Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy

by Jonathan Stroud

  Minutes passed. The lion balloon was already almost lost to sight, a glittering point of red carried by river winds east toward Blackfriars Bridge, the Tower, and, ultimately, the sea.

  “Dead and drowned, I suppose,” Lockwood said.

  Sir Rupert nodded. “You’d think. Then again, we all know better than that.” He tapped gloved fingers on the balustrade.

  I stepped away. “Who were they?” I said.

  “Enemies of Fittes and Rotwell, presumably,” Lockwood said. “Anyway, he’s gone.”

  “Yes.” Once again Sir Rupert Gale tapped his fingers on the stone. He turned away from the edge and, in the same deftly casual movement, his rapier flicked up and jabbed straight out at Lockwood’s side. The action was so quick I didn’t fully comprehend it; nor the way Lockwood’s arm shot down to block the sword tip with his rapier guard. For a second, the blade was caught in it, trapped in the twisted fronds of metal; I could sense Sir Rupert’s exertion, Lockwood’s, too. It gave me a chance to see how close the sword had been to slicing cleanly beneath the ribs. It would have traveled into his lungs and pierced his heart. Then the young man sprang back, wresting the tip free. His eyes were bright, he balanced lightly on the tips of his toes.

  “Fast,” he said. “Well done.”

  “You, too.” Lockwood turned to face him, bending his wrist as if it pained him. “Of course, I never attack from behind.”

  “Oh, hardly behind, Mr. Lockwood. You had a fair chance, as you’ve just proved most admirably.” Sir Rupert ran a hand through his hair. “Well, our mutual enemies have gone, as you say, but here we are—you and I alone together. Isn’t this a wonderful opportunity to settle our dispute?”

  “Hey,” I said. “In just what sense is he alone? I’m here too.”

  “Don’t worry, Luce,” Lockwood said. He flicked back the edge of his coat and lifted his rapier. “Well then, Sir Rupert? Come on.”

  “You can’t do this!” I cried. “There’ll be witnesses! The others will be here in five minutes—”

  “Miss Carlyle,” Sir Rupert Gale said, “a few seconds is all I need.”

  Lockwood’s grin was flinty. “That was what I was going to say.”

  Shouts and beams of swirling flashlight. Up along the crest of the bridge came George, followed by a host of Fittes and Rotwell agents. Lockwood and Sir Rupert Gale stood looking at them. Then Sir Rupert laughed and returned his rapier cleanly to his belt.

  “And now we’re heroes together,” he said. “What an experience. What an excellent evening.”

  He smiled at us; we smiled at him. Three crocodiles on a muddy shore could not have smiled at each other more eloquently or with such gleaming teeth. We stood waiting, the three of us, and a moment later were engulfed by shrill inquiries and breathless congratulations.

  In the aftermath of the carnival attack, certain things swiftly became clear. Other things did not.

  Remarkably, only one person had incontrovertibly lost his life—the assailant killed at Mr. Rotwell’s hand. The body of the other, despite police (and relic-men) combing the Thames shoreline the next day, was never found. Unlikely as it seemed, it was possible he had escaped.

  Within minutes of the attack, the Strand and surrounding streets were sealed off, and the grand parade abandoned. Twelve people, eight from the crowd and four from the Fittes and Rotwell float, had suffered ghost-touch. All were treated on site by medics traveling with the parade. Speed of response ensured that all of them pulled through—even the tweedy lady first enveloped by the Visitor. She had been kept alive by an adrenaline injection administered on the spot by Holly Munro.

  George had single-handedly subdued the original ghost. After surrounding it with iron, he had hunted across the platform till he found the splinters of broken glass that marked where the missile had struck. There too he found a piece of jawbone, complete with two brown teeth. When this was wrapped in silver, the Visitor had vanished. Further exploration by other agents located five other Sources scattered among the debris of the floats and street.

  Penelope Fittes was uninjured. Steve Rotwell had sprained a wrist while helping his operatives subdue the second Visitor. Both leaders appeared in a photograph on the front cover of the Times the following day, Rotwell’s arm displayed prominently in a monogrammed sling.

