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You’re six years old when you get a little brother. He’s small and ugly, and you tell your mom this. She simply laughs and says, “All babies are like that. Give him a few weeks.”
And she was right. When he says his first words, you’re right there with him, watching and playing and keeping him away from the sharp points of the weapons in your home. Your Talents are starting to emerge, very faintly. You know about the ghosts—how could you not, when your parents are gone so often, traveling to remote places and talking to people who have different ways of coping than your usual lavender, salt and iron.
Your brother becomes your favorite person. You love your parents, of course. But he’s so small, and yet so excited about the world, with his big eyes and wandering feet.
You watch him grow up, see him learn his alphabet and toddle around with a toy rapier your parents buy at a carnival. He’s smart, you already know this—he can name the types of ghosts and some of their weaknesses before he even begins school.
It’s your fault, a part of you knows. Because your Talents aren’t very strong, you decide to learn what you can about them instead; books can entertain you for hours.
And then it happens.
You’re nine when you get the news. Your brother is shut upstairs so he won’t hear anything until you can find the words.
But how can you find anything like words to describe your heart ripping in two?
They’re gone. Both gone. Gone, in a car accident.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you think. And then, He’s all I have left.
So you go to him. You hold him, and he holds you—the little six-year-old who shouldn’t have to bear this. Who should be in his mother’s arms, who should be tussling in the backyard with his father.
As he cries, full of understanding, so wise for such a small person, your resolve hardens. It’s up to you now.
~~~
You were reckless, once. But one time is all it takes for the danger to befall you.
You scream, seeing the ghost emerge from the broken pot. But there’s nothing to defend yourself with here; this is supposed to be your safe haven. Your room is the only place you can break in peace, without letting your brother know how hard this all is.
And now, you’re the one who is broken, not by your mind, but by another’s wrath.
~~~
The Other Side is strange. You know time is passing, but it’s a haze, and never consistent. You can do nothing but glimpse small flashes of your brother.
He’s only a little older, following an agent closely. It’s night, their torches on the dimmest setting as they walk through an old flat. You can see the cobwebs in a corner, and know that a ghost’s source is hidden nearby.
Of course he would become an agent. Your brother was always too smart, too driven, for his own good. You wish he would pick something safer; follow in your footsteps and become a researcher, maybe.
But you know, in whatever remains of your heart, that he was never fit to sit at a desk. He’s too full of action to sit around. He could never sit still before; why would your death have changed that?
The agent points to a floorboard, and your brother takes out a net made of silver. The sight of the item, something that forces ghosts away, pulls you backwards (as much as you can go backwards in this nothingness) and the image fades away.
~~~
You find yourself back again, watching him. He’s grown now, taller and gangly, hair ruffled from fingers pushed through it again and again. You notice the dark circles under his eyes, and you ache for him. Get some sleep, you want to whisper. Let me handle this. Let me take care of you.
But of course, you’re not really there.
He stands with another boy, one you don’t recognize. The two of them are in your kitchen (this you do recognize), brewing tea and talking.
“I think it’s time, Lockwood,” the other boy says. “We work well together, but my Listening isn’t good enough to hold up. That stalker wouldn’t have gotten as close as it did if I’d been able to hear it sooner.”
As close? You wonder if your brother is being careful, if he’s following all the rules you explained to him about ghost hunting from your well-worn Fittes manual. There’s an invoice on the table with the words “Lockwood and Co.” printed on the top. He must have started his own agency. His Talent had outshone yours, even from such a young age, and your brother never was good at following the rules.
It makes sense, but it doesn’t mean you like him being independent. You hope he’s taking precautions when it comes to dealing with the ghosts.
(You hope he’s doing everything a right bit better than you ever could.)
“You may be right, George,” Anthony says, and oh, how the sound of his voice is so different to what you remember. It’s deeper, no longer the squeak of adolescence but the strong tone of a man. You must have missed so much.
And suddenly, grief overwhelms you, all the things you didn’t see, that you weren’t there for rushing over you. His first case, his first successful ghost-hunting adventure. Teaching him how to tie a tie (you remember doing it for him, the little fabric so small, when your parents were lowered into the ground). Giving him advice on how to talk to girls, how to change the ever-finicky lightbulb in the attic.
How to grow up. How to deal with grief. How to live again.
You weren’t there. You didn’t really have a choice, but the unfairness of it threatens to drown you. He should have had an older sister to hold him through the long nights, and to greet him when he came home from a job. Someone to help him apply to an agency, to teach him the maths he needed to take care of a loan, to help him care for the house.
He needs a family, and now he hasn’t got one.
The feelings swirl around you, and suddenly you’re awash in the dark mist once more. You scream and claw at the blankness, trying to get back to him, but you have no voice, no hands.
No control.
~~~
An eternity later, you see him again. He’s sitting at the table, the cloth covered in writing and drawings. You wonder at the doodles, for your brother was never that good of an artist, and somehow you doubt he would have had the time to pick up drawing.
A girl sits across from him, nursing a cup of tea. A necklace gleams at her throat, and you know that necklace; it once sat in the same position around your neck.
You hope this means something good.
Anthony’s voice is tired, but satisfied. “Thanks for that quick thinking, Luce. Grabbing the book like that? It was quite impressive.”
The girl, Luce, blushes prettily but rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t have had to throw it if you had not gotten lost between floors. It was a large building, but honestly, Lockwood, even Kipps could have found me faster than you.”
Anthony looks mock offended. “Low blow, Luce. Kipps couldn’t even find his way out of a paper bag.”
