𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Nine - Solo Mission

It turned out that the paper that Nola had found was the ghost's confession. Or, at least, it was the confession of someone named Arabella Crowley. It was written in 1837, a date that roughly matched the Spectre's clothes. It seemed she'd smothered her husband in his sleep, and got away with it. Her guilty conscience had kept her spirit from its rest: now that the document had been found and her crime revealed, the ghost was unlikely to return.

That was Nola's interpretation, anyway. Lockwood took no chances. The following morning, he had the fragments of windowpane incinerated in Clerkenwell Furnaces, and he encouraged Mrs Peters to have the wardrobe broken up as well. Slightly to Nola's annoyance, he repeated his orders to her about not communicating with Visitors that weren't safely constrained. Of course, she understood why he was so cautious; his sister's fate loomed heavily over him.

Over the next few days, new cases for Lockwood & Co continued to come in thick and fast. Lockwood, George and Nola were forced to continue tackling them separately.

This led to problems. For a start, their hectic schedule meant they had little time to research any job in advance, an omission which was always dangerous. One night. Lockwood was nearly ghost touched at a church near Old Street. He had cornered a Phantasm beside the altar, and almost missed a second one creeping up from behind. If he had read up on the history of the church beforehand, he would have known that it was haunted by murdered twins.

Fatigue was an issue too: George was ambushed by a Lurker that he hadn't spotted near Whitechapel Lock, and only escaped by jumping head-first into the canal. Nola fell asleep during a stakeout in a bakery, and totally missed a charred ghost emerging from the oven. The sudden smell of roasted meat woke her just as it was reaching for her face with blackened fingers, much to the amusement of the whispering skull – which had been watching from its jar, but hadn't said anything.

Their narrow escapes bothered Lockwood, who saw it as yet further proof that they were undermanned and overworked. No doubt he was right, but Nola was particularly interested in the freedom that her solitary expeditions gave her, even though Lockwood kept trying to talk her out of it. He practically begged her to wait until there was a time he was free, so that they could go together, but that time never came. She was waiting to make a proper psychic connection with a ghost – and it wasn't long before she got precisely that opportunity.

Her appointment was with a family in flat number 21, Bermuda Court, Whitechapel. It was the tower-block case, the one she'd been lumbered with because of the bagsie rule. It had been postponed twice due to client illness.

Lockwood and George were busy with other work, so she took the skull along. It provided company, of a disagreeable, unsavoury sort. If nothing else, its jabbering helped keep the silences at bay.

Bermuda Court proved to be one of those big concrete estates they'd built after the war. It had four blocks arranged around a grassy yard, each with external stairs and walkways running round the sides. The walkways acted as protection against the weather, but also cast the doors and windows of the flats into perpetual shadow. The surface of the concrete was rough and ugly, dark with rain.

As she'd predicted, the lifts were out. Flat 21 was only on the fifth floor, but Nola was out of breath when she arrived. Her rucksack, weighed down by a certain jar, was killing her.

The light was almost gone. Nola took a rasping breath and rang the bell.

"Man, you're unfit." The skull said in her ear.

"Shut up! I'm in good shape." The girl hissed in the direction of her rucksack.

"Nola, you're wheezing like an asthmatic sloth. It would help to lose a little weight. Like that bit on your hips Lockwood's always going on about." The skull gurgled from its jar.