  Curiously enough, despite ending in complete disaster, the carnival—from the point of view of the authorities, at any rate—was a notable success. The shock of the attack seemed to bring the people of London to their senses. Perhaps it was the very human nature of the assassination attempt. Perhaps it was outrage at the real physical danger Ms. Fittes and Mr. Rotwell had been in. Present difficulties notwithstanding, they were icons, representatives of the noble firms that had done so much to keep the population safe for over fifty years. Whatever the answer, after that night the Chelsea protests more or less evaporated. DEPRAC and the agencies were left to go about their business undisturbed.

  One other immediate result of the events was a new celebrity status for Lockwood & Co. A photograph of Lockwood during the chase appeared on page three of the Times, and in several other papers. He was caught mid-jump between two floats, his coat flying out behind him, his hair blowing back, his sword held so loosely in his hand it seemed he scarcely touched it. He was a thing of light and shadow, fragile and dynamic like an airborne bird.

  “That’s one I’m definitely putting in the album,” George said.

  We sat in our living room, bottles of lemonade on the table, glasses in our hands. The fire was on; we had the curtains shut against the dying day. Piles of crumpled newspapers lay between us, scrutinized and cast aside; it almost seemed like our old habits of mess and squalor were back again. Holly Munro had been too busy to worry about it. She’d been fielding calls all day. She was with us now, our casebook open on her knee. Up on the cabinet, the skull in the ghost-jar, quiet and unnoticed, overlooked the happy scene.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t bother really, George,” Lockwood said. He took a sip from his glass. “Though if you do, the one in the Guardian’s got the nicest resolution. They don’t crop the coat like the Times does, either. Plus, you get a bit of Lucy’s knee as well.”

  I snorted good-naturedly. My knee aside, I wasn’t in any of the published photos, but for once the papers had mentioned me by name. In fact, all of us got in. My action against the assailants; George’s struggles with the ghost; Holly’s life-saving efforts with the syringe: all this had been noted and praised. But Lockwood, who had protected Ms. Penelope Fittes at the crucial moment, was the one singled out for the highest commendation. Certain rich industrialists who had been on the beleaguered float were quoted as mentioning awards.

  “We’ve had so much interest since last night,” Holly Munro said. “Requests for interviews, and many possible cases. All of them thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to all of us,” George said.

  “You know, it shouldn’t be just me in the picture,” Lockwood said reflectively. “It should be the whole team. Though I guess the shot wouldn’t be quite so dynamic. We all did so well.”

  “Yeeuch….” That was the skull, its voice echoing faintly in my ears. “How utterly nauseating. Pardon me while I quietly vomit over here.”

  I glared at it over the heads of the others. As far as Holly Munro was concerned, the skull was a trapped ghost like any other. I couldn’t talk back to it, or even make rude gestures. Silent glaring was my limit. But it’s hard to glare successfully at a skull.

  “What’s with all the lovey-dovey stuff, Lucy?” it whispered. “You should be vaulting the coffee table and pouring your drink down Munro’s blouse. Look at her, little Miss Prim and Perfect, taking center stage. You’re not standing for this. Go on, punch her! Kick her shins! Snatch off her shoes and throw them in the fire!”

  “Will you just—” Everyone looked at me; I cleared my throat. “Will you all just raise a glass,” I said, “to our success? To Lockwood and Co.! To the team!”

  Everyone drank
. Lockwood smiled at me. “Thanks, Luce. Nice one.”

  It wasn’t quite the way he’d looked at me that moment during the chase, but it echoed it; warmth rushed through me. “So who was behind the attack?” I said, ignoring extravagant gagging noises coming from the jar. “The papers don’t seem to have a clue.”

  “Could be ghost-cults,” Lockwood suggested. “Some of the crankier ones actively resent all agents. They think we’re blocking messages from the beyond. But their usual tack is angry leafleting, or making speeches at Hyde Park Corner on a Sunday. It’s quite a step up for them to try to assassinate Fittes and Rotwell.”

  “Well, Fittes, anyway,” George said. “No one fired at Rotwell.”

