Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow (25 page)

“Agreed and understood,” Lockwood said. “Hope you get a good price for…what
is
in your sack, Flo?”

“That’d be telling. Five minutes. Try not to get yourselves killed.”

After she’d gone, we took up positions against the wall—something midway between a loiter and a lurk—and waited. Five minutes ticked by; during this another relic-man—tall, ragged, and stooped like a grieving heron—slipped down the side road after Flo. We gave him an extra minute to get clear, then shuffled after him.

Down to the left. Thirty yards, then left again. It was more of an alley than a lane, dark as a cleft in the earth. Except at the end, where a naked bulb hung from a spindle above a metal door. In its cone of light, two very large gentlemen in long black coats stood like pillars, with a small ragged child between them.

The men were there to break your bones, but the child was the key—
she
was the Sensitive who vetted the objects being brought to the meeting. The ragged relic-man was in the process of showing her the contents of his bag. At either side, her henchmen waited for her decision. The bigger of the two held a stout black stick, which he patted occasionally into his cupped palm. He never spoke; he was the threat, the dealer of pain. The other was the talker who did all necessary interrogation. One spoke, one tapped his club. It was a fair bet that neither could manage both at the same time.

The relic-man passed muster. He closed his bag, pushed open the door, and disappeared inside. The men looked up at us. We approached casually down the alley.

Lockwood spoke through the side of his mouth. “Be calm. I’ll handle this, Luce.”

Something in the jaunty way he spoke alarmed me. Again I remembered what George had told me, how Lockwood’s recklessness was escalating all the time. I felt a twinge of guilt. Tonight, for selfish reasons, I was depending on his willingness to take risks. Without me, he wouldn’t have been here. I could feel the thrill of danger radiating from him now—intoxicating, but also scary. And we didn’t have our swords. “Be careful,” I said. “And also polite.”

“Of course.”

Lockwood’s tall, but the top of his head didn’t quite reach the shoulders of either sentry. He came to a halt before the child Sensitive, hands ready on his satchel.

The smaller henchman, the talker, pointed a meaty finger. “Show them.”

We both opened our bags. The kid looked in. She was no older than eight, a fragile little thing, with blue veins on her forehead under translucent skin.

I held up my spirit-cape by a corner, so its iridescent beauty was clear.

Talker’s frown deepened. Stick-Tapper stretched out his club and poked it against the feathers.

“Where’d you get these?” Talker said.

Lockwood pushed the club away. “Stole ’em, smelly. What’s it to you?”

To be fair, Lockwood’s accent
did
make him sound like an authentic relic-man. Trouble was, he was trying to be authentically insulting, too. At once Stick-Tapper swung the club around. It pressed hard against the underside of Lockwood’s chin.

“You want Joe to flick that up?” Talker said. “He does, and it takes your head clean off. He does it
well
, your head lands back on your neck stump upside-down.”

“Sounds like quite a show,” Lockwood said. “But these here in our bags are foreign marvels. Adelaide Winkman will want to see them.”

“We kill you, we take them to her ourselves,” Talker said, and I couldn’t help feeling there was a queasy logic to what he said. But the little child had put her hand on Stick-Tapper’s wrist and was shaking her head.

“No, this is real good,” she said. “She’d want it, like he says. Let them through.”

Her word was law. At once the stick was withdrawn and the men moved back. With a cocksure flick of the arm, Lockwood pushed at the door.

“Hold it.” Talker gestured at the daggers in our belts. “No weapons.”

“Call these toothpicks weapons?” Lockwood gave a snort. “You must be joking.”

Talker chuckled. “I’ll show you whether I’m joking.”

Thirty seconds later we’d been roughly frisked, relieved of our daggers, and kicked efficiently onward through the door.

“Do you
have
to be so rude?” I hissed, when we were alone. “You’re drawing attention to us.”

“Oh, relic-men are famously obnoxious. It’ll make us fit right in.”

“Yeah. Our broken corpses will fit in nicely, too.”

Beyond the door was an empty room with rough, bare concrete walls. At the far end, a circular hole with a metal rim led straight down into the earth. The hole was dark, but the top of a ladder projected from it, and there was a grainy suggestion of a light far below.

