Lockwood (44 page)

‘Well,’ Albert Joplin said, with feeling. ‘What an infernal nuisance. He might have told me something useful before he died.’

I stared at George’s body. I too seemed to have stopped breathing.

‘I mean, what use is “beautiful things”?’ Joplin complained. ‘That’s not scientific, is it? And now that dawn’s here, I’m not sure it’s even worth trying another test!’ He stamped a foot in irritation. ‘Honestly – what a
nuisance
.’

He continued muttering to himself, but I scarcely heard him. His voice was far away. All sounds were hushed to me. I was alone in the numbness of my mind.

‘George!’ I said softly. ‘Wake up!’

‘It’s no good, Carlyle . . .’ This was Kipps. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Oh no, he always looks like that . . .’ I said. ‘You should see him in the mornings. He’s just a bit sleepy, aren’t you, George? George, come
on
 . . .’

George didn’t answer. He was slumped like an old coat tossed across the chair. His mouth was open. His hands hung limp. I thought of Jack Carver lying on our rug, of the stupid emptiness of death. I gave a little moan.

Joplin’s gaze flicked up at me. He had been studying his watch; now he looked across at me with narrowed eyes. Where had the amiability gone, the foolish fluttering of the timorous archivist? The appraisal he gave me was hard and cold.

Something else was watching too. At the moment George looked into the mirror, the ghost of Edmund Bickerstaff had swelled to fill its circle. I’d felt the cold satisfaction of its triumph, its glee at seeing George succumb. Now it switched its attention to a new victim. The draped form twisted; the hooded head loomed over me. I glimpsed the shrouded face – the grinning mouth with sharp bared teeth, the bone-white skin, eyes like black coins.

When I looked back at Joplin, his eyes looked just the same.

Kipps, being adult, could not truly see the ghost – but he felt its presence all right. I sensed him shrink back in his chair. Me? I drew myself up. I clenched my fists. Something slammed shut inside me, closing off my grief behind stony walls. My mind grew calm. My hatred was a winter lake – icy, clear and stretching out for ever . . . I stood and gazed at Joplin.

‘Perhaps,’ he was saying to himself, ‘perhaps we
could
have another try. Yes. All we need to do is put her in the chair. Where’s the harm, where’s the difficulty? Maybe she’ll survive, where the boy has failed.’

With bird-like steps, he moved towards me, knife in hand.

‘Keep away from her,’ Kipps said.

‘Your turn,’ Joplin said, ‘will come presently. Meanwhile be silent, or I’ll loose the master on you.’

He did not approach head-on, despite my bound hands. Instead he walked behind me, knife outstretched. With a single slice, he cut the cords: once again the knife was at my neck. I stood silent, massaging my chafed wrists.

‘Walk to the other chair,’ Joplin said.

I did so, forcing myself to breathe slowly, deliberately calming down. ‘You’ll be making a mistake if you make me look into the mirror,’ I said. ‘I talk with ghosts. They talk to me. I can tell you many secrets. There’s no use in me dying.’

‘Walk forwards. I don’t believe you, I’m afraid. Who has that Talent?’

‘I do. I have a Type Three with me. Its Source is in my bag close by. Bickerstaff is nothing compared to it. Let me show you.’

Away in the darkness, I could sense the ghost in the jar give a start. ‘
Hey, why bring me into this? He’ll be as bad a
s
Cubbins. Weird experiments, odd habits . . . Next thing you know he’ll have me with him in the bath.
’

Joplin had paused; now the knife’s pressure resumed. ‘I still don’t believe you.’

‘
Good!
’

‘But if you have a relic with you, I shall examine it closely later.’

‘
Oh, great. Thanks for nothing
.’

It took only a few steps to cross to George’s chair, under the gaze of Bickerstaff’s ghost. In the central circle, the seven spirits of the mirror clustered above the ebony stand. As before, they were quite motionless; their plaintive voices echoed faintly on the air. The skull had been right – they didn’t
do
much. They seemed quite passive, obsessed only with the fate of their lost bones.

But the mirror was another matter. I kept my eyes away from it, but could still see it out of the corner of my eyes. The bone rim gleamed dully, but the glass was a jet-black hole. The buzzing noise was fearfully loud. I sensed movement in the glass, a coiling adjustment in its blackness. And with that came a sudden powerful urge to look properly upon it. The desire rose up within me like a scream. I shook the sensation away, but neither could I bear to look at George. I stared fixedly at the ground, fingers digging into my palms.

A small push. Joplin thrust me forwards, slightly away from him. I glanced back, saw him bending behind the chair, cutting the ropes that bound George’s limp hands. I turned, but the knife was up again, warding me off.

‘Don’t try it,’ Joplin said. He was staring up at me, head lowered, yellowed teeth bared. ‘Pull the body out and sit in the chair.’

‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘You haven’t any choice.’

‘Wrong. I’m going to collect my rapier from where I dropped it. Then, Mr Joplin, I’m going to kill you.’

The Bickerstaff ghost, in the circle behind Joplin, made a sudden urgent movement. As if he had been shoved between the shoulder blades, Joplin stumbled forwards. His eyes were voids; with a snarl, he raised the knife and started for me.

I readied myself to move.

And at that moment George got up from the chair.

I screamed. Somewhere behind me I heard Kipps gasp in fear. Joplin made a weird noise somewhere between a wail and a growl; the knife fell from his hand.

From the ghost-jar in the passage came an indignant oath. ‘
Alive? Oh, that’s typical. It was all going so well
.’

Face blank, glasses askew, George jumped forwards and grabbed Joplin around the waist. He swung him sideways and, with a mighty heave, sent him tumbling back over the iron chains. Joplin fell, colliding with the tripod legs; the stand swayed and toppled. The mirror broke loose and went crashing to the ground.