  “That’s because he’d already jumped down to tackle the ghosts, hadn’t he?” Lockwood said. “To be fair to Rotwell, he reacted quickly, much better than the other adults—except our friend Sir Rupert, of course. The way Rotwell killed the terrorist was…Well, you clearly don’t mess with him.”

  “Right,” I said. In the whirl of events I’d hardly registered it at the time, but Rotwell’s brutally efficient dispatching of the assassin had somehow stuck with me. I shuddered at the memory. “Just another thought,” I said. “Could it have been Winkman? When George and I met him just before, he threatened some kind of attack.”

  “Against us,” George said, “not everybody. No, this was way too upscale for Leopold. For starters, whoever it was had the capability of creating those ‘ghost-bombs.’ The dead man had one of the unexploded bulbs on him, Barnes was telling me. They’re quite sophisticated. Someone had to constrain those ghosts, fix their Sources in the glass. It’s not amateur work.”

  “Might have been bought,” I insisted. “Black market stuff.”

  “Yeah, but staging the attack. Think of the organization required.”

  “We just don’t know,” Lockwood said. “That’s the long and short of it. No one’s been able to identify the body yet. When that happens, we may get an idea. The good thing is that Penelope Fittes’s life was saved, and few people were seriously hurt. True, Miss Wintergarden broke her leg in her fall, but she hardly counts, I feel. And we’ve flushed one of our mysteries out into the open: we know a bit more about Sir Rupert Gale than we did before.”

  Holly Munro had been making neat little notes in the casebook, no doubt planning every last upcoming detail of our lives. “He comes from a very rich and powerful family. If what you say about him is true—”

  “It is true,” I said.

  “Then he’s not to be taken lightly.”

  “Maybe not,” Lockwood said, “but if he’d wanted to act against us underhandedly, he’d have done it long before now. He’s someone who waits for the sporting chance. We’ll settle accounts one day. Now—” He sat up, took his glass in hand. “I’d just like to make a final toast. We’ve all done well. But there’s one person who I feel should be thanked for their very special contribution.”

  His eyes met mine; I felt happiness run through me like syrup; even the tips of my toes felt warm and prickly. I was back in that moment during the chase. I hadn’t been mistaken.

  “Holly,” Lockwood went on, “if it wasn’t for you making the initial contact with Miss Wintergarden, we would not have been there at all last night. You gave us the opportunity to be in the right place at the right time. Thank you, on behalf of all of us, for what you’re bringing to Lockwood and Co. You’ve done wonders in the office. I think one day you’ll do wonders in the field.” He raised his glass; the lemonade glinted in the firelight. Holly Munro looked charmingly embarrassed. George clapped her on the back just as she was about to take a sip, making her cough and gulp, also very charmingly. If it had been me, of course, I’ve have spurted my drink like a fizzy comet across the room. But it wasn’t me.

  On the cabinet opposite the skull in the jar grinned as I played slowly with the glass in my hand.

  “Oh, I didn’t do anything,” Holly said, when she had recovered. “You’re the agents. I’m just the backroom player….But, as I say, we have had some interesting requests this morning, if you want to see?”

  And, what do you know, George and Lockwood did. Glasses in hand, they made immediate synchronized buttock shuffles across the sofa. Somewhere in my mind a gate slammed, a portcullis crashed down. I rose slowly. “I’m going upstairs for a bit,” I said. “Just need a rest.”

  Lockwood raised his hand. “Don’t blame you, Luce. You’re a star. See you later.”

  “Yeah. See you.”

  I left the room, shutting the door softly behind me. The hall was cool and full of bluish shade. It seemed soft and flat, echoing the blankness I felt, my detachment inside. The voices of the others were muffled as I climbed the stairs.

  The funny thing was, I still acknowledged the connection that Lockwood and I had made, the previous night, as we ran together side by side, and the rest of the world molded itself around us. It had been real, I didn’t doubt it. But what I did doubt was Lockwood’s ability to sustain that connection in any meaningful way. When the excitement was over, he just snapped back to his usual cool remove, keeping me at a distance. Well, that wasn’t good enough anymore. We were closer than he admitted, and I deserved…

  What did I deserve?

  Information, at the very least.

  And if he wouldn’t share it with me, I’d take it for myself.

