Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud Page A

Road.
    Lockwood stretched out on the seat and grinned across at me. He seemed more relaxed now that we were out on a case; his weariness of the morning had fallen away.
    By contrast I still felt flustered after my conversation with the skull. “So,” I said in a businesslike voice, “what’s this Visitor we’re after? A domestic
job?”
    He nodded. “Yes, an apparition spotted in an upstairs room. Our client is a Mrs. Peters. Her two young boys saw a sinister veiled lady, dressed in black, seemingly imprinted within the
glass of the bedroom window.”
    “Ooh. Are the kids okay?”
    “Just barely. They were driven to hysterics. One’s still heavily sedated….Well, I expect we’ll soon see this lady for ourselves.” Lockwood stared out at the deserted
sidewalks, the grid of empty streets stretching away.
    The driver looked over his shoulder. “Seems quiet tonight, Mr. Lockwood. But it isn’t. You’re lucky to get me. I’m the only cab left in the station.”
    “Why’s that, Jake?”
    “It’s that outbreak in Chelsea. There’s a big push on to try to quash it. DEPRAC’s calling up agents left, right, and center. They’ve commandeered a lot of taxis to
stand by.”
    Lockwood frowned. “So which agencies are they using?”
    “Oh, you know. Just the major ones. Fittes and Rotwell.”
    “Right.”
    “Plus Tendy, Atkins and Armstrong, Tamworth, Grimble, Staines, Mellingcamp, and Bunchurch. Some others, too, but I forget the names.”
    Lockwood’s snort sounded like a moped backfiring. “
Bunchurch? They’re
not a major agency. They’ve only got ten people, and eight of them are useless.”
    “Not my place to say, Mr. Lockwood. Do you want lavender piped through the air conditioner? New car this, got it as an extra.”
    “No, thanks.” Lockwood breathed in deeply through his nose. “Lucy and I
do
have a few defenses of our own, even if we’re not from a ‘major agency.’
We feel safe enough.”
    After that he fell silent, but the force of his annoyance filled the cab. He sat staring out of the window, tapping his fingers on his knee. From the shadows of the backseat I watched the
intermittent glow from the streetlamps running down the contours of his cheeks, picking out the curve of his mouth and his dark, impatient eyes. I knew why he was angry: he wanted his company to be
spoken of as one of the great ones in the capital. Ambition burned fiercely in him—ambition to make a difference against the Problem.
    And I understood the reason for that fire too.
    Of course I did. I’d known it ever since that day in the summer, when he’d opened the door on the landing and led George and me inside.
    “My sister,” Lockwood had said. “This is her room. As you can probably see, it’s where she died. Think I’ll close the door now, if you don’t
mind.”
    He did so. The little wedge of sunlight from the landing snapped shut around us like a trap. Iron panels lining the interior of the door clicked together softly, cutting us off from all
normality.
    Neither George nor I said anything. It was all we could do to stand upright. We clung to each other. Waves of psychic energy broke against our senses like a storm tide. There was a roaring in my
ears.
    I shook my head clear, forced myself to open my eyes.
    A blackout curtain hugged the window opposite. White slivers from the summer afternoon showed around its edges; otherwise there was no light anywhere.
    No
natural
light.
    Yet a radiance—thin as water, silvery as moonlight—occupied the room.
    Even
I
could sense it, and I’m useless when it comes to death-glows. I usually have to take Lockwood’s word for it that they’re there at all. But not this time. A bed
stood in the center of the room: a twin bed, arranged with the headboard flush against the right-hand wall. The legs and frame had been painted white or cream, and there was a pale bedspread draped
over the bare mattress, so that the whole thing hung in the dimness like a cloud in