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“Now, does anyone have a working torch?”
It was such an innocent question and yet it sent panic through Lucy. She stared at Lockwood, his face half-illuminated by the light of the torch in her hand. George, resting by Lockwood’s other side had his own torch, the light reflecting off the silver net he held to make the room look like a terrible disco. Even Lockwood had a working torch, lying just beyond the reach of his fingers.
It had been a bad night from the start. Their client had been a grumpy old man who didn’t value the opinions of anyone under the age of 50. Despite his grandchildren asserting that there was something bad in the house, he was sure it was nothing more than a type 1.
His grandchildren had been right. The house had been haunted by the ghost of a woman who had died in the Blitz, the originally basement of the home having made up the foundations of the new construction. Blitz victims weren’t all that hard to deal with in Lucy’s experience but this young woman had been clinging so desperately to the idea that her boyfriend would return and they would be able to marry. It seemed to have been a promise they had made each other. They would both survive the war for the sake of the wedding they would get to have at the end of it.
She’d been a powerful ghost and had immediately taken a liking to Lockwood. The moment she had been able to isolate him, she’d ghost-locked him and led him to the basement. Lucy and George had had to battle to get to him before she fatally caressed his cheek.
But they’d gotten there and George had been able to find the source, a discarded engagement ring that had ended up being fixed into the wall when the basement walls had been repaired after the bombing. He’d been chipping it out so he could trap it in a silver net while Lucy had inserted herself between Lockwood and the ghost. Eventually the ghost had thrown her backwards, furious Lucy would dare get between her and the man she believed to be her returning fiancé. With George still desperately trying to free the ring enough that he could secure it, Lucy had had no option but to throw a flare as the woman had reached out toward Lockwood.
It had exploded inches from his face as exoplasm fizzled and the woman retreated just as George had managed to secure the source.
That was all Lucy could think of as she and George shared a horrified look.
“How dark is it, Lockwood?” George asked as calmly as he could.
He used his torch to illuminate his face from below. Lockwood turned slightly, not facing George straight on.
“What sort of question is that?”
Lucy could tell Lockwood was nervous. They were all nervous, all coming to the same conclusion.
“It’s pitch black,” Lockwood said after a beat.
“It’s not,” George replied.
“Lockwood, the flare… I’m so sorry,” Lucy said. “We should… We should get you to a doctor. They’ll know what to do.”
Temporary flash blindness. That was the verdict the doctor had given. He’d told them to keep a close eye on Lockwood, signed a few forms to ensure DEPRAC would send over sick pay for the entire agency on account of Lockwood requiring supervision around the house until his vision returned.
Lockwood was quiet on the taxi journey home, looking longingly out of the window and able to see nothing of the city lying beyond.
Lucy’s throat felt clogged with apologies. Lockwood had told her to stop saying sorry. It was an accident. It happened. Lucy wanted to cry. She felt like she had let him down, like she had let the entire team down. George would never have been so foolish as to throw a flare that close to someone’s face. She could have very easily permanently blinded Lockwood.
“What do you want to eat today?” George asked.
“I don’t know,” Lockwood said. “Not spaghetti.”
George arched an eyebrow, asking why not spaghetti. Lockwood shifted, muttering about the need to preserve his dignity.
“Just something easy to eat,” Lockwood replied.
George mused over it as he sat back, glancing toward Lucy in the hope to encourage him to say something. She swallowed thickly.
“Getting some sleep might help,” Lucy said. “Even if it doesn’t fix it, it might make it easier because there’s less time…”
She trailed off, vainly searching for the right word.
“Fumbling?” Lockwood asked.
His voice came out a little sharper than he had clearly intended but he didn’t have the strength for an apology. Instead, he rested his head against the cool window glass. Lucy locked eyes with George and mouthed a question about what they were meant to do. She felt utterly defeated when George shrugged back.
George offered to help Lockwood up to his room to get changed and get into bed. Although Lockwood told him no, George practically scooped him up the moment they crossed the threshold of Portland Row and led him up the stairs. Lucy sat in the sitting room, exhausted but determined not to fall asleep in case Lockwood needed her for any reason.
She repeated a mantra that it was only temporary. The doctor had said that he was almost certain Lockwood would recover full vision – both physical and psychical – within a few days. Still, Lucy felt utterly terrified for her friend. She could only imagine how Lockwood felt.
So much of his life was built around his abilities. He had dedicated himself to his agency wholeheartedly. He dreamt of being famous for his battles against ghosts, the most successful agency in London. And he wanted to be a part of that dream, not just someone who had to sit on the side-lines and offer encouragement to her and George.
“I can dress myself, George,” she heard Lockwood say in agitation.
“The number of times you’ve missed the leg hole says otherwise,” George replied. “Just let me help.”
