𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Forty Four - Feathered Capes

Precisely what Lockwood's plan was, they didn't immediately hear. He refused to be drawn on it and, not long afterwards, went out on his own. Physically, Nola was still recovering from her exertions of the previous forty-eight hours, so she was happy enough to stay at Portland Row. She made herself as useful as she could, helping George with the dishes. After that, when he and Holly went down to the office to start on company business, Nola wandered out into the garden.

The gnarled old apple tree was in bud, and the unkempt grass sparkled in the sunshine. Nola sat on the patio among the weeds, staring at the backs of houses across the gardens. Flowers whose names she didn't know were showing under the walls, and birds she didn't recognise swooped low between the trees, filling the air with sound. During the previous summer, once or twice, when Lockwood & Co weren't out risking their lives, they'd sit there in the evenings. They would always say they should do it more, but it never happened – they were just too busy. Besides, none of them really knew what to do with relaxation. It was always so much more natural to just go out and stab something. So, the garden was generally ignored.

It felt odd for Nola to have the time to sit out there. She was in a kind of limbo, neither part of Lockwood & Co nor entirely separated from it. And her emotions were similarly torn. Half of her still believed that she should be somewhere else, holding fast to a solitary career that couldn't imperil Lockwood and the others. That side of her felt deeply uneasy about asking them to help find the skull. It would be a dangerous job, no question about it. And yet... she couldn't feel entirely guilty. Because right then, she needed assistance. She needed some friends. And hadn't George told her outside the Guppy house that Lockwood had been continually throwing himself into danger those last few months? So what did it matter if she asked him to help her do something tricky? Why should Nola feel bad about that? What would it actually change?

It was hard for Nola to make sense of what she was feeling. The only thing she did know for certain as she sat in the peaceful garden was that it was nice to be back, even if only for a short while.

Shortly after lunch, Lockwood returned – smelling vaguely of rotten wood and seaweed, so Nola knew he'd been to see Flo Bones. The first part of his plan was apparently underway.

"I had to promise her a year's supply of liquorice, but I talked her into it." He said. "The next relic men's market is scheduled for tomorrow night. Flo's going, so she'll find out exactly when and where. She'll get us to the door. Once there, guys built like gorillas will vet us. If we pass muster, we'll be allowed into the meeting. If we don't, we'll be beaten senseless and our limp bodies tossed into the Thames. I think passing muster is the option to go for."

"I agree." Nola said. "So how are we going to do that?"

But Lockwood wouldn't say.

The next thing that happened was that Lockwood and Holly made a trip back to Nola's flat in Tooting to fetch her clothes. She wasn't allowed to go. In due course they returned, the visit having passed without incident, except that they'd bumped into Nola's neighbour across the landing.       

"He told us he'd heard noises last night." Lockwood said. "They were coming from your room. He peeped through a spyhole in his door and saw two men with torches standing in your doorway. One of them had a gun. When they saw that the place was empty, they left. I'd say it was a good thing you came to us, James, and didn't go back home."

Once again, Nola couldn't disagree.

Holly handed her a couple of bags of her belongings. Her expression was sombre. "I don't know how to tell you this, James, but they... they messed up your place really badly."

Nola stared at her. "Oh, no. What have they done?"

But, Nola knew that in all reality, the mess was probably her own. She had let herself go ever since she lived in that little pokey flat in Tooting. She knew, realistically, that the mess was purely a reflection of herself.