Lockwood & Co.: The Whispering Skull

In the event, Lockwood was fairly restrained. He said nothing at the cemetery. He said nothing on the way home. He waited while we locked the door and reset the ghost-wards and dumped our bags in the corner and visited the facilities. Then his restraint ran out. He marched George straight to the living room and, without so much as a pause for our normal post-case crisps and cocoa, gave him the rollocking he deserved.

‘I’m surprised at you,’ he said. ‘You put your own life – and that stupid Mr Joplin’s – at immediate risk. You were seconds away from being ghost-touched. If it wasn’t for Lucy, you would have been! And don’t give me any of that guff about how you thought the Source was neutralized. It’s against all the rules to let a non-agent anywhere near an active Source in an operative situation. You know that! What were you thinking?’

George had parked himself in his favourite chair by the coffee table. His face, usually so inexpressive, showed a mix of contrition, defiance and attempted unconcern. ‘We’d been talking about the inscription on the lid,’ he said sullenly. ‘Once DEPRAC gets its hands on the coffin today we know we’ll never see it again, so Joplin said—’

‘What Joplin said shouldn’t have had any effect on you!’ Lockwood cried. ‘You think that’s a good excuse for nearly getting killed? Trying to decipher some scratchings on a foul old coffin? I’m surprised at you, George! Honestly surprised.’

He wasn’t really, and nor was I. One of George’s most famous characteristics, aside from sarcasm, wind and general bloody-mindedness, was his fascination with things unknown. When he wasn’t roaming dusty archives researching background stuff on cases, he roamed dusty archives researching Visitor Theory – trying to discover why ghosts were returning, and how precisely this occurred. It wasn’t just the skull in our ghost-jar that fascinated him; where possible, he also investigated other objects of psychic power. It figured that the iron coffin fell into that category.

It also figured that the tiresome little scholar, Joplin, shared George’s approach.

Lockwood had fallen silent now. He waited, arms folded, clearly expecting an apology, but George wasn’t giving up the argument quite yet. ‘I agree that the coffin and its contents are dangerous,’ he said doggedly. ‘That mirror I saw was horrible. But their powers are entirely unknown. So I think it’s a legitimate agency job to discover anything we can about what it is we’re dealing with – and that includes the inscription. It could have given us some clues to what Bickerstaff – and his ghost – were up to.’

‘Who cares?’ Lockwood cried. ‘Who cares about any of that? It’s not part of our job!’ In many ways, Lockwood was the complete opposite of George, and not just in terms of bodily hygiene. He had no interest in the mechanics of ghosts, and little in their individual desires or intentions. All he really wanted was to destroy them as efficiently as possible. As much as anything, however, I guessed it was George’s careless amateurism that had truly offended him here. ‘That kind of stuff,’ he went on more quietly, ‘is for Barnes and DEPRAC to worry about. Not us. Right, Lucy?’

‘Right! Of course it isn’t. Absolutely not.’ I adjusted a corner of my skirt carefully. ‘Though sometimes it is interesting . . . So did you actually see the inscription, George? I never thought to ask.’

George nodded. ‘I did, as it happens.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It said: As you value your soul, forsake and abjure this cursed box. Just that.’

I hesitated. ‘Forsake and abjure?’

‘It means don’t open it, basically.’

‘Well, it’s a bit late for that now.’

Lockwood had been glaring at us throughout. He cleared his throat. ‘It doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’ he said sweetly. ‘Because, as I keep telling you, Bickerstaff and his mirror thing are no longer any of our business. And George—’

‘Hold on,’ I said suddenly. ‘We’re talking about this being Edmund Bickerstaff. But how does that square with Joplin’s story of how Bickerstaff died? That bloke in the coffin wasn’t torn apart by rats, was he? He’d had a bullet through his head.’

George nodded. ‘You’re right. Good point, Lucy.’

‘Though I suppose he might have been shot and then sort of nibbled.’

‘I guess so . . . But he seemed in one piece to me.’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ Lockwood exclaimed. ‘If the case was open, it would be interesting, as you say. But the job’s done now. It’s over. Forget it! The important thing is that we did what we were paid to do, which was to locate and contain the Source.’

‘Er, no, we didn’t contain the Source, actually,’ George said. ‘As I rather conclusively proved. All that iron and silver, and still Bickerstaff’s ghost was able to get out. That’s unusual. Surely even you would admit it’s worth investigating.’

