Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

Anyway, they’re long gone. I believe Lockwood was in care for years with a relative of some kind. Then he trained as an agent with “Gravedigger” Sykes, and got the house back somehow.’ He adjusted his newspaper and marched across the landing. ‘No doubt you can use your psychic sensitivity to find out more.’
    But I was frowning after him. ‘Into care? So does that mean his parents—’
    ‘One way or another, I should think it means they’re dead.’ And with that he closed the bathroom door.
    Well, it isn’t hard to guess which colleague I favoured, as I lay awake that night under the attic eaves. On the one hand: Anthony Lockwood – vigorous and energetic, eager to throw himself into each new mystery; a boy who was clearly never happier than when walking into a haunted room, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. On the other: George Cubbins, handsome as a freshly opened tub of margarine, as charismatic as a wet tea towel lying scrumpled on the floor. I guessed he was never happier than when surrounded by dusty files and piled plates of food, and – since he was prickly with it, and seemed to find me irksome – I resolved to keep away from him as far as I could. But it already pleased me to think of walking into darkness with Lockwood at my side.

8

    Late morning was Lockwood’s favourite time for meeting new clients. It gave him a chance to recover from any expeditions of the night before. He always received his guests in the same living room where I’d had my interview, probably because its friendly sofas and displays of oriental ghost-catchers provided an appropriate atmosphere for discussions that bridged the banal and the strange.
    On my first full day at Portland Row a single new client came by appointment at eleven o’clock: a gentleman in his early sixties, puffy-faced and plaintive, a few thin strands of hair slicked despondently across his skull. Lockwood sat with him at the coffee table. George was positioned some way off at a slope-sided writing desk, taking notes from the meetingin the big black casebook. I had no part in the conversation. I sat in a chair at the back of the room, listening to what went on.
    The gentleman had a problem with his garage. His grand-daughter refused to go in, he said. She claimed she’d seen things, but she was a hysterical girl and he hardly knew whether to believe her. Still, against his better judgement (here he blew out his cheeks to emphasize his extreme reluctance), he’d come to us for a consultation.
    Lockwood was politeness itself. ‘How old is your grand-daughter, Mr Potter?’
    ‘Six. She’s a silly little minx at the best of times.’
    ‘And what does she say she’s seen?’
    ‘I can’t get any sense out of her. A young man, standing at the far end of the garage, beside the tea crates. Says he’s very thin.’
    ‘I see. And is he always in the same place, or does he move at all?’
    ‘Just stands there, she says. First time out, she reckons she spoke to him, but he never answered her, only stared. I don’t know as she’s making it up. She hears enough about Visitors in the playground.’
    ‘Possibly, Mr Potter, possibly. And you’ve never noticed anything odd in the garage yourself? It’s not unreasonably cold, for example?’
    A shake of the head. ‘It’s chilly . . . but it’s a garage, sowhat do you expect? And before you ask me: nothing’s happened there. No one’s . . . you know – died or anything. It’s a new-build, only five years old, and I always keep it safely locked.’
    ‘I see . . .’ Lockwood clasped his hands together. ‘Do you keep pets, Mr Potter?’
    The man blinked; with a stubby finger he encouraged a long droop of hair back onto his forehead. ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’
    ‘I just wondered if you had a dog, perhaps, or cats.’
    ‘The wife’s got two cats. Milk-white Siamese. Stuck-up, bony little things.’
    ‘And do they often go into the garage?’
    The man considered. ‘No. They don’t like it there. Give it a wide berth. I’ve always thought it’s because they don’t like getting their precious little coats dirty, what with all the dust and cobwebs everywhere.’
    Lockwood looked up. ‘Ah, you have a problem with garage spiders, Mr Potter?’
    ‘Well, there’s a colony there, or something. They seem to spin new webs fast as I can brush them away. But it’s that time of year, isn’t it?’
    ‘I couldn’t say. Well, I’m happy to look