𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Forty Two - Back To Roots

It was only three miles as the crow flies from Clerkenwell to Marylebone, but it took Nola several hours to cover the distance. Weariness dragged at her and she often lost her way. Also, she was wary of pursuit, and so kept off the main roads, making lengthy diversions to avoid encounters with the living. She saw a few vehicles in the distance – mostly agency cars and DEPRAC vans – and in her state of mind she trusted none of them. The girl's paranoia kept her safe, and no ghosts detected her, which was another plus, but she was a slow and sorry figure by the time she reached the familiar street at last.

Nola trudged up the centre of the road, past Arif's corner store, past the rusty ghost lamp, meandering listlessly between the silent chains of parked cars. Everything was quiet, dark, locked down. Midnight had come and gone. No one in their right mind was making house calls now – except for agents out on cases. It was only then, as Nola reached number 35 and saw its black and unlit windows, that she remembered it was quite possible – quite likely – that Lockwood and the others would not be home. The realisation made her sway. But, it was too late by this point. She crossed over to the gate. It was still wonky, and they hadn't changed the sign:

A. J. LOCKWOOD & CO, INVESTIGATORS. AFTER DARK, RING BELL AND WAIT BEYOND THE IRON LINE.

She pushed it open and walked carefully up towards the house, over the uneven tiles. In the glow of the street light outside number 37, the iron barrier embedded halfway up the path glinted with a soft sheen. Nola could see the bell hanging from its post beside it. So many cases had begun with that bell clanging at odd hours of the night.

One thing held true every time. It made a hell of a racket.

Nola reached for the clapper, looking back at the sleeping street – and for a moment a vestige of pride resurfaced. Perhaps she should wait for morning, for a more civilized hour. She could always find shelter somewhere – curl up on the step behind Arif's store, maybe, and—

Nope, that stupid idea didn't detain her long. She needed help, and she needed it immediately.

She grasped the clapper and set to.

George once told Nola that there was a theory that ghosts disliked loud noises, particularly ones made with iron instruments. He said the ancient Greeks used to send evil spirits packing with metal rattles and tambourines. Well, if anything undead had been lurking in Portland Row that night, their ectoplasm would have dissolved the instant she began ringing. Nola nearly lost a few teeth herself. The appalling noise ripped a hole in the fabric of the night.

She gave it a good twenty seconds, and when she stopped, her heart's clapper kept on pounding against her chest.

A short time passed. To her great relief, movements sounded in the house. A faint glow showed abruptly in the the semi circle of petalled panes above the door. That would be the crystal skull lamp on the hall table being switched on. Nola heard the chain being removed, the bolt pulled back. She stepped away from the door, back across the iron line. Best not to come too close. Give them some space. Some people could be mighty jittery if they saw a dark figure when they opened a door at night, particularly if those people were George.

But it wasn't George. It was Lockwood. The door swung back, and there he was in his long dark dressing gown and his dark blue pyjamas, with the spare rapier – the one he kept with the umbrellas in the hall – held ready in his hand. His feet were bare, his hair rumpled. His lean face was wary but relaxed. He stared out into the dark. His eyes glimmered. Was it really her? Had she really come back?

She just stood there. She didn't know what to say to him.

"James?"

Nola not slept at all that night, and for only a short while the night before. In the last few hours, she had fled from three killers and come face to face with a newly murdered ghost. She had been cut by a throwing knife. She had sustained countless bumps and bruises during her escape, after which she had walked halfway across London. She hadn't eaten since... When had she eaten? She couldn't remember. Her trousers were torn. She was cold, stiff and sore, and could barely stand.