The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(43)

Strangely, it was a reassuring sight. I flicked the lever and sat blearily on the end of my bed, tousled and comatose, letting the shrill complaints flow over me.

‘I didn’t shut you off this time,’ I said when I could finally get a word in edgeways. ‘It was the ghost.’

‘So? It’s still your fault! You can’t let any old ghost-woman go around fingering my jar. It’s your responsibility to look after it. I can’t do it, can I? I’m in your care. I call it negligence, pure and simple.’

‘You’re not a child. Get over it.’ I scratched at my hair; the white strands were showing no sign of growing out. Maybe I’d have to dye them. ‘Skull,’ I said suddenly, ‘I’m worried about Lockwood.’

The ghost seemed taken aback. ‘Lockwood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hey, you know me. I love him like a brother.’ The face adopted an expression of unctuous fake concern. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

I stretched my legs out in front of me, rocking on the edge of the bed. I thought of Lockwood in the cemetery; and of him walking towards the ghost. I also thought of the Fetch beneath Aickmere’s that had worn his face, almost a year before. It had predicted Lockwood’s death and said that he would die for me. Oh, and there was the fortune-telling machine the night before. That hadn’t cheered me much, either. I sighed. ‘I don’t understand what’s driving him at the moment,’ I said. ‘Mostly he seems absolutely fine, but underlying it all … I’m not sure what he’s really looking for. It might be something that’s not … that’s not that healthy …’ I let the effort peter out. It was no good. I couldn’t say it.

‘Well, thanks for that,’ the skull said, after waiting to check I’d really finished. ‘A probing analysis. And about as clear as a bucketful of mud.’

I shook my head, suddenly annoyed with myself. What was I thinking? I couldn’t talk to a haunted skull about Lockwood’s parents or the graveyard. The idea was absurd. ‘I know you don’t care,’ I said, ‘but I just wondered if you’d noticed anything …’ I got up, reaching for a towel. ‘Forget it. It’s not important.’

‘I mean, it’s not as if I’m renowned for my empathy, anyway,’ the ghost said. ‘It’s a long time since I was alive. I’ve forgotten what it feels like, having mortal motivations. And of course I hardly know Lockwood at all.’

‘It’s all right. It’s not a problem.’

‘Aside from his recklessness, his deep-rooted feelings of personal loss, his mild self-absorption, his obsession with his family, and his obvious death wish, I couldn’t tell you anything about him. You and me, we’re just as clueless as each other, eh?’ the skull added. ‘Ah, well.’

I paused with the towel in my hand. ‘What did you say? Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t have a death wish.’

‘Fine, you’re not comfortable with it. I understand that. We’ll let it drop.’ The skull began humming a light tune. ‘Actually, no we won’t. It’s surely obvious to everyone. He’s always had it. It’s practically his middle name. And maybe it’s more pronounced than ever now, thanks to what happened to you both. Don’t forget, you’ve both been to the Other Side. That’ll have had its effect too, you know.’ The face grinned at me, eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Why do you think La Belle Dame tried her luck with you last night? You’re not a boy.’

I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it was true. Of all her potential victims, I’d been the only girl. Still, true or not, somehow the skull’s insights always made me angry. ‘I should have known better than to try and talk to you,’ I said, bending close to the jar. ‘Lockwood’s got plenty to live for. Plenty.’

The face regarded me. ‘Has he? What would that be, I wonder? Give it a name.’

With that, the ghost did something to the light inside the ichor, so that it dimmed and went opaque, and I found myself staring at my own distorted face in the side of the jar.

‘Care to comment?’ the skull said.

I cursed and walked away. ‘No! I don’t need to explain myself to a tatty bit of old bone! And I certainly don’t need to second-guess Lockwood’s motivations!’

‘You so do,’ the ghost called. ‘It’s your favourite hobby! And think about it – if you ever actually freed me, you’d never have to talk to me again!’

Its words bounced off the closing bathroom door.

George and Lockwood were in the library when I went downstairs. Lockwood’s long limbs were draped across his favourite armchair as he read the newspaper. George was hunched nearby, inspecting a small sheaf of papers; on the floor at his feet lay a piece of unfolded oilcloth and a length of filthy string. Funny – in all the immediate flurry after our encounter with Sir Rupert, the packet Flo Bones had given George had never been mentioned again. He hadn’t brought it up, and I’d forgotten to ask him.

I threw myself into a chair. The library being chilly, the fire was lit and blazing.

‘More news,’ Lockwood said from behind the newspaper.

‘Bad or baddish?’

‘Baddish, bad and interesting. Sometimes in combination.’