The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(33)

The stagehands trooped away. We dumped our bags in the centre of the stage. Ranged at the edges were wooden cubes of varying sizes and colours, with hinged lids and little doors. At the back lay an enormous blue crash mat, knee-high and very broad. Otherwise the surface of the stage was bare, marked by the tape and scuffs of decades.

Lockwood was gazing around, eyes narrowed, face calm. I knew he was using his Sight now, hunting for death-glows or other signs of psychic disturbance. ‘What’s the crash mat for?’ he asked. ‘And these boxes? Part of the show?’

Tufnell nodded. ‘We start with the trapeze act. The acrobats do their thing, then swoop down on the mat. The boxes are for the magic show. The props are in there; you know – caged doves, metal hoops, that stuff. Lots of hidden cubbyholes. Our stage manager designed them. She’s very good. But you’ll be wanting to see where Sid died. It’s stage left, in the wings.’

‘Thank you,’ Lockwood said. ‘We’ll start there.’

The others moved away towards the curtains. I remained in the centre of the stage, taking the measure of the place. Once, long ago, the sultan’s casket had sat here, pierced by swords, blood pouring out onto the boards. I looked at my feet, at the bland, smooth wood. I gazed into the golden dusk, imagining the packed house, the stunned silence, the first appalling screams …

No time like the present. I could use my Talents here. There was a strange expectancy in the silence of the great dark auditorium. I crouched, put my fingertips to the floor. I closed my eyes and Listened …

As if I’d opened a sealed door, I was at once surrounded by a strange papery rustling, the murmur of an audience making itself comfortable in a thousand seats. The noise rose and fell like the breathing of a giant. I waited, but it did not change.

I took my fingers away from the wood. The noise was still there. Muffled underneath it, I could just make out Tufnell’s voice as he spoke to Lockwood in the wings. The two sounds did not collide, but ran through each other, being separated by a century of time.

I stood slowly, turning towards the wings. At that moment a chill moved along my spine, as if someone had run a finger down it.

I stopped, and peered out into the wider dark. What with the stage lights and the auditorium’s soft haze, it was difficult to make out anything clearly. Nevertheless, my gaze moved towards a seat at the back of the stalls.

Was that a person sitting there?

My eyes hurt with straining. I glanced aside to see if any of the others had noticed anything. But they were out of sight.

‘… then Tracey pushed the curtains aside,’ Tufnell was saying, ‘and saw Sid here, locked in the ghost’s embrace! She ran forward …’

I looked out across the stalls again. The seat at the back was empty.

‘… but alas, too late. He lay there like a rag doll! La Belle Dame had drained him of his life!’

I pulled my rapier clear of its Velcro clasp.

The murmur in my head grew loud, turned to sudden wild applause. It came from all around me, starting in the stalls, then rippling in a wave across the balconies and boxes. I looked up, scanning the hazy reaches.

At once the sound cut out.

And now: nothing. It was as if the theatre held its breath.

When I looked down again, there was an object in the central aisle, directly opposite me. It stood far back under the shadows of the balcony. Darkness enfolded it, but I could see that it was a sarcophagus or casket, very large and rounded, and shaped rather like a woman. It was standing upright, and its sides and belly bristled with innumerable humps and spikes. They were the hilts and blades of embedded swords.

Something was slowly extending from the casket. A dark, thin line; a thread of black that ran out along the aisle. Another followed it, and then another. They unspooled into the light, trickling down the gentle slope towards the stage.

I gripped my sword and stepped slowly forward.

The threads glistened and shone darkly under the gold lights. They linked and separated, lacing the ground. Longer and longer they grew; faster and faster they came. There was no end to them. I found myself frozen on the lip of the stage. I couldn’t take my eyes off the rivulets of blood that ran between the stalls.





9




‘She’s here!’ My shout echoed out across the theatre. ‘Lockwood! She’s here!’

With that, I leaped off the stage, out over the pooling blood, my sword flashing under the lights. I landed heavily on a seat in the front row. Then I was up and jumping from backrest to backrest, arms outstretched to keep my balance, chair-hopping my way up across the rows. There was no way I was going to touch the floor. On the aisle to my side, the dark liquid flowed past like there would be no end to it. Ahead, darkness billowed; I could no longer see the casket, but cold beat against my face.

There in the shadows! A woman’s form, striding towards me.

With a savage cry I took a final leap, swinging my rapier round—

‘Are you quite mad?’ A tall girl came out into the light. She wore jeans, trainers and a bright blue hoodie, and there was a smaller girl behind her. That was about all I took in as I changed direction, dropped my sword and landed inelegantly beside them in the aisle. Which was now entirely empty of blood. Cigarette ends, yes; gum wrappers and popcorn – but the rivulets of red had gone.

I stood up, breathing hard. I recognized the second of the girls. It was Tracey, the usherette we’d met at the entrance. I didn’t know her companion. The aisle behind them was empty as far as the exit. It wasn’t that cold now, either. The visitation was over.