Work Text:
Lucy takes the long way home
Meets me in a field of stone
She says I don't know how I'm supposed to feel
My body's cold, my guts are twisted steel
Of course the weather was gloomy. It always seemed to be on these days, as if the universe knew it had reason to mourn.
The sky was, in typical London fashion, an ominous gray and threatening to rain but taking its time. Lockwood pulled his long coat tighter around him as a gust of wind followed him into the cemetery. His feet took him automatically to the plot bearing his family name, a well-practiced routine at that point.
His hand clenched around the bundle of lavender he carried as his eyes swept over the gravestones. There were several that made sense to be there, recounting lives lived fully. Those stones had words like grandmother or grandfather carved onto their stones.
He placed a few sprigs of lavender on each grave, even the ones who had died before he was born. With a deep sigh he reached the more recent graves, bearing words like mother, father, sister and daughter that made breathing hard.
It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many anniversaries of terrible days he observed. Lockwood wondered if the pain would ever lessen, settle into a dull ache. His therapist would say that there was no one way to grieve, that there was no time limit.
As a distraction from his roiling thoughts, he carefully set about clearing the gravestones from any dirt or debris. He had just finished distributing the rest of the lavender sprigs when he heard footsteps behind him.
It was unusual for him to encounter anyone in this part of the cemetery this early in the morning. Turning towards the sound, his eyes landed on a young woman around his age. She had shoulder-length hair whose color seemed to shift as she moved. Clad in varying shades of blue, her cobalt leather jacket stood out against the fog.
Her attention was divided between a slip of paper in her hand and the markers around her, a deep frown tugging at her mouth. It took her a moment to notice him, eyes widening.
“Oh, sorry - I didn’t mean to disturb - I’ll just be on my way,” she stammered, but hesitated as if she wasn’t sure which way to go.
“Are you lost?” Lockwood asked, keeping his voice soft, not wanting to disturb the hushed atmosphere around them. “I might be able to help.”
Like it or not, this cemetery had become a very familiar place to him. He had spent enough time walking its entirety on days when he was too restless to stay at his family’s graves.
“Yes, I thought it would be easier to find,” she said after a moment, and he noticed her lilting Northern accent.
He saw then that her eyes were rimmed with red, smeared black eye makeup underneath them. It was ridiculous, he knew, the impulse that he had to comfort her. They were strangers, and of course she was crying in a cemetery. He himself had run out of tears recently, but he felt his throat itch with emotion just looking at her.
“The layout can be confusing, it’s not as neatly organized as some of the newer cemeteries,” he offered. “If you tell me the last name I should be able to help you find it.”
“It’s not - it’s not a regular grave,” she said quietly, eyes trained on the ground. “It’s a memorial, for the-”
Her voice cut off on a sob, and he knew without a doubt what she was looking for. There was only one group memorial in that cemetery, and the victims it was dedicated to would have been about her age if they had lived.
“I know where it is,” he said, and she shot him a grateful look at not having to say it out loud.
Lockwood himself had visited the memorial several times, even though he didn’t have any personal connections to those it was dedicated to. Everyone had heard about the fire, about the supervisory neglect and poor conditions that had led to the factory burning down with most of its workers in it.
Workers who were largely children and teenagers.
It was unthinkable that this had happened in his lifetime. It was like something out of a past century, and he was horrified at how long it had been allowed to go on. There had been laws passed, standards enforced, but that was all after the fact. It was much too late for those lost that day.
They walked in silence as her eyes darted around, stopping when they reached the circular garden. It wasn’t much, a bench, a few plants and a low plaque in the center with a long list of names.
Lockwood wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to intrude on her mourning, but she didn’t seem the most steady on her feet. She took in a shuddering breath and turned to him.
“Would you mind seeing if this name is on there? It would be at the bottom.” Her trembling fingers held out the slip of paper and he took it, fingers brushing lightly against hers.
He nodded without question, bending down to get a closer look at the plaque. Sure enough, the name on the paper was engraved at the very bottom of the list.
Norrie White
He turned back to her and nodded, and she dropped to her knees next to him. Her fingers reached out to trace the name, tears now running down her cheeks.
“They added it,” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure if they would. She didn’t die directly in the fire.”
Suddenly Lockwood knew exactly who they were talking about. He had seen a mention in the news that the final victim of the fire, who had been in a coma for several years, had passed away. Her death meant that besides for the imprisoned former factory owner, there was just one other survivor.
His heart dropped into his stomach as he realized that the woman next to him was most likely that person. And if there was anyone who understood what it meant to be the one left behind, it was him.
The guilt at being the one to live. The questions of why them and not me. The sorrow at being left to pick up the pieces.
“She was…the closest thing I had to a real family. And I know that she’s been gone since that day, but somehow I thought maybe she would come back.” Her voice was hoarse from crying but she continued. “I can’t afford to get back there to visit her real grave, so this is the closest thing I’ve got. And she always wanted to make it to London.”
At that she gave a derisive laugh, the sound lacking any true humor. She sniffed and raised her hand to trace the rest of the names of the plaque, her lips moving as she whispered each of their names.
Lockwood stood sentry, as if there was anything to protect her from in that graveyard. Not when she had already been through hell. And even though it didn’t make any sense, not when he had just met her, but he desperately wanted to make sure she never went through anything like that again.
She pushed herself up, swiping her fingers under her eyes. He stood up as well, hands in his pockets as she regarded him.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to pull you away from…” she trailed off uncertainly. “From your own visit.”
“My family,” he offered, much more easily than he normally would have, especially to a stranger. “It’s okay. I was just about done anyway.”
It sounded so normal, so mundane. A visit with his family. But he knew better, and so did she.
The woman nodded, eyes drifting back to the memorial. After a breath she sat down on the bench and looked at him expectantly. His eyes widened in surprise but he made his way over, folding his long legs underneath him as he sat down next to her.
“I’m Lucy Carlyle,” she said, offering her hand.
Lockwood took it, giving it a gentle shake. Her hand was much smaller than his, cold to the touch with calloused fingers. They held on for a moment longer than necessary before she pulled back, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“I’m Lockwood,” he supplied automatically. “Anthony Lockwood.”
For the first time since he had met her he saw the ghost of a smile play across her lips.
“Is that a James Bond reference?”
He chuckled quietly at that, shaking his head.
“No, most people just call me by my surname.”
Lucy nodded, and he wondered if she could guess why. For the first time he wanted to explain it to someone, to her.
Because he had spent enough time feeling like an outsider in every room, his losses branding him as different. His friends tried, especially George. But he hadn’t met anyone who had known the degree of loss that he had, not at his age, until now.
Deciding to take a risk, he met her eyes again.
“Please don’t feel obligated to say yes, and I know this might seem odd, but would you want to get some tea with me?” Lockwood spoke quickly, the words tumbling out nervously. “I noticed you shivering, and there’s a decent cafe nearby.”
The cemetery itself seemed to hold its breath as he waited for her answer, already preparing to take it back apologetically. He knew the circumstances of their meeting were strange, but he felt a pull to her. Something that went beyond their shared experiences of death.
After a moment, when he had already accepted defeat, she placed her hand gently on his arm. He felt that contact even through the layers he wore, a warmth spreading through him even before she nodded.
“Tea would be perfect,” Lucy said, accepting his arm as he led them out of the cemetery.
So underneath the concrete sky
Lucy puts her hand in mine
She says life's a game we are meant to lose
Stick by me and I will stick by you