Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

lounge there in his pants. I hope that’s a habit he’ll snap out of, now you’re here. Don’t worry, he won’t come in now; he’s already gone to bed.’
    I sat in a leather chair opposite his. It was soft and comfy, and only slightly let down by a shrivelled apple core laid neatly on one arm. Lockwood, who had come over to switch on a light behind my head, plucked it deftly away without comment and put it in a bin. He flung himself back into his seat, where he set the magazine down in his lap and folded his hands on top of it.
    We smiled across at each other. All of a sudden I remembered we were strangers. Now that all the interviews, tours and investigations were over for the moment, I found I didn’t have a clue what to say.
    ‘I saw George going upstairs,’ I said finally. ‘He seemed a little . . . crotchety.’
    Lockwood made an easy gesture. ‘Oh, he’s fine. He has these moods sometimes.’
    There was a silence. I became aware of a steady ticking noise coming from an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace.
    Anthony Lockwood cleared his throat. ‘So, Ms Carlyle?’
    ‘Call me Lucy,’ I said. ‘It’s shorter, and easier, and a bit more friendly. Since we’re going to be working together, I mean. And living in the same house.’
    ‘Of course. Quite right . . .’ He looked down at his magazine, then up at me again. ‘So, Lucy ’ – we both laughed awkwardly – ‘do you like the house?’
    ‘Very much. My room’s lovely.’
    ‘And the washroom . . . it’s not too small?’
    ‘No. It’s perfect. Very homely.’
    ‘Homely? Good. I’m glad.’
    ‘About your name,’ I said suddenly. ‘I notice George calls you “Lockwood”.’
    ‘I answer to that, most of the time.’
    ‘Anyone ever call you “Anthony”?’
    ‘My mother did. And my father.’
    A pause. ‘So what about “Tony”?’ I said. ‘Ever been called that?’
    ‘Tony? Look, Ms Car— sorry – Lucy . You can call me whatever you like. As long as it’s Lockwood or Anthony. Not Tony, please, or Ant. And if you ever call me Big A, I’m afraid I’ll have no option but to throw you out into the street.’
    Another silence. ‘Er, has someone actually called you Big A?’ I asked.
    ‘My first assistant. She didn’t last long.’ He smiled at me. I smiled back, listened to the ticking of the clock. It seemednoticeably louder. I began to wish I’d gone up to my room.
    ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ I asked.
    He held it up. The cover showed a blonde woman with teeth as bright as ghost-lamps getting out of a black car. She wore a big spray of lavender on the lapel of her dress, and the windows of the car were fortified with iron grilles. ‘ London Society ,’ he said. ‘It’s a dreary rag. But you get to see what’s going on in town.’
    ‘And what is?’
    ‘Parties, mainly.’ He tossed the magazine across. It consisted of endless photographs of smartly dressed men and women preening in crowded rooms. ‘You’d think the Problem would make people consider their immortal souls,’ Lockwood said. ‘But for the rich, it’s had the opposite effect. They go out, dress up, spend all night dancing in a sealed hotel somewhere, thrilling with horror at the thought of Visitors lurking outside . . . That party there was thrown last week by DEPRAC, the Department of Psychical Research and Control. The heads of all the most important agencies were there.’
    ‘Oh.’ I scanned the photos. ‘Were you invited? Can I see your picture?’
    He shrugged. ‘No. So no.’
    I flipped through the pages a little longer; they made a rhythmic flapping sound. ‘When you said in your advert that Lockwood’s was a well-known agency,’ I remarked, ‘that was a bit of a lie, wasn’t it?’
    The pages flapped, the clock ticked. ‘I’d call it a mild exaggeration,’ Lockwood said. ‘Lots of people do it. Like you , for example, when you said you had the full Agency qualifications up to the Fourth Grade. I rang up DEPRAC’s north of England branch straight after your interview. They said you’d only completed Grades One to Three.’
    He didn’t seem angry; just sat there looking at me with his big dark eyes. All of a sudden my mouth was dry, my heart thumping in my chest. ‘I – I’m . . . sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘I mean, the point is, I’m good enough to have that qualification. It’s just that my traineeship with Jacobs ended very badly and I never took the test.