The Hollow Boy

  They moved in utter silence, pale other-light flowing off them in swirling ribbons. The first, so small and fragile, the cloudy imprint of a child. How thin the body was, how slight the shoulders! You couldn’t see any details. It was only as solid as a candle flame, and the lower half tapered into nothing. The head was bowed; it thrust itself desperately forward, tiny hand trailing on the banister.

  And now, pooling out of the darkness at its back—a second shape, luminous also, as if woven from the same substance as the first. But larger, much larger, a bulky adult form, and the other-light streamed around it more darkly. Again, no sense of the face or appearance, only of a great arm reaching out, a bull head swinging to and fro.

  The child’s form passed by, darting up the next flight with the pursuer closely following, and away they climbed toward the third floor. Out went the candles above me, quick as blinking. Cold followed in their slipstream and with it, sound: a thin sucking movement of dead air. They were gone. I waited, hunched forward on my knees, teeth clenched, lips bared. Still the cold deepened; and now, from high in the house, came a final dreadful screaming. Something fell past me. I sensed its bulk, I heard the rush of air beyond the banister, and tensed, waiting….But there was no sound of impact from below.

  It was only then I saw the black, wet marks that defaced the boards beyond the chains. The straggling stains of bloody, running feet.

  I was still there, crouching, staring at them, a minute or two later, as the temperature grew warm, the scent of smoke and candle wax trailed into the circle, and I heard the calm voice of Lockwood calling from above to say that the manifestation was over.

  The footprints lingered for one hour and seventeen minutes. George timed it on his watch. They were formed of a thin black ectoplasmic substance that radiated extreme cold. When Lockwood touched one with the point of his rapier, it steamed and spat fiercely, sending snakes of black vapor coiling up the silver blade. It was an interesting phenomenon. George mapped them; I made sketches of some of the clearer prints, the ones that weren’t too faint, or too awash with blood.

  “They’re small feet,” Lockwood said. “Not tiny, like a young child’s, but pretty slim and slender. Must be Little Tom’s, not Robert Cooke’s.”

  “We should measure them, really,” I said. “But I don’t want to get too close.”

  “Good point, Luce.” He wore gloves, and had pulled a dark blue scarf out of his bag, his only concession to the chill on the stairs. “I guess we could do a comparison….Who’s got the smallest feet among us?”

  “Holly has,” George said, without looking up. “No question.”

  I spoke through gritted teeth. “She’s not even here.”

  Lockwood nodded. “You’re right, George. They are petite, aren’t they? I bet they’re about that size. We should measure Holly’s feet tomorrow.”

  “On it.”

  “Of rather more importance,” I said tartly, “is where to look for the Source of all this. Where do we think Little Tom died?”

  In the ordinary way, the best place to look for a Source is near where the death took place, but this manifestation presented problems in that regard. Even our surveillance hadn’t helped much. The servant had first been stabbed in the basement, and the haunting had certainly begun there, with a sudden ferocious blast of energy that sent George flying in his circle and his lantern crashing against the wall. He hadn’t seen the two figures, as I had. Lockwood, waiting at the top of the house, had glimpsed them briefly. As they reached the attic, the shapes—moving fast—had seemed to merge. Then there’d been the deafening scream—then nothing. But I’d heard something falling through the air.

  “If Cooke pushed Tom off,” George said, “as Lucy reckons, he would have died when he hit the basement floor.”

  “Unless he was already dead from his wounds,” I said. “Poor little guy.”

  “So the Source could be at the top or the bottom,” Lockwood said. “We’ll look tomorrow. And let’s have less of the ‘poor little guy,’ please, Lucy. Whatever he was in life, Tom’s ghost is part of this dangerous haunting. Think of what happened to the night-watch kids.”

  “I am thinking of them,” I said. “And what I’m also thinking of, Lockwood, is that horrible monster chasing the child. Cooke’s ghost. That’s the evil driving this. That’s what we need to tackle.”

