𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Eight - Nelson Street In Whitechapel

Their route to Whitechapel had taken them via the centre of the city. They were in Trafalgar Square. As Nola got out of the taxi, she 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 placards, others were taking it in turns to make speeches from a makeshift platform. Nola couldn't quite hear what was being said. A ring of police and DEPRAC officers surrounded them at some distance. Further off still, and spilling out into the road, stood a large mass of psychic investigation agents, presumably there to protect the assembly. They wore the brightly coloured jackets that most agencies use. Silver Fittes ones, the burgundy splendours of the Rotwell Agency, the canary yellow of Tamworth, Grimble's green pea-soupers. A DEPRAC van had parked on one side and was doling out hot drinks, and many other vans and taxis waited close by.

Lockwood made a beeline straight across the square. Nola hurried after him. She soon grew out of breath; her small steps could never quite compete with his long strides.

Knots of operatives stood in colour-coded groups, eyeing up their hated rivals, talking loudly and uttering barks of raucous laughter. The smallest agents, kids of seven or eight, stood drinking hot chocolate and making faces at each other. Older ones swaggered to and fro, exchanging insulting gestures under the noses of their supervisors, who affected not to notice. Chests swelled, swords glinted in the lamp light. The air crackled with condescension and hostility.

"What the hell is all of this?" Nola muttered to herself.

She and Lockwood 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 polystyrene cup of steaming orange soup. He had a weathered, lived-in face, and a greying moustache the approximate size and length of some sort of deceased rodent. He most certainly 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 Lockwood & Co's company. Beside him stood a smallish man, resplendently decked out in the plush livery of the Fittes Agency. His boots shone, and his skin-tight trousers gleamed. An expensive rapier swung from a jewelled 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 out a bowl of caviar. Yes, the classy element was there, but it wasn't what you focused on.

For a variety of reasons, possibly connected to the fact that they often said this to his face, he had long disliked the agents 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 ring binder as Lockwood and Nola 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."

Barnes hummed. "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 organised into supporting groups that— Oh, God." Barnes had noticed Lockwood and Nola's 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 turf them off?"