𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧┃ Anthony Lockwood┃3┃

Chapter Four - Back To Portland Row

35 Portland Row, the home and headquarters of Lockwood & Co, was a very special place. Whenever the old black front door shut behind Nola and she saw the welcoming glint of the Aztec crystal-skull lantern on the key table, the weight of the world was lifted from her like a conjurer snapping a cloak up into the air. She'd toss her rapier into the pot that they used as an umbrella stand, hang her jacket on a peg, and walk up the hall past the shelves with their odd collection of jars and masks and painted gourds. If it was daytime, Nola would peep into the living room to see if anyone was resting or working there. By night, she would check the library, which was where they tended to crash after a job. If all was quiet, Nola would stroll past the staircase to the kitchen, where the lingering smells of toast (Lockwood) or teacake (George and Kipps) gave clues to who might be in. Occasionally, if the tin of dried green tea had been opened, or one or two sunflower seeds lay scattered on the worktop, she knew that Holly was around and probably working in the office. Nola couldn't always tell, though; Holly was the tidiest of all of them, and rarely left such clues. Most rare of all, however, an odour of stale kippers and traces of dried river-mud kicked off by the back door gave certain proof that Flo Bones had recently called by.

The house was their sanctuary, a refuge from ghosts and other, darker things. And the happiest times of all were the breakfasts that they enjoyed after a successful case, with the windows open onto the garden, and the sun streaming in.

On such an occasion, the morning after their visit to the Fittes Mausoleum, Lockwood, George and Nola were sitting at the kitchen table. Holly had gone out to Arif's Stores to fetch further supplies. The surface of the table was littered with open jam jars, egg cups, butter dishes and toast crumbs, but the agents still felt hungry. At one end of the table, the ghost jar was striped by sunlight coming through the blinds. The teens had their mugs of tea. George, who had eaten well, was sitting in his chair with a hideous wooden mask propped up on his lap. He was using a damp tea towel to wipe the dust off it. Lockwood had a pen and was doodling on a corner of the thinking cloth – the tablecloth on which they noted down ideas – while simultaneously glancing at a newspaper leaning against the ghost jar. In the jar itself, the ghost was dormant. The plasm stirred lazily in the late-morning sun, like green water in a deep and weedy pool.

Nola sat quietly next to Lockwood, her head resting upon his shoulder, enjoying the companionable silence. Her muscles ached, her mind was muzzy. Lockwood had a scrape on his left temple, and the lenses of George's spectacles were soft with grave-dust. Their exertions hung heavy on them. But they had not yet spoken of the night before.

"Lots of news this morning." Lockwood said, indicating the paper.

Nola opened an eye. "Good?"

"No."

"Bad?"

"Baddish and bad. Two things, and neither particularly great for us."

"Let's have the baddish one first." George said. "I prefer my misery to come at me in stages, so I can acclimatize on the way."

Lockwood reached out for his mug of tea, careful not to disturb the dozy girl who rested upon his shoulder. "The baddish one is just the usual. Dullop and Tweed this time. They've agreed terms with the Fittes Agency. Old Mr Dullop is retiring, and the company's being absorbed into Fittes, effective immediately."                        

"What does Tweed have to say about it?" Nola asked, her voice slightly muffled. She could smell Lockwood's cologne from his clothes. It flooded her with peace.

"Nothing. He got killed by a Solitary years ago."

Nola frowned. "Another small agency swallowed up..." She lifted her weary head and looked towards the window, where bright blue sky shone above the houses at the bottom of the garden. "There aren't many of us left."