George stood upright, brushed the hair away from his eyes, and winked at me.

I still stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘George . . .’ I stammered. ‘How—?’

‘Bit busy,’ he said. ‘Ask me later.’ He flung himself at Joplin.

Squealing, thrashing in his panic, the archivist had been fighting clear of the fallen tripod. Above his head the seven spirits hovered; to my surprise – though he was inside their circle – they made no attempt to touch him. As George drew close, Joplin caught hold of the fallen tripod and swung it frantically. It missed George by miles, slipped out of Joplin’s grasp and clattered away across the floor to strike against the
other
loop of iron chains, the ones surrounding the Bickerstaff ghost. They were dislodged – a small gap opened where the ends had met.

At once there was a thump of air, a sudden roaring. A cold breeze burst out across the room, sending clouds of grave-dust ballooning away into the catacombs. The chains jerked and rattled as if they were alive – the gap was blown apart. The hooded figure turned its shrouded head to me.

It bent and flexed, squeezing thin, like smoke, as it passed out through the hole. Behind it coiled a growing trail of wispy ectoplasm, looping back to the body on the floor. The shape stretched up, high as the ceiling. It drifted forwards. Its robes split apart; two arms emerged, white and skinny, with knobbly, grasping hands.

The Bickerstaff ghost was free.

Quill Kipps could sense it. Eyes popping, sinews straining, he jerked and rattled in his chair. ‘Lucy!’ he croaked. ‘Help me!’

There wasn’t time to find my rapier. That was over at the table, beyond where George and Joplin were rolling on the floor in a frenzy of slaps and curses. If I went to get it, Kipps would die.

But I had no other weapon. Except . . .

I ran towards Kipps, towards the ghost. As I did so, I bent down and grabbed one of the lengths of iron chain that had been scattered by Joplin’s fall. I picked it up, went on without breaking stride. Even as I reached the chair, I was already swinging it in front of me.

I met the ghost of Dr Bickerstaff head on.

It was looming over Kipps, arms outstretched as if to swaddle him. Two see-through hands reached down. With a war-cry that was half screech, half gurgle, I spun the chain in a wild circle, slicing through the tips of the bone-white fingers, turning them to fizzing curls of mist. The ghost reared back. I thrust myself between it and the chair, whirling the iron high and low.

‘Careful!’ Kipps ducked frantically as the chain whistled past him.

‘Not efficient enough for you?’ I gasped. ‘Want me to leave?’

‘No, no. It’s very good— Ahh!’ That was the chain passing through his hair.

Back across the floor, great quantities of plasm were oozing from the centre of the corpse. The ghost grew longer and more serpent-like. Its head and torso were far above me, swinging from side to side, making little darts and feints in an effort to get beyond the chain. The arms jabbed inwards, to be cut in two; instantly they re-formed. Showers of plasm fell around us, peppering our clothes.

And all the while we fought, the voice of Edmund Bickerstaff was calling, calling in my mind – urging me to look, promising me my heart’s desire. It was the same old message. He had no other. And though his ghost was very terrible, though its madness and its malice made it strong, I found myself growing ever calmer and more confident. I stood there, dirty, tired and (because of the plasm) gently steaming, protecting my rival from death. And as I stared at the apparition, I saw that the cowl had drawn back, leaving the doctor’s face exposed. Yes, it was hideous and snarling; yes, the teeth were sharp and the eyes were like black coins, but – with the hood off – it was just a man’s face, after all. A stupid, obsessive man who, to make himself feel important, had liked to dress in eerie robes. Who had sought answers to things he shouldn’t know, but had been too scared to look himself. Who had used others – both in life, and now in death. Was his voice hypnotic? Yeah – perhaps to some, but not to me.

I’d had enough of him.

I changed my posture from defence to attack. As the ghost recoiled from a high swing of the iron, I stepped in close, adjusted my arms, and brought the chain up and over my head like a fisherman casting his line. The iron cut straight down through the centre of Bickerstaff, from hood to floor, slicing him neatly in two.

A sigh, a gasp – the apparition vanished. A thread of plasm whipped across the floor and was sucked back into the body; with a snap of air, it was gone.

Steam rose from the tip of the iron chains. I let them drop. Kipps was sitting rigid in the chair, with a slightly harrowed look upon his face.

‘I’ve driven it back,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t re-form for a while.’

‘Right,’ he said. He moistened his lips. ‘Thanks. Though you didn’t need to give me a buzz-cut too. Now set me free.’

‘Not yet.’ I looked across the room. ‘There’s one more thing to finish.’

While I’d faced the ghost, the fight between George and Joplin had also been resolved. Having rolled and tumbled their way across the chamber, they had ended up in a flailing heap beside a pile of empty coffins. Joplin was on top: with a cry, he tore himself from George’s grasp, and tottered to his feet. George could not respond, but collapsed, exhausted, against the wall.

Joplin’s shirt was ripped, his jacket half off; he seemed entirely dazed. Yet still there was only one thing on his mind. He stared back across the floor to where the bone mirror lay, face down. He started staggering towards it.

No. No way. It was time to end this.

Even in my weary state I was faster than the archivist. I walked across, I reached the mirror. Seven figures still hovered above it, faint and mournful. I bent down, picked it up, and then – ignoring the clustering spirits, ignoring Joplin’s shout – carried it over to the table.

It was icy cold in my hand. The bones felt smooth; they tingled to the touch. The buzzing noise was very loud. I took care to hold the disc with the mirror side down. When I looked up, the group of shapes were all around me – near, but also distant. They were focused on the mirror. I felt no threat from them. Their faces were blank and smudged, like photos left out in the rain.