𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧┃ Anthony Lockwood┃3┃

Chapter Thirteen - Spotlight's On George

Whether Inspector Barnes's warning left any impression on George was doubtful. The following morning, as Nola made her way downstairs, his bedroom door hung open. For reasons of hygiene, it was never wise to venture inside, but even from the landing the rumpled, unmade bed and strew of papers on the floor told their own tale.

In the kitchen, a scrawled note had been left on the thinking cloth:

Need to check something out. Back later. BE HERE!

But George was back even before lunch. Holly was in the basement, filling away heaps and heaps of paperwork. Lockwood, Nola and Ghostbuster were napping in their shared bedroom when a crash from the kitchen sent them scurrying down the wooden staircase. George stood at the table. He had swept the fruit bowl off and dumped a great pile of documents in its place. He had a pen between his teeth; with ferocious speed he was swapping papers, selecting maps, spreading the pile around.

"Um, are you ready to chat?" Lockwood ventured into the kitchen, holding onto Nola's hand. In her other arm, snuggled up against her chest, was a very timid Ghostbuster, who had been frightened by George's clattering.

Speaking of George, he made a flapping motion with one hand. "Not yet! Just a couple of things to sort! Give me an hour!"

"Do you... do you want a sandwich?" Holly asked.

"No! No time." George was peering at a photocopy of an old newspaper article. He frowned at it, cast it aside. "Oh, but, Lockwood..."

"Yes?"

"Can you get Kipps over? He should be here too. One hour."

"All right. We'll leave you alone till then."

George didn't answer. He was in his own world, buoyed by the thrill of discovery. At such times, a physical transformation seemed to come over him. His extra weight fell away; he was swift of movement, light of foot – Lockwood at his most panther-like and predatory moved with no greater velvet grace. His spectacles shone with light from the garden – in just such a way, one felt, the goggles of a fighter pilot would catch the spark of the sun as his plane performed miracles of flight high above the earth. Even his hair crackled with new energy, swept back from his forehead like that of a racing driver negotiating hairpin bends. It was as if the sinewy intelligence that lay concealed behind his doughy frame was suddenly laid bare; its quick workings transferred into the deftness with which he organized his papers, flipped from one file to another, danced around the kitchen table, pausing only occasionally to scribble something on the thinking cloth. As Lockwood said later, it was like watching an artist at work; you could have sold tickets for his exhibition on that sunny morning.

In the end, Holly volunteered to hunt down Kipps. While she slipped out, Lockwood and Nola retreated to the rapier room, where their straw dummies, Floating Joe and Lady Esmeralda, hung on their chains. Lockwood rolled up his sleeves and practiced moves on Esmeralda. Nola did the same with Floating Joe. In between, the shared quick kisses. As always, the simplicity of this action worked wonders on their mood. Excitement rose; they felt mounting expectation at what George might reveal. Soon, they left the dummies swinging and began duelling with each other, grinning as they circled, feinting, dodging, making ornate patterns with their clashing blades.

The hour passed. Hot, sweaty (for several reasons) and in need of tea, Lockwood and Nola went back upstairs. In the kitchen, the table and most of the other surfaces were invisible beneath a sea of papers. George sat waiting. He looked sweaty too.

"I'm ready." He said. "Put the kettle on."

Up on the sink, documents lapped at the base of the ghost jar. The skull rolled its eyes at Nola. "Thank goodness you're here. He's been like a plump whirlwind. And there was a most distressing glimpse of pink flesh when he bent down to pick up a paperclip. I'd have feared for my life if I wasn't already dead."