Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

rolling.’ He pointed at the casebook on the table. ‘No more of these rubbish Shades and Lurkers – we want something that’ll truly make our name. Well . . . we’ll get on to it tomorrow . . . No thanks, George – I don’t want tea. I’m a little tired. If it’s all the same to you, I’m off to bed.’
    He said goodnight and left. George and I sat there, saying nothing.
    ‘I didn’t tell him, but we’ve lost one of those cases already,’ George said at last. ‘They rang up today and cancelled. Heard about the fire, you see.’
    ‘The cat lady?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. One of the interesting ones.’
    ‘Four weeks isn’t really long enough to get that money, is it?’ I said.
    ‘No.’ He was cross-legged on the sofa, chin resting gloomily on his hands.
    ‘It’s so unfair,’ I said. ‘We risked our lives!’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘We faced down a formidable ghost! We made London a safer place!’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘We should be getting praised for this!’
    George stretched, prepared to rise. ‘Nice thought, but it’s not the way things work. You hungry?’
    ‘Not really. Just exhausted. I think I’m going to bed too.’ I watched him gather up the tea things, and retrieve the inspector’s fallen cup from under the settee. ‘At least Annabel Ward’s dealt with,’ I said. ‘That’s a little consolation.’
    He grunted. ‘Yeah. You did that bit right, at least.’

11

    I awoke, some time in the middle of the night, with the room in darkness and all my body aching. I lay on my back – the least uncomfortable position – turned slightly towards the window. One arm was bent and resting on my pillow, the other stretched out on the duvet. My eyes were open, my mind alert. It almost seemed as if I hadn’t been asleep at all, but I must have been, for all around me was the heavy, velvet silence of the dead hours.
    My cuts felt raw, my bruises tender; a whole day after the fall, my muscles were in the process of stiffening nicely. I knew I should probably get up and take some aspirin, but the packet was in the kitchen far below. It was too much effort to go and fetch it. I didn’t want to move.I was stiff, the bed was warm, and the air was much too cold.
    I lay quiet, staring at the sloping attic ceiling. After a short time, a pale white glow showed beyond the window, dim at first, then flaring. That was from the ghost-lamp, regular as a lighthouse beam, shining way off on the corner of the street. Every three and a half minutes it pierced the night with its harsh white radiance for exactly thirty seconds, before switching off again. Officially this was designed to keep the roads safe, discourage Visitors from lingering. In reality – since few ghosts wandered the open roads – it was about reassurance, to make people think the authorities were doing something.
    It worked in its way, I guess. It gave a little comfort. But when it shut off, it made the night seem blacker still.
    While the light was on, I could see the details of my little room: the ceiling beams, the dark strips of the iron ghost-bars around the window; the flimsy wardrobe that was so shallow all my hangers had to go in at an angle. There was scarcely any room in it – I usually ended up chucking my clothes in a heap on the chair beside the door. I could see that heap out of the corner of my eye. It had risen mighty high. I’d have to sort it out tomorrow.
    Tomorrow . . . Lockwood’s brave face notwithstanding, it didn’t look as if there were many tomorrows left to us. Four weeks . . . Four weeks to find an impossible amount of money. And it had been my insistence that had kept us in thehouse after the ghost-girl’s first attack. It had been me who drove us on to face her again, when it would have been so easy just to pack our things and leave.
    My fault. I’d made the wrong decision, like at the Wythburn Mill. That time I’d not obeyed my instincts. This time I’d followed my instincts, and they’d been wrong. One way or another, when it came to a crisis, the end result was the same. I messed up, and disaster followed.
    Out in the street, the ghost-lamp switched off; the room was dark again. Still I hadn’t moved. I was hoping I could con my mind into going back to sleep. But who was I kidding? I was too sore, too awake, too guilty – and also much too cold. I really needed another duvet from the airing cupboard in the bathroom below.
    Too cold . . .
    My heart gave a little tremor as I lay there in my bed.
    It