Lockwood growled out a no and seconds later Lucy heard a loud crash. It took all her focus not to spring from the chair and race upstairs to help. After a few seconds she heard George’s voice again, softer than before. She couldn’t make out words but she didn’t need to. The compassion and care for his friend was obvious enough.
Lucy and George had left him in his room to sleep for much of the day, her and George taking unofficial shifts so there would be at least one of them awake if Lockwood did decide to leave his room. Their brief meeting to try and draw up a battle plan had come up with nothing that wasn’t obvious.
They needed to be there for Lockwood, needed to help him remember his condition wasn’t permanent, that he was going to make a full recovery. They needed to make sure he felt safe and let him be as useful as he could be with his new impairment. George suggested they let Lockwood oil the chains once the shock had worn off.
It just all felt obvious to try their best to be there for Lockwood.
When Lucy heard Lockwood tossing and turning restlessly in bed, she decided it was time for her to pay him a visit and so tea had been collected, flavoured with the perfect amount of honey, and brought up as an excuse for her presence.
Lockwood was lying in bed as Lucy entered, facing away from the door. He tensed when he heard her entering, not bothering to look around at her. Lucy wasn’t sure if it was because he was upset or because he knew he wouldn’t be able to see her even if he did look.
“Hey, I brought you some tea,” she said.
“Just put is on the side.”
Lucy went to do as she was told, used to getting similar instructions from her friend. Then she stopped herself.
“Are you sure?” Lucy asked.
Because putting the tea down on the side was usually the prelude to Lockwood being left alone and Lucy wasn’t sure he was experience enough with not being able to see that she would trust him not to spill the hot drink down himself or over his bed.
“I… No,” Lockwood admitted.
He sat up, letting his covers drop. Lucy saw he was dressed in his fancy pink pyjamas, his hair charmingly ruffled. He looked around, unseeing eyes passing quickly over her. Lucy put the tray down on the side and moulded his hands around the teacup, sitting close. She couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were red, his cheeks puffy. He’d been crying. It was instantly obvious to Lucy. And yet she knew he would downplay it if she brought it up. He didn’t like to talk about such things.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You don’t need to keep apologising,” Lockwood told her.
There was a slight croak to his voice, throat raw from crying. They both heard it. Lockwood took a long drink of his tea, hoping it would soothe away any evidence.
“This is really good tea.”
“I followed your instructions,” Lucy told him.
“As you should. I am an expert on tea,” Lockwood replied.
There was a long, pregnant pause.
“Does it hurt?” Lucy asked.
“It stung a bit at first,” Lockwood admitted. “George insisted on ibuprofen. You know how he likes to fuss.”
Lucy nodded her agreement and then grimaced. She agreed softly, her voice catching as yet another reminder of what she had done to her friend.
“I am really sorry, Lockwood.”
Lockwood held out the cup of tea. Lucy took it putting it on the side. When she turned back, Lockwood’s hands were blindly feeling along her arm.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Your hands,” Lockwood replied. “Where have you hidden them?”
It felt like her hands had immediately cramped up. Lucy forced her fingers to flex as she gently placed her hands onto Lockwood’s. She felt a tingle of energy pass through her at the contact and cleared her throat awkwardly.
“Lucy, you throwing that flare saved my life. You have nothing to apologise for. I would be dead if not for you.”
And Lucy told herself he was right, that she had had no other choice. But she still felt terrible.
He had been crying. She had made Lockwood cry.
“I just… I know it’s temporary but I know what it is like to feel…”
“Helpless?” Lockwood suggested.
Lucy hummed her agreement.
“Perhaps I needed it. Some forced time off,” Lockwood said.
He squeezed her hands, forced out an unsteady laugh.
“I do wonder if this is some scheme of yours and George’s to make me take some time away from the field. I haven’t forgotten how eager you two where to have me stay at home after I had recovered from being shot.”
Lucy was sure she and Lockwood had very different memories about that. She could remember the doctors saying he no longer needed his sling but still needed to rest his arm the very same day Lockwood had proclaimed he had a full bill of health and was more than ready to return to the field. She and George had eventually had to call in Barnes, telling him that he had to say Lockwood would not be insured if he went against the doctor’s orders. Barnes, coming to realise he didn’t entirely believe Lockwood when he said that he had no idea who had shot him, had been more than willing to bench the young man until he had been cleared for field duties by a DEPRAC approved doctor.
“I am not very good at staying at home. I am not a born house husband.”
Lucy assured him she never would have accused him of being one.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Lucy asked. “Put some music on? Get you something else? I mean, it’s not like you’re physically hurt. Maybe I could sneak you down to the basement and you could do some practice with your rapier.”
“Flail blindly around with it, you mean,” Lockwood said.