“Old access shaft to the Underground,” Lockwood said. “Guessed it would be something like that. It won’t make getting out too easy, but what can we do? You first, Luce, or me?”

I went first; I didn’t want him to get into an argument with a sewer rat or anything.

The ladder descended into the earth for a long distance, so much so that my hands went numb and I lost count of the number of rungs. It was very dark, and another unpleasant aspect of the experience was the sound that came rushing up the shaft: a roaring and a gusting of air, and what I thought were voices screaming. The noise seemed to come from far away, and (I guessed) from long ago; when I dropped down at last into a candlelit tunnel, all trace of it had died away. It was a different hubbub that surrounded me now, here on the forgotten platforms of Vauxhall Underground Station.

In layout, it was no different from countless other Tube stations still in daily use. Opposite the nook in which the ladder emerged, three rusting escalators rose into the shadows—silent, solid, their steps clogged with black dust. Lines of faded posters flanked them. That was the old way out, to the now sealed up ticket halls.

Down below was where the action was tonight. I was in a central space with three squared arches on either side. These led to the north/south platforms of the old Victoria Line. The curved walls still had their original white ceramic tiles, but in many places these had been levered off, and a shallow hole gouged out. Candles burned in these alcoves, their smoke weaving woozily against the ceilings, where old lamps hung like black, fat-bodied spiders. Everything shimmered with a soft and avaricious golden light: the tiles, the escalators, the black-garbed relic-men and women all around.

There were dozens of them, milling in little huddles by folding tables where food, drink, and various implements of their profession were on display. Some were young, like Flo; others, bent and weathered like windblown trees, showed evidence of age and long privation: all were dirty, calloused, and hard of jaw and eye. They conversed in low voices, guarding their words carefully; the atmosphere was heavy with distrust.

“Look at them.” Lockwood had dropped down beside me. “It’s like a medical textbook come to life.”

“I know. I wonder if we gave ourselves quite enough warts.”

Most of the relic-men seemed to be gravitating toward the arches on the right. A thrum of palpable excitement echoed from within, with many voices raised. And beneath
that
was a deeper psychic hum, like wasps buzzing in a buried pot. Muffled by silver-glass, maybe, but significant nevertheless.

And these weren’t the only things I heard.

“Lucy…Lucy, help me….”

I dug Lockwood in the ribs. “We need to go that way. Come on.”

We passed through the arch into what had once been the northbound platform. Now it was an immensely long, low-curving room, lit along its length by candles and hanging lanterns. Nearby gaped one of the tunnel mouths, plugged in part by an enormous wall of sandbags. Some of the bags were filled with iron filings, some with salt; they’d been slashed open, and the gray-white powder lay across the surface of the wall, as dirty and crusted as month-old snow. Cold air drifted out of the tunnel and with it came strong psychic unease. Again I sensed the distant screaming.

At the base of the sandbags, the old tracks could still be seen, but along most of the room these had been concealed beneath rough wooden boards, built out from the edge of the platform. They had the effect of doubling the width of the space. A good many relic-men were congregating here, talking, arguing, making their slow, shuffling way toward a table halfway up the platform.

It was well-lit by black candlesticks, tall as a man, that had been arranged behind it; and even from a distance, I knew who sat there. I recognized their silhouettes: a woman, large-boned, with massive arms and shoulders; and a short, squat person wearing a broad-brimmed bowler hat.

Adelaide Winkman and her son, Leopold: the most powerful black marketeers in London.

One by one, the relic-men were arriving at the table, showing their psychic wares, being paid (or not), and moving on. I could hear the clink of coins. Beside the table stood three impassive, muscular men. My eyes narrowed. It was not too hard a stretch to imagine them being the murderers of Harold Mailer, the ones who had chased me across the gardens of Clerkenwell.

“Watch where the flunkies go, Luce.” Lockwood was mouthing in my ear. “They’re not storing the objects at the table, so they must be taking them somewhere….”

It was hard to advance far along the platform. Most of the people there were hoping to reach the Winkmans’ table, and they resented our efforts. Staying in character, we shrugged off their insults and shouldered our way on. Once I caught a glimpse of Flo, arguing with someone in the crowd. Her eyes met mine, but passed on without any sign of recognition.

