Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

with bookshelves of dark mahogany. The shelves held a mass of ethnic masks and other artefacts – pots and icons, brightly decorated shells and gourds. A narrow key table stood just inside the door with a lantern on it, its base shaped like a crystal skull. Beyond that sat a vast, chipped plant pot stuffed with umbrellas, walking sticks and rapiers. I halted beside a rack of coats.
    ‘Hold on a tick,’ the boy said. He remained waiting by the open door.
    He was a little older than me, and not quite my height, though a good deal stockier. He had podgy, rather bland features, nondescript except for a prominently squared jaw. Behind his glasses, his eyes were very blue. His sandy hair, which in texture reminded me of a horse’s tail, flopped heavily across his brow. He wore white trainers, a pair of faded jeans, and a loosely tucked shirt, bulging around the midriff.
    ‘Any minute now,’ he said.
    From deeper inside the house a murmur of voices rose to a crescendo. A side-door burst open: a well-dressed girl emerged at speed, eyes blazing, face chalk-white, scrunched coat dragging in her hand. She flashed me an expression of fury and contempt, swore roundly at the fat boy, kicked the front door as she passed it, and was gone into the day.
    ‘Hmm. Definite second interview material, that one,’ the boy remarked. He closed the door and scratched his pudgy nose. ‘Okey-doke, if you’d like to follow me . . .’
    He led the way into a sunny living room, white-walled and cheery, decorated with further artefacts and totems. Two easy chairs and a sofa surrounded a low-lying coffee table. Also beside it, smiling broadly, was a tall, slim boy dressed in a dark suit. ‘I win, George,’ he said. ‘I knew there was one more.’
    As I crossed to greet him, I used my senses, as I always do. The full range of senses, I mean – outer and inner. Just so I didn’t miss anything.
    The most obvious thing to spot was a rounded, bulky object lying on the table, concealed by a green-and-white spotted handkerchief. Did it have anything to do with the previous girl’s discomfort? I thought it highly likely. There was the subtlest of noises too – something I could almost hear, but it kept its distance from my mind. I suppose if I’d concentrated I might have pinned it down . . . but that would have meant standing like a plank with my eyes shut and mymouth open, which is never a great way to start an interview. So I just shook the boy’s hand.
    ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Anthony Lockwood.’
    ‘Lucy Carlyle.’
    He had very bright, dark eyes and a nice lopsided grin. ‘Very good to meet you. Tea? Or has George already offered you some?’
    The plump boy made a disparaging gesture. ‘I thought I’d wait until the first test was done,’ he said. ‘See if she was still here. I’ve wasted that many tea bags this morning.’
    ‘Why not give her the benefit of the doubt,’ Anthony Lockwood said, ‘and go and put the kettle on?’
    The boy seemed unconvinced. ‘All right – but I reckon she’s a bolter.’ He spun slowly on his heels and trudged out into the hall.
    Anthony Lockwood waved me to a chair. ‘You’ll have to excuse George. We’ve been interviewing since eight, and he’s getting hungry. He was so convinced the last girl was the final one.’
    ‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t brought you any doughnuts either.’
    He looked sharply at me. ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘George told me about your daily deliveries.’
    ‘Oh. For a moment there I thought you were psychic.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘I mean, in an unusual way. Never mind.’ He settledhimself on the couch opposite and smoothed out some papers before him. He had a very slender face, with a long nose and a dark mop of unruly hair. I realized almost with shock that he was scarcely older than me. His manner had been so assured, I hadn’t noticed his age. I wondered for the first time why there were no supervisors present in the room.
    ‘I see from your letter,’ the boy said, ‘that you’re from the north of England. From the Cheviot Hills. Wasn’t there a famous outbreak in that district a few years back?’
    ‘The Murton Colliery Horror,’ I said. ‘Yes. I was five then.’
    ‘Fittes agents had to come from London to deal with the Visitors, didn’t they?’ Lockwood said. ‘It was in my Gazetteer of British Hauntings .’
    I nodded. ‘We weren’t meant to look in case they took our soul, and everyone had