  Lockwood shook his head. “Actually, we don’t really know one way or the other. We’ve got to be careful with all Visitors. I don’t care if a ghost’s friendly, or needy, or just wants a big cuddle. We keep it at a safe distance. All the big agencies follow that policy, Holly says.”

  I didn’t intend to be angry. Basically I knew that Lockwood was right. But my emotions felt stretched right then; it had been a long night—and, back at Portland Row, a long few days. “This ghost is a lad being chased to his death!” I snapped. “I saw him as he passed; he was running for his life. Don’t shrug at me like that! He was so desperate. We’ve got to feel sympathy for him.”

  That was a mistake—I knew it at once.

  A light in Lockwood’s eyes flicked out. His voice was cold. “Lucy, I don’t have sympathy for any of them.”

  Which, let’s face it, was a bit of a conversation killer. The argument stopped there. Because, like the closed door on our landing, the circumstances of our leader’s past were both un-ignorable and impossible to tackle. His sister had died by ghost-touch. His sister. When that subject came up, there wasn’t really anything more to say. So I dutifully shut my mouth and hung around with the others, until, at around one thirty-four in the morning (George timed it), the plasmic footprints grew faint, then softly luminous, then faded clean away. Those footprints had the right idea. We more or less did the same.

  She may have made great sandwiches, and she may have had small feet, but at least I could console myself that Holly Munro was deskbound. She didn’t wear a rapier. She didn’t do what I did, going out nightly and risking her life to save London. This knowledge enabled me to hold it together when I got home to discover she’d been in my bedroom and, in a spasm of brisk officiousness, tidied all my clothes.

  I meant to mention it to her (calmly, politely, in that way we had) the following morning, but it slipped my mind. By the time I got up, there were a lot of other things going on.

  When I came into the kitchen, Lockwood and George were clustered around the table like it was a pretty new assistant, reading a copy of the Times. Holly Munro, cheerfully immaculate in a cherry-red skirt and crisp white blouse, was doing something with the salt bin behind the kitchen door. She’d had it installed to replace the usual mess of bags and canisters we kept there. I eyed her skirt as I came in; she eyed my saggy old pajamas. George and Lockwood didn’t look up or acknowledge I was there.

  “Everything all right?” I said.

  “There’s been trouble in Chelsea overnight,” Ms. Munro said. “An agent killed. Someone you know.”

  My heart jerked. “What? Who?”

  Lockwood glanced up. “One of Kipps’s team: Ned Shaw.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you know him well?” Holly Munro asked.

  Lockwood stared back down at the newspaper. We’d known Ned Shaw well enough to dislike him, with his close-set eyes and unkempt mane of curly hair. He’d had an aggressive, bullying nature. Our hostility had even brought us to blows, though Lockwood had fought alongside him in the ‘Battle in the Graveyard’ at Kensal Green Cemetery. “Not really,” he said. “Still…”

  “It’s awful when that happens,” Holly Munro said. “Happened to me at Rotwell, more than once. People I’d seen in the office every day.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I shuffled around to the kettle. The kitchen was too small with Holly in it. It was hard to move about. “How did he die?”

  Lockwood pushed the paper away. “Don’t know. It’s only mentioned at the end of the article. I think word had just come in. The rest of the news is no better. The Chelsea outbreak’s getting worse, and there’ve been clashe
s, people protesting about being forced to leave their homes. Police on the streets are having to deal with the living now, not the dead. The whole thing’s a complete dog’s breakfast.”

  “At least our case is going smoothly,” Holly Munro said. “I hear you did very well last night, Lucy. It sounds like a terrifying ghost that badly needs destroying. Would you like a whole-wheat waffle?”

  “I’m all right with toast, thanks.” Our case. I pulled back a chair, scraping it across the linoleum.

  “Should try one,” Lockwood said. “They’re yummy. Okay. The plan for today: our aim is to all get back to Hanover Square after lunch and hunt for the Source before it gets dark. Our client is impatient. Believe it or not, Luce, Miss Wintergarden’s already been on the phone, ‘requesting,’ in her own delightful style, that I personally update her about what we’ve discovered so far. I’ve got to nip over to the hotel where she’s staying now and give her that briefing. Meanwhile you, George, are going to head back to the Newspaper Archives to get more details on the murder. You reckon there must be more info out there.”