And then, that voice again.
“Lucy…I’m here.”

My stomach twisted with exhilaration. We were close! I turned my face toward the wall so that no one would see me speak. “Skull? Skull—is that you?”

“Let me see…Ooh, no, it’s another Type Three disembodied spirit who knows your name and your purpose and happens to be stored nearby.”

That settled the matter. No other spirit could be that sarcastic. “It’s you.”

“Of
course
it’s me! Get me out of this dungeon right now!”

“It’s not that easy. And a bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, either. Where are you?”

“Some tiled room. Old cloakroom, maybe. Probably a former ladies’ room, knowing my luck. Neon light flickering over the door.”

I looked along the platform; a short way beyond where the Winkmans sat, I
did
notice a faintly flickering light. Its source was lost in the room’s curve. “I think I see it. We’re in line to get to you.”

“What, are you queuing now? Just how British
are
you people? Don’t just stand in line! Kill somebody!”

“Lucy…” Lockwood’s dirty face loomed near. “You’re mumbling to yourself.”

“It’s the skull. I can hear it. It’s close by.”

Lockwood glanced around at the shuffling, stinking relic-men. “I think we’re all right. Half of these bozos talk to themselves all the time anyway. Still, keep it down.”

“Lucy, you’ve got to get me out of here.”
The skull’s voice broke in on my thoughts again.
“They’re taking me to the place of blood.”

“The place of blood? What does that mean?”

“Well now, I should think it’s quite a jolly spot where nice things happen and everyone’s good chums together….How do
I
know what it is? With a name like that, it’s got to be bad news, even for me! There’s some hideous stuff piled up here…Your friend Guppy’s Source, for one.”

“Guppy’s Source?” I stared at Lockwood, who grimaced. “Not that jar of teeth?”

“Yeah. They were
very
pleased with that.”

“Who’s ‘they’? The Winkmans?”

“Search me. A woman in a flowery dress that makes her look like last year’s sofa, and some kid with a face like a slapped butt.”

“That’s them.”

“It’s their men who brought me here. They’re not the bosses, though. There’s a guy here, too. At the end of all this, they’ll sell me to him.”

“Ah! The collector! What’s he look like?”

“Erm…”
The voice grew vague.
“Just a bloke. About yay high, neither this nor that….He’s actually quite difficult to describe. Tell you what, you might see him yourself if you swing past and rescue me. Are you alone?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me. I know who it is. Stands to reason
he’d
help you.”
Even at a distance, the appalling parody of Lockwood’s voice was clear.
“‘What? A suicidal mission, you say, Lucy? Certain death, you say? Just what I enjoy. Sign me up!’ Well, all the better if it
is
Lockwood. You can sacrifice him to rescue me. I call that a very decent swap.”

Fury filled me. “You foul skull! I swear I’m going to leave you right there.”

There was a pause. The voice spoke again, more quietly.
“This isn’t just about me, Lucy. This is big. Come and get me, and I’ll tell you what they’re doing. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death, Lucy. This is the proof of it.”

I snorted. “Proof of what? What does that actually
mean
?” But the psychic connection had broken off, and Lockwood was shaking my arm. Taking a breath, I told him what I’d heard.

He scratched at his black wig; beneath the cheek paste and eyeliner, his face was genuinely pale. “It’s not going to be easy, Luce,” he said, “but I
can
get you access to that room. The catch is, you’ll need to deal with whoever’s in there on your own. Up for it?”

My anger at the skull still boiled inside me. The comments about Lockwood had made me feel queasy with guilt. But there would only be one answer. I nodded. “Yup.”

“I’ve missed you so much, Lucy.”

Okay, what with the wig and the makeup, and his blacked-out teeth, he didn’t look too great right then; but behind his gappy grin shone the old Lockwood smile, and that smile and those words together swept everything else aside. All guilt and queasiness were gone, and I was conscious of nothing other than the thrill of being there with him.

“You, too,” I began—but he didn’t hear me. He was still talking, telling me the plan.