platform, almost empty now. Past George, busily subduing the Visitor with salt and iron; past Holly, tending to the fallen. The second ghost had vanished, destroyed by Rotwell’s agents. Mr. Rotwell and Ms. Fittes themselves were left behind.

  The man in black reached the end of the truck, gave a mighty spring, and landed on the cab of the following vehicle. Lockwood leaped after him, coattails flapping; a moment later I did the same.

  Over the cab roof, boots clattering. Onto the show float, racing under gothic arches, cutting through a confusion of screaming performers. The assailant swung his sword, fired his gun in the air. Men in ghost-sheets and women in long bloody dresses took running jumps over the edge in clouds of talc, landing in the crowds like phantoms from on high. Tidal waves of terrified yells rolled out around us. The man in black turned, aimed the gun at us; it didn’t fire. He tossed it away, kicked at a foam arch, sent it tumbling down. Lockwood dived one way, I the other. It crashed between us, squashing a small actor.

  Running jumps to the next float, decorated with the mustard hues of Dullop and Tweed. Above us loomed their papier-mché symbol, a giant all-seeing owl. The assailant threw a flare; it burst against the owl, tearing a hole and sending a rain of burning matter onto our heads.

  Lockwood and I didn’t break our stride. We ducked, brushed hot embers from our hair, ran on.

  It was the official Rotwell float, the next one, and again it was close enough for the fugitive to leap to. Here were scattered piles of plush lions, Rotwell soft drinks, and other gifts to be given to the crowds. The agents who’d been in charge of them were gone. The man in black slipped and skidded on the toys and bottles; with a curse he turned, hurled down a ghost-bomb. A willowy figure rose up—and was instantly sliced to ribbons by simultaneous slashes of our swords.

  We were almost upon him, so close I could hear his ragged breath. He reached the back of the float. Beyond was a gap, impossible to jump: the next float was many yards away.

  “Got him,” Lockwood said.

  But there, at the end of the truck: the Rotwell lion, a giant helium balloon straining at the end of a tethering cable. The man in black slashed the rope free, caught it as it whipped away. He was carried up and out over the Strand. He tossed his sword clear; now he dangled from two hands.

  Lockwood and I slammed into the side of the truck. Lockwood exhaled. “Drat. Not sure I can quite match that.”

  “It’s blowing him toward the river.”

  “You’re right, it is. Come on.”

  Down onto the street, amid the deserted stalls and sideshows. A moment before, a mass of people had stood here. Now it was a field of hats and lavender, of scattered charms and abandoned shoes. The Poltergeist rides had stopped mid-session; trapped customers called to us from atop the e
xtended arms. Down the road, off the Strand, and up the gentle rise to Waterloo Bridge, Lockwood and I kept running, side by side.

  I glanced across at him—his eyes were bright, his face set, his long legs swinging beside mine. We were in step together, perfectly in sync. And in that moment the world around us dimmed and blurred. Tensions and disagreements fell away. Everything was simple. It was just us, together, chasing a giant helium lion down a central London street. Everything was as it should be—back in its proper place.

  Perhaps Lockwood had had similar thoughts. He grinned at me; I grinned at him. A swell of joy rose in me, displacing the ache of my muscles, my burning lungs. It was like the last few weeks just hadn’t happened. I wanted it to last and last—

  “Hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

  Drawing abreast of us, sword-stick moving easily: Sir Rupert Gale, punctiliously polite as ever. If he’d had a hat, I bet he would have raised it as he ran.

  “Hello.” I didn’t strictly want to answer, but his courtesy was catching. “This fellow’s a trier, isn’t he?” Sir Rupert nodded at the precariously dangling form ahead of us; the river’s breeze had caught the lion, which was now being buffeted dangerously. The man was being dragged, bumping against a wall. “I swear I almost want him to get away.”

  “Getting away from you is a tough art,” Lockwood said. “I bet only the very best can do it.”

  “Ha, ha! Yes!” Sir Rupert Gale smiled as he ran. “He’s going to go out above the river. If I had my Purdey twelve-gauge shotgun with me, I’d take a potshot now and chance it. He’s not so high the fall would kill him.”

  He had no gun, and we could not run fast enough. Even if we had, the balloon was still too high to catch. It floated out above the bridge. For a moment the Rotwell lion was beautifully illuminated by the lanterns on the parapet, sparkling like a Christmas bauble on a child’s tree. We saw the man clinging desperately below it, still masked, his jacket and shirt pulled up so that his pale back and stomach were exposed. Strong winds took him; the lion was whirled around. I thought it might be looping back toward us. Then it was pulled out to the center of the river, and that was when the figure lost his grip and fell, thirty, forty feet, into the black Thames. He hit it hard. The waters closed over him. We ran to the balustrade, the three of us, and craned our necks, but saw nothing.