  George had been scribbling with a felt-tip pen on our Thinking Cloth, writing out a list of names: Mayfair Bugle, The Queens Magazine, The Cornhill Magazine, Contemporary Review…“Yeah,” he said, “there were loads of magazines in late Victorian times, and some of them carried sensational stuff, about true crimes and all that. I bet there’s an account of the Little Tom murder there somewhere, though it might be tricky to find in the time available. It could give us a clearer sense of what happened and help us find the Source.” He threw the pen down. “I’ll get going shortly.”

  “We’ve got big deliveries of iron and salt this morning,” Holly Munro said. “I’ll monitor that, and get your bags ready by early afternoon. You’ll want more candles.”

  “Great,” Lockwood said. “You can help Holly, if you like, Lucy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Lucy doesn’t want to do that,” Holly said. “She’ll have something more important to do.”

  Lockwood chewed a piece of waffle. “I’m not sure she has.”

  The kettle boiled.

  “Actually,” I said brightly, “I do. I think it would be much more useful if I went down to the Archives—and helped George.”

  It wasn’t often that George and I went out together during the day (in fact I’d almost forgotten what he looked like when not surrounded by shadows, ghosts, or artificial light), and you could count the times I’d volunteered to help him at the National Newspaper Archives on the fingers of no hands. If George was surprised by my decision, however, he gave no sign of it. A few minutes later, he was strolling placidly through London at my side.

  We walked south through the streets of Marylebone in the general direction of Regent Street. Though the Chelsea containment zone was a mile or two distant, the effects of the outbreak could be felt even here. There was the smell of burning in the air, and the city was quieter than usual. The cafés and restaurants of Marylebone High Street, which like all other commercial establishments closed at four thirty, were only ever busy at lunch; today their interiors were mostly gray and empty, with forlorn waiters sitting idly at tables. Trash bags lay uncollected on the sidewalks; litter blew across the street. More than once we saw orange DEPRAC tape blocking the entrances to buildings, and ghost-crosses daubed on windows: the signs of live hauntings, as yet undealt with by any of the agencies. They were busy elsewhere.

  Outside a seedy Spiritualist Church on Wimpole Street, a scuffle was going on. Black-clothed followers of the Ghost Cult that worshipped inside were grappling with one of the local Neighborhood Protection leagues, who’d been trying to strew lavender on the church steps. Middle-aged men and women, gray-haired, outwardly respectable, shouted and screamed at one another, snatching at collars, twisting arms. As George and I drew near, they broke apart and stood in panting silence as we walked between them. When we’d passed, they closed up and began fighting again.

  They were just adults. They were all equally clueless. When nightfall came, they’d all stop squabbling and scurry home in sync to bolt their doors.

  “This city,” George said, “is going to hell in a handcart. Don’t you think so?”

  For the first few blocks we hadn’t talked at all; I wasn’t in the mood for it. But air and exercise had partially roused me out of my gloom. I stamped my boot heels on the pavement. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means everyone’s getting frantic, and no one’s asking the right questions.”

  We zigzagged down to Oxford Street, where the flea market iron and silver stores, palm readers, and fortune-telling booths stretched for miles in both directions; crossed over at Oxford Circus; and started down Regent Street. The Archives were not far away.

  “I know why you’ve come along,” George said suddenly. “Don’t think I don’t.”

  I’d been having dark thoughts about waffles, and the unexpected statement made my stomach lurch. “Does there have to be a reason?”

  “Well, I’m guessing it’s not the thrill of my company that brings you here.” He glanced at me. “Is it?”

  “I love being with you, George. I can scarcely keep away.”

  “Exactly. No, you’ve made it pretty obvious,” he said, “what’s on your mind. You need to be careful, though. Lockwood isn’t pleased.”