“I don’t think you’re capable of flailing with a rapier in your hand,” Lucy told him.
She couldn’t help but feel like their roles had been reversed. Normally Lockwood would be the one countering her gloominess with compliments and smiles. Or else they’d be matching wits, making playful jabs at each other to lighten the mood. She wished she could ask Lockwood how he knew exactly what to say when she felt utterly clueless but she wasn’t sure he would be able to put that into words. It seemed to be a natural talent for him, one that would always remain elusive to her.
“I’m fine, Luce. I don’t need anything more.”
Lucy nodded. She got to her feet, resolving to go and find something useful she could do so Lockwood could focus on recovering for as long as he needed to. She let his hands drop, turning away.
It stopped her from seeing the panic and desperation that fell onto Lockwood’s face.
“I’ve gone blind before,” Lockwood said suddenly.
Although he didn’t say it, Lucy could tell it was a desperate plea for her to stay. It was a negotiation in a way: I’ll tell you about my past if you don’t leave me now.
Because it was once thing to beg a friend to stay in your life. It was another thing entirely to feel so vulnerable as to not even want your friend to leave the room.
Lucy realised she often forgot how young Lockwood really was. He was only a handful of months older than her, not enough to even put a year between them. He shouldered so much without complaint, took custody of so many concerns because it was his name on the door.
The only reason they even had a door for his name to be on was because he had been forced to navigate life alone, forced to walk ghost-ridden streets without anyone to welcome him back home with a hug and a kiss buried into his hair.
And all he wanted in that moment, sitting blind on his bed, was to not feel so alone.
“Really?” Lucy said.
She sat beside Lockwood on his bed, taking his hand in hers. Her thumb rubbed against his knuckles and she dared to shift closer, resting her head on his shoulder to make it clear she was there to stay.
“Have you ever heard of the New World Rising Cult?” Lockwood asked.
“Yes,” Lucy said.
The cult had been an exclusive rich person club in Victorian times, a lot of people who thought they were visionaries turning to the mystic arts in the hope of being able to bring about their own version of the industrial revolution. Eventually their leader had gone mad, although Lucy wasn’t sure how sane he had been to begin with, and murdered the entire cult using a poisonous gas because he had come to believe there was a spy amongst them and he couldn’t work out who. Eventually their secret lair, a complex series of caves, had been discovered but it was found to be full of the ghosts of the cultists. Some audacious independent agency had eventually been able to bring the haunting under control, allowing scientists and researchers to collect the cult’s research to see if it might be beneficial in their fight against the Problem.
“I was there when they cleared the caves,” Lockwood said.
“But that happened years ago,” Lucy frowned.
Lockwood nodded, saying he had just turned fourteen, been well on his way to getting his grade 3.
“They let a grade 2 agent into those caves?” Lucy managed.
Humming a confirmation, Lockwood told her that it was a small agency and they’d needed the entire team on board.
“And Gravedigger knew what I was like,” Lockwood said. “He knew leaving me unsupervised would just mean I would go into the caves solo. At least if he took me he could keep me out of trouble. And he never let me out of his sight.”
Lucy had some idea of who Gravedigger was. Flo had mentioned him, made it clear he had been the supervisor Lockwood had trained under: Nigel ‘Gravedigger’ Sykes. Lucy didn’t know much more about him, besides the fact that he had died in some horrible way and not even Flo wanted to talk about. Lucy felt Lockwood shift closer as memories swirled around in his head.
“But he let you go blind?” Lucy frowned.
“We’d been cornered: me and him. The ghosts seemed to have taken a special interest in me. We’d find out later that they had a nasty habit of abducting children with talent and doing experiments on them and I was just in the upper age range of their MO. But with the ghosts so focused on me, it meant I could provide something of a distraction for agents who needed to go off and hunt down a source. Only Gravedigger didn’t like that idea much.”
“Well, you were fourteen,” Lucy pointed out.
Lockwood gave a quiet chuckle. Lucy turned to look at him, somewhat unnerved by the way his eyes didn’t even brush against her as he shifted to look in her direction. They’d done it so many times, shared quiet vulnerable moments and Lucy had grown so used to looking into his eyes as he spoke. She could swear she could see his soul in those moments and it meant the world to her. Because Lockwood, and so many other people, believed his soul was gnarled and withered. They believed he was empty, that what little remained of him as a healthy, normal person was dying away with every passing second. But she could see that there was such passion and love in his eyes. Everything he did was out of love. All the pain he was in was because he loved so much. All the fear he felt was because he cared endlessly.
“Gravedigger wasn’t happy I tried to play distraction. He refused to leave me, eventually dragged me past this curtain and shoved me behind him while he held back the ghosts that were attacking. He didn’t realise we had stumbled into the main temple. The cult had had about eighty members and they’d all died in that chamber. The ghost lights there blinding. In fact, they did blind me.”