Lockwood uttered an oath. ‘No! No, I don’t! You dislodged the net, George – that was how the Visitor was able to escape and ghost-lock you. You could have died! The problem is that, as always, you’re too easily distracted. You need to get your priorities straight! Look at this mess in here . . .’

He stabbed a finger in the direction of the coffee table, where the ghost-jar sat, the skull dully visible, the plasm as blank and greenish as ever. George had conducted further experiments that afternoon. Noonday sun hadn’t done anything, and nor had brief exposure to loud bursts of classical music on the radio. The table was strewn with a little sea of notebooks and scribbled observations.

‘This is a perfect example,’ Lockwood went on. ‘You’re wasting too much time on that wretched jar. Try spending a bit more time on solid case research, help the company out a little.’

George’s cheeks flushed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean that Wimbledon Common business the other day . . . The stuff about the history of the gallows, which you completely missed. Even that idiot Bobby Vernon uncovered more useful information than you!’

George sat very still. He opened his mouth as if about to argue, then closed it again. His face lacked all expression. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his jersey.

Lockwood ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m being unfair. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.’

‘No, no,’ George said stiffly. ‘I’ll try to do better for you in future.’

‘Fine.’

There was a silence. ‘How about I make some cocoa?’ I said in a bright voice. Hot chocolate helps soothe things in the early hours. The night was growing old. It would soon be dawn.

‘I’ll make it,’ George said. He stood abruptly. ‘See if I can do that right. Two sugars, Luce? Lockwood . . . I’ll make yours an extra frothy one.’

Lockwood frowned at the closing door. ‘You know, that last comment makes me uneasy . . .’ He sighed. ‘Lucy, I’ve been meaning to say: that was an impressive move back there – what you did with the rapier.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You aimed it perfectly, right between their heads. An inch to the left, and you’d have skewered George right between the eyes. Really sensational accuracy there.’

I made a modest gesture. ‘Well . . . sometimes you just do what has to be done.’

‘You didn’t actually aim it at all, did you?’ Lockwood said.

‘No.’

‘You just chucked it. In fact, it was pure blind luck that George lost his balance and fell out of the way. That’s why he wasn’t kebabbed by you.’

‘Yup.’

He smiled at me. ‘Still . . . that doesn’t stop it being a great piece of work. You were the only one who reacted in time.’

As always, the full warmth of his approval made me feel a little flushed. I cleared my throat. ‘Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Bickerstaff’s ghost . . . What kind was it? I’ve never seen anything like it before. Did you see how it rose up so high? What Visitor does that?’

‘I don’t know, Luce. Hopefully all the rest of the iron we piled on will keep it quiet till dawn. Then, I’m glad to say, it becomes DEPRAC’s problem.’ He sighed, rose from his chair. ‘I’d better go and help George. I know I’ve offended him. Also I’m slightly worried about what he’s doing to my cocoa.’

After he’d gone, I lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Whether it was my weariness or the events of the night, the room didn’t seem quite still. Images spun before my vision – George and Joplin frozen by the coffin; the blackened grinning face of the Bickerstaff corpse; the terrible ghost in its long grey shroud rising, rising towards the stars . . . The figures moved slowly round and round in front of me as if I was watching the least child-friendly carousel ride in the world.

Bed; I needed bed. I closed my eyes. It didn’t do any good. The images were still there. Plus, it made me remember the cold, yet wheedling voice I’d heard as I stood there in the pit, urging me to look at . . . To look at what? The ghost? The mirror?

I was glad I didn’t know.

‘Feeling rough?’ someone said softly.

‘Yeah. A little.’ Then something like a lift shaft opened in my belly, and I felt myself drop through it. I opened my eyes. The door was still closed. Two rooms away I could hear Lockwood and George talking in the kitchen.

There was a greenish light revolving on the ceiling.

‘Because you sure as hell look it.’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before.

I raised my head slowly and looked at the coffee table, which now shone in emerald ghost-light. The substance in the jar was pulsing outwards from the centre like boiling water on the hob. There was a face within it, a leering face superimposed upon the plasm. The tip of its bulb-like nose pressed hard against the silver-glass; wicked eyes glittered; the lipless mouth champed and grinned.

‘You,’ I said. My throat was dry; I could barely speak.

‘Not the greatest welcome I’ve ever had,’ the voice said, ‘but accurate. Yes, I can’t deny it. Me.’

