The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(25)

I stared at him. ‘You never told me.’ The underpass was a short, ugly, concrete tunnel where the Euston Road ducked underground to avoid intersecting with another important street. Night cabs drove us through it all the time, Lockwood and me. He’d never given me the slightest inkling. ‘So it was a car accident?’ I said.

He drew one knee up, clasped it with his hands. ‘Quite a spectacular one. It was when I was very young. My mother and father were setting off to Manchester to give an important lecture. It was meant to be a summary of all their research trips, all their findings. But they never even reached the station. In the underpass their cab was struck by a lorry, which ignited, along with all the spilled fuel. It took almost an hour for the fire to be put out. It was so hot they had to re-lay a portion of the road.’

‘My God, Lockwood …’ I reached out in the dark and touched his hand.

‘It’s all right. It was a long time ago. I barely remember them.’ He gave me a sidelong smile. ‘It’s odd, but what saddens me most sometimes is that their lecture was lost too. I would have liked to read it … Anyway, I remember looking down from your attic window that night, seeing armoured vehicles blocking Portland Row with all their lights flashing, and agents standing around while the police spoke to Jessica and our nanny downstairs. They were Fittes agents, incidentally. I remember being fascinated by the colour of their dark-grey jackets.’

A long pause. Dusk deepened around us. Leaves merged; our hands stayed together. I didn’t say anything.

‘So they told Jessica then,’ Lockwood went on. ‘But no one told me till the following morning – which was completely pointless, as I’d listened to it all from the top of the stairs. Pointless twice over, because I’d known about it hours before anyone, when I saw my parents’ Shades watching me in the garden.’

I wasn’t surprised. He’d told me that once before. They were his first ghosts. ‘You knew they were dead?’

‘Not exactly. Maybe deep down. Turns out I saw them at the exact time of the accident … Anyway, that’s how that happened. My sister’s story, you already know. And now … there’s just me.’ A sudden burst of energy seemed to pass through him, like a shudder or an electric charge. He sprang up, off the stone and away from me. ‘Well, there’s no use talking about it,’ he said. ‘We should be getting back.’

I drew in a long breath. In the same way that the graveyard was choked with the winding weeds and brambles, my head felt full now, choked with Lockwood’s memories. It was no different to the sensations I got when I picked up psychic feedback through the power of Touch. They didn’t feel like second-hand emotions. It was like I’d been there, like I’d experienced them myself. I got up slowly. ‘I’m so sorry, Lockwood,’ I said. ‘What an awful thing.’

‘It can’t be helped.’ He frowned into the dark. His mood had altered, become suddenly brittle. He was impatient to be gone.

‘I’m glad you brought me. I’m glad you told me everything too.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s nice to share it with you, Luce. Though all it really does is show how arbitrary everything is. A ghost kills my sister. My parents die in an accident. Why did they die and not me? Believe me, I’ve looked for an answer, and there isn’t one. There’s no meaning to any of it.’ His face was shadowed; he turned away from me. ‘Well, none of us are here for very long. While we’re alive, all we can do is keep on fighting. Try to make our contribution count. Speaking of which, we’ve a haunted theatre to deal with tomorrow, and it’s getting late. If you’re ready, we should go.’

‘While we’re alive?’ I repeated.

But he was already setting off along the little track. His sword glimmered in the half-light, but his form was rapidly lost in the surrounding press of green. His voice called back with its old easy ring. ‘Are you coming, Luce?’

‘Yes, of course I am!’ But I was looking at the waiting grave.





7




‘So, how’s it going with Lockwood? Pretty well?’

I was the first one down to the kitchen next morning. The ghost-jar had been on the table all the previous day, its lever shut, its plaintive pulsations ignored. I’d been too busy to humour it. Even so, I did feel slightly bad that I’d neglected it all that time. I flicked the lever in the top of the jar, took a mug from the cupboard and put the kettle on. Slice it how you like, if you’re going to have a haunted skull talking to you before breakfast, you need a cup of tea.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘No different to normal.’

I’d been thinking about Lockwood, about how he’d confided in me (which was good) and (less good) how the loss of his family drove him on. How he threw himself into the fight against the Problem with an almost hopeless fervour. I was wondering where this was likely to end. I hadn’t slept so well.

‘It’s just … I sense developments. I saw the pair of you slinking off alone last night.’

‘Spying on us again? You should get a different hobby.’ I tried to look stern, uninterested and scathing all at once. ‘Anyway, what do I care? We were on a case.’

The face nodded. ‘Oh, you were on a case?’

‘That’s right.’