The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(96)

‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Stop and fight!’

We slowed our headlong rush, came to a standstill. Not because we were going to fight him, but because we could see the thin, blue glow of other-light expanding at his back; the pale face flowing ever closer. The Gory Girl of Cumberland Place was one of the slower and quieter of the spirits; she had made no noise in her approach, and she made no noise now as her slim, pale, bloodied arms stole around Sir Rupert’s neck and drew him to her. Her jagged mouth opened in welcome; she was like a deep-sea fish swallowing her prey. As she hugged him close, blue veins of ice ran swiftly down his skin. Sir Rupert’s limbs jerked and thrashed; he tried to speak, but could only make a gargling sound as he was drawn back into the dark.

‘See?’ the skull said plaintively. ‘That’s what I want to do. It’s honest work. Why can’t I have any fun?’

‘Come on.’ Lockwood began to move again. ‘We’re almost at—’ He gave a cry of warning. The pillar that the Morden Poltergeist had cracked was toppling. It fell towards us; I saw it coming as if in slow motion. I jumped one way; Lockwood and my friends went another. The pillar crashed down between us, shattering at my back. Blue other-light spilled out, like liquid floating in mid-air. I looked all around. I couldn’t see the others through the swirling smoke. There was an explosion nearby. Ghosts screamed.

But from between the spars of the broken pillar soft streams of white were issuing. They flowed together into a squat and bulky form with gaping sockets instead of eyes. In one thick hand it held a serrated knife. The Clapham Butcher Boy swivelled its big round head and looked at me.

‘Ooh, might be worth scarpering, Lucy,’ the skull said. ‘Remember – he’s a fan of yours.’

I didn’t need reminding. The ghost tittered. As it moved towards me, I’d already turned and was running in a panic across the chaos of the hall.

I darted this way and that, crunching through steaming glass, jumping across the ghost-touched bodies of the Fittes men, some of them already swollen and blue. Behind me drifted a soft white shape with a knife in its hand.

With all the smoke and eerie lights, it was impossible to see where I was going. I lost all sense of direction. I couldn’t find my friends, I couldn’t find the exit. I stumbled near a shattered pillar; on its far side, a faint green Spectre with the form of a wild-eyed man in chains ducked into the floor like he was swimming in it, and bobbed up beside me, clawing with his hand. I slashed at him with my sword and leaped away – and suddenly saw an arch in front of me. Without pause I ran through it, and down a corridor strewn with scattered papers. The place was empty; everyone had fled.

I drew to an abrupt halt. I knew where I was. Urns of swords and flowers sat beneath plinths on which were burning flames. The paintings of serious-eyed children watched me from the wall, and six lift doors waited at the far end – five bronze and one silver. I was not near the exit to the Strand. Instead, in my panic, I’d backtracked and retreated deeper into the building. I was in the Hall of Fallen Heroes again. Beside the lifts.

I looked at the corridor behind me. There was no sign of the Clapham Butcher Boy, but somewhere far off came the horrid sound of manic tittering. I stood in the hallway, regaining my breath, waiting for my intelligence to return.

‘So, you’ve gone the wrong way,’ the skull said. ‘Nice one. Your pals will be out having tea and cream buns by now, but frankly you’re stuffed. I make it at least seven major-league Type Two ghosts you’ve got to get past to reach the door.’ There was a distant explosion. ‘Make that eight. That’s another pillar gone.’

I didn’t say anything. Yes, Lockwood and the others would be out. I was sure of it. They’d get help for Kipps. Our luck would hold.

‘That Butcher Boy,’ the skull went on. ‘He’ll be lying in wait for certain. Fancy taking him on?’

‘No,’ I said. A sudden cold, hard certainty had filled me, a distillation of all my pent-up rage. ‘No, I’m not going to do that.’

‘Very wise. So, are you going to sit down here and cry?’

‘Oddly enough, I’m not going to do that, either.’ I walked towards the silver lift. ‘I’ve got better things to do.’





24




The lift didn’t take long to come. There was a faint, smooth hum as it descended from the penthouse floor. Distant mechanisms whirred; I watched the arrow flicking back across the dial above the door. A ting; the humming stopped. The door opened. It was a dark interior of gold filigree and inlaid tortoiseshell, with mirrored panels on the sides.

I stepped inside and turned to face the front. I adjusted the ghost-jar under one arm and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

The door closed; almost imperceptibly, the lift began to rise.

‘Going up,’ the skull said. ‘Next floor: cutlery, condiments and underpants.’

We stood staring at the door. There was a mirror there too. Thanks to that and the soft warm light on the ceiling, I had a lovely, lingering view of just how tired I looked. My skin was puffy and sallow, my hair sticking out at impossible angles. My clothes were torn and dirty. I didn’t care too much about any of this. A fire burned in my eyes.

It was a beautiful lift, plush and very old; a private lift for an exclusive passenger. The air was heavy with a strong perfume that I recognized very well.