I struggled to my feet, breathing too fast, fierce exultation surging through me. So I’d been right: it was a Type Three. Fully conscious, able to communicate! But Lockwood and George weren’t here – I had to show them, had to prove it somehow. I started towards the door.

‘Oh, don’t bring them into it.’ The whispering voice sounded pained. ‘Let’s keep it intimate, you and me.’

That made me pause. Seven months had passed since the skull had last chosen to speak. I could well believe it would clam up the moment I opened the door. I swallowed, tried to ignore my heart hammering in my chest. ‘All right,’ I said hoarsely, facing it directly for the first time. ‘If that’s how you want it, let’s have some answers. What are you, then? Why are you talking to me?’

‘What am I?’ The face split open, the plasm parted, and I had a clear glimpse of the stained brown skull at the bottom of the jar. ‘This is what I am,’ the voice hissed. ‘Look on me well. This fate awaits you too.’

‘Oh, very sinister,’ I sneered. ‘You were just the same last time out. What did you say then? Death is coming? Well, so much for your predictions. I’m still alive, and you’re still just a dribble of luminous slime trapped in a jar. Big deal.’

At once the plasm drew together like two lift doors closing, and the face re-formed. Its reproving look was slightly undermined by the fact that its re-joined halves didn’t quite match, giving it a grotesquely lopsided appearance. ‘I’m disappointed,’ it whispered, ‘that you didn’t heed my warning. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death – that’s what I said. Problem is: you’re stupid, Lucy. You’re blind to the evidence around you.’

Far off in the kitchen I could hear the clink of cutlery. I moistened my lips. ‘That claptrap means nothing to me.’

The voice gave a groan. ‘What, you want me to draw you a picture? Use your eyes and ears! Use your intelligence, girl. No one else can do it. You’re on your own.’

I shook my head, as much to clear my brain as anything. Here I was, hands on hips, arguing with a face in a jar. ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not alone. I have my friends.’

‘What, fat George? Deceitful Lockwood?’ The face crinkled with merriment. ‘Ooh yes, brilliant. What a team.’

‘Deceitful . . .?’ Up until then there had been something almost hypnotic about the voice; I’d found it impossible to disregard. All at once the gloating quality of the whisper repulsed me. I backed away across the room.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ the voice said. ‘Secretive, deceitful. You know it’s true.’

I laughed at the ludicrousness of it. ‘I know no such thing.’

‘So go on, then,’ came the whisper. ‘There’s a door, it’s got hinges. Use them.’

Too right I would. Suddenly I needed company; I needed the others. I didn’t want to be alone with the gleeful voice.

I crossed the room. My fingers reached for the handle.

‘Speaking of doors, I saw you once on the upstairs landing. Standing outside the forbidden room. You were dying to go through, weren’t you?’

I halted. ‘No . . .’

‘Good job you didn’t. You’d never have left alive.’

It was as if the floor beneath my feet tilted slightly. ‘No,’ I said again. ‘No.’ I fumbled for the handle, began to turn it.

‘There are other things in this house to fear, besides me.’

‘Lockwood! George!’ I wrenched the door open and found myself roaring the words right into their astonished faces. Lockwood was so surprised he spilled half his cocoa on the rug in the hall; George, who was carrying the tray, manfully juggled the crisps and sandwiches. I ushered them both inside.

‘It’s talking!’ I cried. ‘The jar is! Look! Listen!’

I gestured urgently at the glass. Needless to say, the ghost said nothing. Needless to say, the face was gone; the plasm hung there, dull and still, as interesting and active as muddy rainwater in a jam jar. In the centre of the mess, I could see the teeth of the skull grinning dimly between the metal clamps.

My shoulders sagged. I took a deep breath. ‘It was talking,’ I said limply. ‘Really talking to me. If you’d been here a minute earlier . . .’ I scowled at them, as if it was their fault they’d missed out.

They said nothing, just stood there. With the tip of his little finger, George nudged a sandwich back into position. Finally Lockwood moved across and put the mugs down on the table. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a splash of cocoa from his hand.

‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.

I stared at the grinning skull. Rage filled me. I took a swift step forward. If Lockwood hadn’t put out a hand, I believe I would have kicked that jar right across the room.

‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. ‘We believe you.’

I ran a harassed hand through my hair. ‘Good.’

‘Sit down. Have some food and cocoa.’

‘OK.’ I did so. We all did. After a while I said: ‘It was like the first time, down in the cellar. It just started talking. We had a conversation.’

‘A real back-and-forth conversation?’ Lockwood said. ‘A real Type Three?’