  We stepped in unison over one of the runnels of flowing water that protected the clothes stores on Regent Street. It was one of the safest areas of the city, and the streets were busier now. “Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I don’t think he’s got any right to object. It’s his fault. I didn’t ask for this.”

  “Well, nor did Lockwood.”

  “Of course he did. He hired her, didn’t he?”

  George gazed at me, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “I’m talking about your fascination with this ghost, this Little Tom. What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. The same. That’s why I’m here with you. I want to know the story.”

  “Right…” We walked another few yards in silence. Up ahead was the Rotwell Building, a shimmering hulk of plastic and glass. Above the entrance, on a pole, the agency’s red lion symbol stood rampant. “So how’re you finding Holly?” George asked.

  “I’m…adjusting,” I said. “Slowly. You’re obviously over the moon.”

  “Well, she’s making us more efficient, which has to be good. Not that I’m sure about everything she does. I caught her trying to get rid of our Thinking Cloth the other day. Said its scribbles made the kitchen look like the inside of someone’s head. Well, it—but that’s the point.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I find hard. All her fussy rules and regulations. And then there’s the way she looks….There’s a word for it.”

  “Yeah,” George said, with feeling. “Glossy. Or were you thinking lustrous?”

  “Um, no…that wasn’t quite it. I meant, sort of more…overmaintained.”

  He pushed his spectacles up his nose and glanced at me. “She knows what a comb is, I suppose.”

  “Are you looking at my hair? What are you saying?”

  “Nothing! I’m not saying anything. Absolutely not. Oh…” George’s wriggling awkwardness froze suddenly into something deeper, an expression of numb discomfort. “Heads down, Luce….Don’t look now.”

  Directly ahead of us, outside the Rotwell building, stood Quill Kipps. With him were his two close associates, Kate Godwin and Bobby Vernon.

  In the daylight Kipps looked slighter than usual. As ever he was flamboyantly dressed, but his face was gray, and there was a haze of ginger stubble on his chin. He wore a black armband tight upon his sleeve, and carried a thick sheaf of documents under one arm. He’d already spotted us. This was a blow. If we’d had the chance, we’d have crossed the street or something.

  We drew level with them. Vernon was remarkably small and scrawny; it was as if someone had shaved bits off normal-sized agents and created him from the scrapings. Godwin, a
Listener like me, was as chilly as ground-frost, and probably about as hard underfoot. They nodded at us. We nodded at them. There was a pause, as if everyone were going through the usual round of hostilities and cheap comments, only silently, to save time.

  “We’re sorry to hear about Ned Shaw,” I said finally.

  Kipps stared at me. “Are you? You never liked him.”

  “No. Still, that doesn’t mean we wanted him dead.”

  His narrow shoulders shrugged skyward beneath his trim silver jacket. “No? Maybe. I couldn’t say.” Kipps often seemed engulfed in bitterness when he spoke with us. Today his hostility seemed less automatic and less personal, yet more deeply felt. I didn’t answer. George opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Kate Godwin checked her watch, stared off down the street like she was waiting for someone.

  “How did it happen?” I said finally.

  “Typical DEPRAC foul-up,” Bobby Vernon said.

  Kipps rubbed the back of his neck with a pale hand. He sighed. “It was a building on Walpole Street. Open floor-plan office. We were working our way through it, taking psychic readings. Some of Tendy’s group were up on the floor above. Bloody idiots disturbed a Specter, drove it down the central stairway to our level. Came straight through a wall where Shaw was and clasped him around the head before any of us could move.”

  Kate Godwin nodded. “He didn’t have a chance.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah, well. It’ll happen again,” Kipps said. “Not to us, maybe, but to someone.” His eyes were always red-rimmed; I thought they seemed redder than normal. “We’re out again tonight on a three-line whip. Barnes has us all performing like so many dancing bears. The Chelsea outbreak’s crazy. There’s no system to it—or if there is, I can’t see it.”

  “Got to be a system,” George said. “Something’s stirring up the ghosts in that area. There’ll be a pattern, if you know where to look.”