Lockwood (38 page)

I jerked my head up, saw a sudden alteration in the behaviour of our enemies. None of them were any longer focused on us. From the ruins of the broken cabinet, where the sword now lolled at a drunken angle, a faint blue shape had issued, steaming and fizzing in the last flecks of tumbling salt and iron. It was slightly larger than man-sized, and blurry, as if a strong, firm silhouette had been partially dissolved. In places, it was utterly translucent; in the centre of its torso it had no colour or definition at all. Around its edges, scraps of detail could be seen, little twists and bumps that suggested clothes, and smoother places resembling dead skin. And up near the top – two shining pinpoints of light glittering like frost? These were the eyes.

Cold air leaked from the Phantasm. It had no visible legs, but flowed forward towards the men as if on a rolling strip of cloud. The guards panicked; one fired a bullet straight through its body, the other turned and fled across the hall.

Winkman picked up a shard of silver-glass and sent it whizzing into the ghost. It cut through one outstretched arm with a fizz of plasm. I heard a spectral sigh of disapproval.

The young man held his sword-stick out, adopted an
en garde
posture. Slowly he moved towards the advancing shape.

Lockwood and I didn’t stop to see more. We were running for the stairs. I reached them first, went clattering up.

A scream of rage. Out of the smoke behind Lockwood’s shoulder the Winkman boy came charging, a shattered chair arm in his hand. Lockwood swiped backwards with his rapier. The boy howled, clutched at his wrist; his club fell to the floor.

Up the stairs, three at a time. Behind came shouts, curses and the soft sighing of the ghost. I looked back down as we raced along the walkway. The warehouse floor was almost invisible through the layers of silver smoke. A faint blue shape flexed and darted, seeking to get past the silvered flashing of the sword.

Somewhat nearer, a great barrel-chested figure was limping swiftly up the steps.

Through the glass doors; Lockwood slammed them shut. He shot two bolts into position and joined me, careering up the stairwell.

We’d climbed several flights when the hammering on the doors began.

‘We need those bolts to hold a little longer,’ Lockwood gasped. ‘We need to be a long way down that drainpipe before they see us, or we’ll be sitting ducks.’

A bang, followed by a vast and tinkling crash, sounded from below.

‘He’s shot his way through,’ I said. ‘On the upside, that’s one bullet less for us.’

‘How I love your optimism, Luce. What floor are we on now?’

‘Oh, no . . . I forgot to count the flights. We needed to go up six.’

‘Well, how many have we done?’

‘I think we need to go up a couple more . . . Yes, this is our floor, I think – it’s down along here.’

As we left the stairwell, Lockwood checked the doors, but there were no more bolts to draw. We pelted down the corridor.

‘Which office room was it?’

‘This one . . . No, that’s not right. They all look the same.’

‘It must be the one in the corner of the building. Here – look, there’s the window.’

‘But it’s not the right room. Lockwood – where are the notice boards?’

Lockwood had thrust open the window and was looking out into the night. His hair hung down as he craned his neck out. ‘We’ve come too far – we’re even higher than before. The pipe’s here, but there’s a nasty kink in it just beneath us, which I don’t think we can climb past.’

‘Can we go back down?’

‘We’ll have to.’

But when we ran back to the stairwell, we heard the thump of feet a flight or two below, and saw the first faint torch-beam on the wall.

‘Back again,’ Lockwood said. ‘And quickly.’

We returned to the little office. Lockwood motioned me to guard the door. I positioned myself flat against the wall, took my last canister of Greek Fire from my belt and waited.

Lockwood crossed to the window and leaned out. ‘George!’ he called. ‘George!’

He listened to the night. I listened to the passage; it was very quiet, but it seemed to me that it was an attentive silence.

‘George!’ Lockwood called again.

Far below us, in the dark of the river, the hoped-for voice. ‘Here!’

Lockwood held the hempen sack up high. ‘Package coming down! Are you ready?’

‘Yes!’

‘Take it and then go!’

‘What about you?’

‘No time. We’ll join you later. Plan H! It’s Plan H now, don’t forget!’

Lockwood threw the bag out into the night. He didn’t wait for George’s answering shout, but jumped back into the room and called to me.

‘We’re climbing up, Luce. That’s the only option. We get to the roof and then see.’

Stealthy, cautious footsteps sounded in the passage. I peered round the door. Winkman and two other men – one of the guards, and another I didn’t recognize – were advancing along the corridor. As I moved my head back, something whined past and bit into the far wall. I tossed the flare round the corner and ran across to Lockwood. Behind me the floor shook; there was a silvery explosion and assorted cries of woe.

‘Put your feet on the sill,’ Lockwood said, ‘reach out and swing yourself up. Quick now.’

It was another of those occasions when if you think too hard, you’re lost. So I didn’t look at the gulf below or at the glinting river, or at the great expanse of moonlit sky that threatened to tilt and tumble before my dizzy eyes. I just stood on the sill, pulled myself out and threw myself against the pipe, clutching it, dropping only a little way before my feet found purchase, and I was clinging safely to it. At once I began to climb.

In two ways this second ascent of the drainpipe was easier than the first. I was climbing for my life, so I didn’t care so much about the wind, the flaking paint, or even the drop below me. Also it was shorter – I only had the equivalent of one floor to climb before I reached a rusty ledge of black guttering, and found myself clambering over it onto a flat expanse of leaded roof. In all, the whole thing probably took me just over a minute. I’d paused a single time, when I thought I heard a shrill shout of anger (or perhaps pain) somewhere below. But I could not bear to look down; I could only pray that Lockwood was close behind. And sure enough, almost immediately I heard a scratching noise below the gutter, and saw him haul himself up beside me.

‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘I thought I heard . . .’

Lockwood pulled off his balaclava and smoothed his hair back. He had a small cut on the side of one cheek, and was breathing heavily. ‘Yes. I don’t know who he was, but I expect he deserved it. Unfortunately, when he fell out of the window, I lost my nice new Italian rapier.’

We knelt side by side on the roof for a time, until our breathing slowed.

‘The only good thing about being up here,’ Lockwood said finally, ‘is that I can’t see Winkman clambering up after us. Aside from that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, let’s see what our options are.’

Our options, in short, were limited. We were on a long stretch of flat roof above the swollen Thames. To one side rose a sheer brick wall – belonging to a rooftop structure that had probably once enclosed the warehouse’s power units. It ran across the width of the roof, and we could not easily scale it. On the other side of us was the river. Far below us, moonlight glinted on water lapping at the joists and girders. It seemed a long way down.

I looked, but I couldn’t see Flo or George, or their little rowing boat, at all.

‘Good,’ Lockwood said. ‘That means they’ve hightailed it. Or sunk to the bottom, of course. Either way, the bone glass is out of Winkman’s hands.’

I nodded. ‘Nice view up here. The city looks quite pretty when you can’t see all the ghosts.’ I glanced at him. ‘So . . .’

He grinned at me. ‘So . . .’

There was a scrabbling at the far end of the roof. Lockwood jammed his mask back over his face. Hands appeared on the parapet; a figure pulled itself swiftly up and into view. It was the blond-haired young man. His brown coat was missing, and his black dinner jacket was lightly flecked with ectoplasm stains. Other than that, he seemed in fair condition. Like us, he had clambered up the pipe from the window below.

He got lithely to his feet and dusted himself off. Then he unclipped his sword-stick from his belt. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You’ve performed extremely well. That was an excellent chase – I haven’t had so much fun in ages. You know, I think your last spot of Greek Fire almost knocked Winkman right through the wall – which, believe you me, is no bad thing. But this looks like the end of the line. May I have my seeing-glass now?’

‘It’s not yours,’ Lockwood said firmly.

The young man frowned. ‘Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.’

I gave Lockwood a tactful nudge. ‘Your balaclava.’

‘Oh yes.’ Lockwood pulled up the bottom of the wool. ‘Sorry. I was saying that, strictly speaking, it
isn’t
your glass. You haven’t yet paid, or even bid for it.’

The young man chuckled. He had very blue eyes and a pleasantly open countenance. ‘I appreciate the point, but Julius Winkman is raving and roaring down below. I believe he would tear you apart with his bare hands if he could. I am not nearly so crude; in fact, I see an opportunity that would be to both our advantages. Give me the glass now, and I promise to let you both go. I’ll say you escaped with it. Then both of us win. You live, and I keep the glass, without having to pay that revolting troll Winkman.’

‘It’s a good offer,’ Lockwood said. ‘And very amusing. I almost wish we could agree. Sadly, I don’t have the glass.’

‘Why not? Where is it?’

‘I threw it in the Thames.’

‘Oh,’ the young man said. ‘Then I really
will
have to kill you.’

‘You could let us go anyway, in a spirit of good sportsmanship,’ Lockwood suggested.

The young man laughed. ‘Sportsmanship only goes so far. That spirit-glass is something special, and I had my heart set on it. Anyway, I don’t believe you
have
thrown the thing away. Maybe I’ll kill you and get the girl to tell me where it is.’

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I still have
my
rapier.’

‘However we do it,’ the young man said, ‘let’s get this done.’

He walked swiftly towards us along the roof. We looked at one another.

‘One of us
could
fight him,’ Lockwood said, ‘but then we’d still be in the same position.’ He looked over at the river. ‘Whereas . . .’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But Lockwood, I really can’t.’

‘It’ll be all right. Flo’s flaky, but we can trust her about some things. Water depth is one of them.’

‘We make
such
a habit of doing this,’ I said.

‘I know. But it’s the last time.’

‘Promise?’

But we were already running across the bumpy lead, building up as much speed as we could. Then we jumped out together, hand in hand.

Somewhere during the next six seconds I let go of Lockwood. Somewhere amid the screaming, rushing plunge, I let the rapier spin away. At the moment of jumping I had my eyes tight closed, so I didn’t see the stars take flight, or the city leap to meet us, as Lockwood afterwards said he had. Only later,
much
later, maybe four or five seconds in, when I couldn’t believe I wasn’t already dead, and opened my eyes just to prove it, did I see the brightly sparkling waters of the Thames spread out in silent greeting beneath my rushing boots. I was in the process of remembering the rules about hitting the surface like an arrow so you didn’t break
all
your bones when, with a whip-crack and a roaring, I was ten foot under in a cone of bubbles, and still going down.

At some point I hit equilibrium: I slowed, slowed . . . and hung suspended in the blackness, without thought, without emotion, without much attachment to life or living things. Then the current tore me up and sideways, and in a flurry of panic I recalled my life and name. I struggled, thrashed, and swallowed half the river – at which point it vomited me out.

I was whirling on an oily swell somewhere in the middle of the Thames. I lay back, coughing, gasping. Lockwood was at my side; he grasped my hand. Staring up towards the moon, I had a final glimpse of a slim figure standing silhouetted on a far-off rooftop, before the black waters swept us both away.