Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

And when I came here . . . well, I really needed the job. I’m sorry, Lockwood. Would it help if I told you about Jacobs – how it happened?’
    But Anthony Lockwood had held up a hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened then is in the past. What counts now is the future. And I already know you’re good enough for that. For my part, I can assure you that one day this will be one of the three most successful agencies in London. Believe me, I know it will. And you can be part of that, Lucy. I think you’re good, and I’m glad you’re here.’
    You can bet my face was flushed right then – it was a special triple-combo of embarrassment at being found out, pleasure at his flattery and excitement at his spoken dreams. ‘I’m not sure George agrees with you,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, he thinks you’re special too. He was amazed by what you did in the interview.’
    I thought back to George’s vocal range of snorts and yawns, to his spikiness that evening. ‘Is that how he usually shows approval?’
    ‘You’ll get used to him. George dislikes hypocrites – you know, people who say nice things to your face, and criticize you behind your back. He takes pride in being the reverse. Besides, he’s an excellent agent. He had a job at Fittes once,’ Lockwood added. ‘They value courtesy, secrecy and discretion there. Know how long he lasted?’
    ‘I should think about twenty minutes.’
    ‘Six months. That’s how good he is.’
    ‘If they put up with his personality that long, he must be superb.’
    Lockwood gave me a radiant smile. ‘My view is: with you and George on my team, nothing can stand in our way.’
    For a moment, as he said this, it all made perfect sense. I soon learned that when he smiled like that, it was hard not to agree with him.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope so too.’
    Lockwood laughed. ‘There’s no “hope” about it. With our combined talents, what can possibly go wrong?’

III
    The Necklace

9

    It’s amazing how quickly a fire can spread in an average suburban house. Even before Lockwood and I toppled from the window, perhaps while we were still grappling with the ghost-girl, a neighbour must have sounded the alarm. The emergency services responded quickly too; they arrived in minutes. But by the time special night crews in their chain-mail tunics came charging into the garden, escorted by a troupe of Rotwell agents, the upper floor of Mrs Hope’s house was thoroughly ablaze.
    White flames poured from the first-floor windows like upturned waterfalls. Roof-tiles cracked and shimmered in the heat, their edges glowing in the night like rows of dragon scales. Thin fiery pennants twirled and twisted from thechimneytops, sending sparks raining down on nearby trees and buildings. Below, the mists churned orange; agents, medics and fire-fighters ran frantically through a cloudscape of light and shadow.
    At the centre of it all Lockwood and I sat hunched at the base of the bushes that had saved our lives. We answered the medics’ questions; we let them do their thing. Around us hoses gushed and timbers snapped; supervisors shouted orders at grim-faced kids in jackets scattering salt across the grass. Everything seemed unreal – muffled and far away. Even the fact that we’d survived was hard to comprehend.
    It was fortunate for us that neither Mr nor Mrs Hope had ever been keen gardeners. They’d let the bushes behind the house grow large and sprawling, thick and tall and spongy-boughed. And so it was that when we’d struck them – smashing through the upper branches, ripping through the lower ones, coming to an abrupt and painful halt almost at the ground – our clothes had torn and our skin had been pierced, but we hadn’t done the obvious thing, which was to break our necks and die.
    A gout of fire erupted from the chimney stack and fountained out across the roof. I sat there, staring into space, while someone wound a bandage around my arm. I thought of the girl behind the wall. There’d be little left of her by now.
    So much chaos . . . and all because of me. We needn’thave confronted her ghost at all. We could have left her – no, we should have left her when we discovered how dangerous she was. Lockwood had wanted to pull back, but I’d persuaded him to stay and get it done. And because of that decision . . . it had come to this .
    ‘Lucy!’ It was Lockwood’s voice. ‘Wake up! They want to take you to the hospital. They’re going to