  On the landing, I didn’t hesitate. I went to the door, grasped the handle—so often seen, yet utterly unfamiliar in my hand—turned it, and walked right through. I closed the door (first rule: never linger on a threshold) and leaned back against the iron bands that sealed the psychic resonance inside. My eyes were closed. I felt the thrum of the death-glow on my skin; it ruffled through the roots of my hair.

  How strong it was. You could feel her proximity.

  Lockwood had said she’d never come back. But she was close. Close…The echo of the event that had occurred here still raged like cold fire.

  What had occurred here?

  I opened my eyes. Near dark. And in my haste and anger I hadn’t brought a flashlight.

  I couldn’t put the light on (if it even worked), just in case someone saw it showing under the door. But it wasn’t quite dusk yet, and of course there was that pale, pale blaze hanging above the mattress. I shuffled across the room, steering well clear of the bed, and pulled the curtains back.

  Dust and dried lavender. It made me want to cough.

  Balloons on the wallpaper, animals on the bulletin board: sad aspects of the departed girl. Curious decorations for a girl of fifteen, as if she’d clung to childhood. They’d been relics of the past even before she’d gone. Blue-gray layers clung to the furniture and boxes, the piles of crates and lavender bouquets. So many boxes. It was only now that I realized how much of the room was filled with them. This was where he kept it all, still near at hand, but out of sight and almost out of mind: the remnants of his family.

  I didn’t want much. Just something. Something about the sister or the parents that would help me understand him.

  He’d said, that time he’d brought us here, he’d said there were pictures in the dresser. I stepped around boxes, inched my way across; silent, silent as I could. They were below me, somewhere downstairs.

  The first drawer stuck, and I didn’t want to force it. The second was filled to the brim with tiny cardboard boxes of many shapes and colors. I opened one: a golden necklace, with a dark green stone, lay on a sheet of cotton batting. His sister’s? No. His mother’s? I put it back, slid the drawer shut. The next was packed with clothes. This I shut too—more hurriedly this time.

  When I bent to the last, one of my knees clicked painfully—I’d jarred it jumping between trucks. The drawer was stiff, and very heavy; I stuck with it, easing it slowly out….

  It was filled with photographs.

  There was no rhyme or reason, no albums, no order. They were lying loose, packed in madly one on top of the other, as if they’d been forced. Some were torn and crumpled
where they’d gotten caught in the edge of the drawer, some creased, some upside down. The mess was so tightly jammed they’d become almost a single solid thing, and in the atrocious light, it was hard to make out anything at all. Many seemed to be of foreign landscapes like the painting in Lockwood’s bedroom: towns and villages, wooded hills. Many, but not all.

  The photo I picked up couldn’t have been that old, but all the colors had faded, leaving it a sort of yellowish-green. It had two people in it. The older was a girl with dark hair in a kind of long bob. She wore a knee-length skirt and a white shirt with a frilly collar of the kind I remembered my sisters wearing when I was very young. Her face wasn’t as slim as Lockwood’s, and the nose was different…but she had his eyes. She was gazing out of the picture with that calm, direct, black-eyed look I knew so well. It made my stomach turn over to see it. And she was about my age, heading toward mid-teens. Her expression was serious and expectant, like she had something she wanted to say to the person holding the camera but was waiting until he or she had finished the shot. I wondered what it was that was on her mind. Looking at her, I felt pretty sure she was the type to have gotten her point across.

  Sitting on her lap was a small boy, much younger. She had her arm firmly around his waist. His legs were sloping to the side, with him leaning sideways, as if he was itching to be off and away. In fact he was already moving, for the head was slightly blurred. Still, you could see the familiar dark hair and eyes. You knew who he was.

  I replaced the picture and leafed my fingers gently down among the photographs, delving into Lockwood’s past. And as I did so, his voice sounded suddenly on the landing, loud, vibrant, directly outside the door. A thrill shot through me, the terror of revealed transgression. I sprang upright, stepped back, and immediately stumbled over one of the low cardboard boxes on the floor behind me. Even as I fell I knew I mustn’t make a noise; I twisted around, threw out a hand to stop myself—