Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

patch you up.’
    The side of my mouth was puffy. It was difficult to talk. ‘What . . . what about you?’
    ‘I’ve got to speak with someone. I’ll follow in a bit.’
    My vision was woozy; my left eye had completely closed. I thought I saw a man in a dark suit standing just behind the crowd of medics, but it was hard to be sure. Someone helped me to stand; I found myself being led away.
    ‘Lockwood. This is all my fault—’
    ‘Rubbish. It’s my responsibility. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you soon.’
    ‘Lockwood—’
    But he was already lost amongst the mists and flames.
    The hospital did their job. They patched me up OK. By morning my cuts were cleaned and covered; my rapier-arm was in a sling. Overall I was stiff and sore and out of joint; still, nothing was broken and I only limped a little. I knew I’d got off lightly. There was talk of keeping me in for observation, but I’d had enough by then. The doctors protested abit, but I was an agent and that gave me leverage. Just after dawn, they let me go.
    When I got back to Portland Row, the ghost-lamp had recently gone off; I could hear the hum of its electrics sounding inside the stem. At Lockwood’s the office lights were on in the basement, but the upper storeys of the house were dark and quiet. I couldn’t be bothered to look for my keys. I leaned against the doorway and rang the bell.
    Running footsteps sounded. The door opened with violent haste. George stood there, cheeks red, eyes staring. His hair was even more dishevelled than usual. He wore the same clothes as the day before.
    When he saw my scratched and swollen face, he made a small noise between his teeth. He didn’t say anything. He stood aside, let me walk in, and quietly closed the door.
    The hall was dark. I reached over to the crystal skull on the key table and switched on the lantern. It threw a frail halo around us, the skull grinning at its centre. I stared dully at the ethnic knick-knacks on the bookshelf opposite: the pots and masks, the hollow gourds which, according to Lockwood, certain tribesmen wore instead of trousers.
    Lockwood . . .
    ‘Where is he?’ I said.
    George had stayed by the door. His glasses shone with lantern-light, and I couldn’t see his eyes. Something pulsed halfway up his neck. ‘Where is he?’ I said again.
    His voice was so tightly wound I could scarcely hear it. ‘Scotland Yard.’
    ‘With the police? I thought he was at the hospital.’
    ‘He was. DEPRAC has got him now.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Ooh, I don’t know. Possibly because you burned someone’s house down, Lucy? Who can tell?’
    ‘I have to go and see him.’
    ‘You won’t get in. I asked to as well. He told me to wait here.’
    I looked at George, then at the door, then down at my boots, still dusted with soot and plaster. ‘You spoke to him?’
    ‘He rang me from the hospital. Inspector Barnes was waiting to take him away.’
    ‘Is he OK?’
    ‘I don’t know. I think so, but—’ He changed tack abruptly. ‘ You look terrible. What about your arm? Is it broken?’
    ‘No. Minor sprain. It’ll be OK in a few days. You just said “but”. But what? What did he tell you?’
    ‘Nothing much. Except—’
    Something in the way he said it . . . My heart beat fast; I leaned back against the wall. ‘Except what?’
    ‘He’d been ghost-touched.’
    ‘George—!’
    ‘Would you mind not leaning there? You’re making black marks on the wallpaper.’
    ‘Stuff the wallpaper, George! He wasn’t ghost-touched! I’d have seen!’
    Still he hadn’t moved; still he spoke in a quiet monotone. ‘Would you? He said it happened while you were dealing with the Source. When he was fighting off the Visitor, she got him with a curl of plasm. Touched him on the hand. They gave him a shot of adrenalin in the ambulance and stopped the rot. He says he’s fine.’
    My head was awhirl. Could it have happened? Everything had moved so quickly in the study, and the period in the garden was a blur. ‘Was it bad?’ I said. ‘How far’d it gone?’
    ‘By the time they treated it?’ He shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
    ‘Well, how do I know?’ I snapped. ‘I wasn’t there.’
    George gave a roar of fury that made me jump. ‘Well, you should have been!’ He slammed his palm against the wall so hard, an ornamental gourd fell off the bookcase and rolled upon the floor. ‘Just like you should have stopped him getting touched in the first place! Yes, I think it was bad! His hand had