Lucy stared. She shifted closer to Lockwood protectively, even though she knew they were safe, that they were at home.
“How did you escape?” Lucy asked.
“We didn’t,” Lockwood said. “Not really. Gravedigger was a listener, like you. He couldn’t see the death glows. What he could see was some iron cages in the corner of the room. Like I said, they had a habit of kidnapping people. He grabbed me, covered my eyes and we took shelter in one of the cages until the others dealt with the source. I wasn’t able to see for a day afterwards so Gravedigger came back here with me to help me look after myself. He read me Great Expectations, said I reminded him of Pip. You’d never have thought to look at him that he would have read Great Expectations but that was Gravedigger for you. Surprising.”
Lucy nodded. She wondered if she should repay him in kind, give him some stories from her past. But she had none she felt like she could share in that moment. And she didn’t want to make the moment about her. After all, she had been the one who had blinded Lockwood.
“I’ve never read it,” Lucy said. “Do you think I should?”
Lockwood paused.
“I think you’d like David Copperfield more,” he replied.
Lucy scanned the room, nodding. She peeled away from Lockwood, feeling a slight tug in her hand when he didn’t immediately let her go.
“But which one do you like more,” Lucy asked.
“Great Expectations,” Lockwood answered.
Lucy nodded. She scanned Lockwood’s shelves, predictably finding a copy of Great Expectations resting on his shelf. She picked it up, moving back toward his bed. Lockwood seemed to perk up the moment he felt her weight once more touch the mattress beside him.
“My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could…”
Lucy woke up on Lockwood’s bed, a blanket draped over her. The Great Expectation book had been taken from her hand, the page marked with a receipt from Lockwood’s cabinet. She rolled over, looking for Lockwood, remembering they had nodded off side-by-side as she read.
Lockwood was not there.
Lucy sat up sharply. A panic filled her. It was not her typical panic. She didn’t think some relic man had broken in or another loose source had let a ghost run rampant on their house. No, she worried Lockwood was blindly fumbling around their house where there were all sorts of dangerous items all over the place.
She clambered out of bed, scanning the room. Lockwood definitely hadn’t stumbled into a corner and gotten himself stuck. Nor was he on the landing. Lucy raced into George’s room, fully prepared to wake up his friend and force him to join her on her Lockwood hunt.
George wasn’t there either.
It was reassuring. Lucy was sure she could trust George to look after Lockwood. In fact, there was no one she trusted with Lockwood more.
Still, Lucy wanted to see him, wanted to be at his side. She wandered the house, listening, realising noises were coming from the kitchen. Pushing open the door, she saw that George was frying some bacon while Lockwood sat at the kitchen table, patchily buttering some toast. Skull was on the side, watching Lockwood’s attempts with amusement. Lucy had to admit it was funny how the hand that was holding the piece of toast steady was covered in an increasing amount of butter.
“Lucy?” Lockwood called when she entered.
“Morning.”
“His vision’s already a little better,” George told her. “He can see lights now.”
“I wanted to tell her,” Lockwood sighed.
He went to get more butter but caught the knife on the edge of the tub. It flipped out of his grip, landing on the table. Lockwood grimaced, feeling blindly for it.
“To the left,” Skull urged. “A little more.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow, studying the Skull. He seemed to wink mischievously at her as Lockwood’s groping hand moved toward the Skull’s jar.
“This way. Come on. If you could push me off the table hard too… Hard enough to smash this stupid jar…”
“He’s not going to smash your jar,” Lucy said, moving across the room to pick up Skull. “And you shouldn’t take advantage of him like that.”
“Wait until he stands by and lets Karim experiment on you,” Skull said. “Then you’ll be more than willing to play tricks on the bean pole.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and put the jar up on top of the fridge, firmly out of the way of Lockwood. She sat down opposite Lockwood, letting Skull grumble to himself. Lucy passed Lockwood back the knife, ending up with a line of butter across her palm as he pulled the knife back.
“Thanks, Luce,” he said.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Better. I was thinking we should try to play some games today. Relax a little.”
“Sounds like a brilliant idea,” Lucy grinned.
George turned around, placing a plate of bacon on the table. He picked up one of the pieces of toast Lockwood had haphazardly buttered and smoothed the butter out a little so it lay evenly and covered the entire piece.
“I keep suggesting charades but Lockwood isn’t on board,” George told her. “And we don’t really have anything in the way of boardgames.”
Lucy shrugged, saying they could go out and buy some once they’d ate breakfast.
“Can I come?” Lockwood asked, feeling blindly over the table.
He caught Lucy’s hand and she squeezed it, with a small laugh.
“Of course. We’ll need you there to help us pick games.”