‘Definitely.’

‘So what was it like?’ George asked.

‘It was . . . irritating.’ I glared at the quiescent jar.

He nodded slowly. ‘Only, Marissa Fittes said that communicating with Type Three ghosts was perilous, that they twisted your words and played with your emotions. She said if you weren’t careful, you felt yourself falling slowly under their power, until your actions were not your own . . .’

‘No . . . I’d still say “irritating” about sums it up.’

‘So what did it tell you?’ Lockwood asked. ‘What searing insights did it give?’

I looked at him. He was sitting back, sipping his cocoa. As always, despite the rigours of the night, he seemed composed. He was fastidious, self-possessed, always in control . . .

There are other things in this house to fear, besides me.

‘Um, nothing very much,’ I said.

‘Well, there must have been something.’

‘Did it talk about the afterlife?’ George said eagerly. His eyes shone bright behind his spectacles. ‘That’s the big one. That’s what everyone wants. Old Joplin told me he goes to scholars’ conventions about it. What happens after death. Immortality . . . The fate of the human soul . . .’

I took a deep breath. ‘It said you were fat.’

‘What?’

‘It talked about us, basically. It watches us and knows our names. It said—’

‘It said I was fat?’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Fat? Fat? What kind of otherworldly communication is that?’

‘Oh, it was all like that!’ I cried. ‘Just meaningless stuff. It’s evil, I think: it wants to hurt us, get us fighting amongst ourselves . . . It also said I was blind to things around me . . . I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean to insult you, and I hope that—’

‘I mean, if I was interested in my weight, I’d buy a mirror,’ George said. ‘This is just so disappointing. No piercing insights about the other side? Shame.’ He took a bite of sandwich, slumped regretfully in his chair.

‘What did it say about me?’ Lockwood asked, watching me with his dark, calm eyes.

‘Oh . . . stuff.’

‘Such as?’

I looked away, took a sudden interest in the sandwiches, and made a big show of prising a plump one clear. I held it fastidiously in my fingers. ‘Oh good, ham. That’s fine.’

‘Lucy,’ Lockwood said, ‘the last time I saw body language like yours was when we were chatting to Martine Grey about her missing husband, and afterwards found him at the bottom of her freezer. Don’t be so shifty, and spit it out.’ He smiled easily. ‘It’s honestly not going to get me upset.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Well, I mean, what did it say?’ He chuckled. ‘How bad can it have been?’

‘OK, so it told me . . . I mean, I didn’t believe it, obviously, and it’s not something I care about, no matter what the truth may be . . . It implied you had something dangerous hidden in that room. You know, the room upstairs. On the landing,’ I finished lamely.

Lockwood lowered his mug; he spoke flintily. ‘Yes, I know the one. The one you can’t stop asking about.’

I gave a hoarse cry. ‘I didn’t bring it up this time! The ghost in the jar did!’

‘The ghost in the jar. Oh yes. Who just happens to have the same obsession as you.’ Lockwood folded his arms. ‘So tell me, what exactly did the “ghost in the jar” say?’

I licked my lips. ‘It doesn’t matter. You obviously don’t believe me, so I’m not going to say any more. I’m off to bed.’

I got to my feet, but Lockwood got up too. ‘Oh no, you’re not,’ he said. ‘You can’t just throw out wild assertions and then swan off like a prima donna without backing them up. Tell me what you’ve seen.’

‘I haven’t seen anything. I keep telling you, it . . .’ I paused. ‘So there is something.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You definitely implied there was something to see.’

We stood there, glaring at each other. George took another sandwich. At that moment the phone rang, out in the hall. All three of us jumped.

Lockwood swore. ‘Now what? It’s four-thirty in the morning.’ He went out to answer it.

George said, ‘Looks like Marissa Fittes was right. Type Three ghosts do mess with your head and play with your emotions. Look at the two of you now, arguing over nothing.’

‘It’s not nothing,’ I said. ‘This is a basic issue of trust, which—’

‘Looks like a whopping great zero from where I’m sitting,’ George said. ‘This ghost also called me “fat”: do you see me reacting?’

The door opened, Lockwood appeared. The anger in his face had been replaced with puzzlement and some concern.

‘This night’s getting weirder,’ he said. ‘That was Saunders at the cemetery. There’s been a break-in at the chapel where they were keeping the Bickerstaff coffin. One of the night-watch kids was hurt. And you remember that creepy mirror? It’s been stolen.’