The two of them burst into giggles, and it sends your heart soaring with joy. He’s okay, you think. He’s laughing. With a girl. At your table, in your home.
He still has dark circles under his eyes, and there’s a small scratch on his arm, but he looks healthy, happy and whole.
A door opens, and the boy from before, George, steps in. “It’s not late enough for the night-time sillies,” he groans, shuffling over to the teapot. “What happened?”
“Lucy saved me, as always,” Anthony replies with a smile. “Nothing major, we took care of that spectre quickly. How was the lurker?”
“Lurking no longer.”
Lucy pipes up. “I bet Kipps would become a lurker. It’s what he’s best at, just keeping to shadows and slipping away the moment something bad turns up.”
The three of them share another grin, and relief floods through you. He’s doing okay; he’s with people he loves. You can feel it from here—wherever here is, exactly—the deep bond that comes with risking your life for other people flowing between the trio.
And maybe, you think, he’ll stay okay, if they stay by his side.
~~~
They aren’t by his side, the next time you see him. He’s alone in his room (your parents’ room, you realize, as it comes into focus), breathing heavily. Tears glisten in his eyes, and everything in you rushes toward him.
You have no form with which to cover him.
Anthony always had a gilded tongue, but the words that spill from him now are not the ones from a young man but from a broken child.
“Why did you leave?” he mourns. “I thought we had figured it out, with Holly, with us. I thought…” he trails off, and you ache once more. Why is no one with him? Who left him in such shambles?
Your brother collapses down into his covers, a blank stare coming across his face as the tears dry. His tears never did last long—action was where his heart always lay.
“Just stay alive, Lucy,” he begs the pillow. “Please. I can’t take it, if you die.”
The girl. She left him? But they were doing so well; they were so happy. You don’t know what could have caused this.
Now you leave of your own accord—seeing your brother break when you can do nothing is the worst punishment you can think of.
~~~
But it draws you back like a magnet. This time he stands near the edge of a building, sword flashing in the moonlight. He looks like an avenging angel (if such a thing exists) with his steaming clothes burned with ectoplasm and a fierce expression across his face. You wonder how he has become this person you didn’t expect, didn’t want him to be.
You wanted him to be brave, yes, but in smaller ways. You wanted him to be safe, to be alive , to be happy.
But he’s not safe as you watch him slash and burn and hack through the crowd of ghosts around him.
He’s not happy as you see the twist of his mouth, the anger in his eyes.
And he’s almost not alive as the ghosts crowd him closer to the edge, closer to a long fall that will surely be his end.
A flash of searing light leaves your non-existent ears ringing, and then George is there, pulling Anthony away, back to safety. They’re wrapping up a tangle of hair bands and bracelets when George starts berating him.
“What the hell was that, Lockwood? Trying to take on the whole cluster of them at once? I told you I needed just a few more hours to research, because I thought I’d seen something about the store in conjunction with what the client said. But you told me no! We could have avoided this if you had let me do my job!”
Anthony’s blank look is back, and you find it’s your most hated of his looks. He’s alive, but he might as well not be, with the way he stares at the sources now hidden from view.
“I had it under control,” he says firmly.
George doesn’t agree. (Neither do you). “Lockwood, that was not under control. That was way too close.”
“Agents have close scrapes all the time,” Anthony intones. “Part of the job.”
His friend heaves an exasperated sigh. “Quit being obtuse, Lockwood. It doesn’t suit you. I know we all miss her, but she’s freelancing now, and getting yourself killed isn’t going to do her any favors. It’s not going to do me any favors either, for that matter.”
Anthony stiffens, and you put the pieces together quickly. Lucy must have left the agency; that’s what his breakdown (what your breakdown) was about.
How could she have abandoned them? You may not be able to see much, but even from the few glimpses you’ve caught, you know that your brother is smitten with Lucy. She brought light and laughter to his somber face, to his monotone life. And now she’s gone?
Your brother shrugs and hefts the sources up into his arms. “I am not trying to die, George. I don't want that.”
He’s sincere: you know him well enough to realize this. But there’s something lurking beneath the surface that he’s hiding from George.
Pain, of the deepest kind. He looks like the little six-year-old who clutched at her waist, tears blurring with her own.
George follows his leader, rubbing his forehead. “Then please, Lockwood, be more careful.” It’s spoken to his back, but you know what his face looks like.
You always do. It’s the only thing you know, anymore.
~~~
You see him a few more times, like this. Making poor decisions, life-threatening ones. You hope to goodness time has not passed so swiftly like it has before. You can do nothing but watch as Anthony, your baby brother, throws himself into harm's way to save George, to save Holly (whom you have now seen, a girl with clean look and a caring heart), to save the agents from Fittes or Tendys or Rotwell when they work together.
And you wonder where you went wrong. How could he do this to her? Forcing her to watch as he evades ghost touch by millimeters, when he becomes covered in nicks and scratches from brambles through which he strides? Doesn’t he know that you want him to live a real life, not this rushing awakeness that never slows down?
He’s always calm—too calm. The facade he keeps up with the people around him never seems to break again, and you know that isn’t good. He’s running from his past, and running from his present, and he won’t stop running. You need him to stop.
You wanted him to find family, and he did so, but now it’s broken. The fractured pieces are nothing you can touch, and you have no way to put it together again, no matter how much you strain to.
You wanted him to be better than you, but right now, he’s simply going to join you soon, and a part of you hates him for that.
~~~
Relief finally comes, who knows how much longer. You dreaded these glimpses for so long that you almost don’t look when your turn comes. But a flicker of long brown hair catches your eye, and you see her again.
Lucy is back, and she’s standing next to Anthony, swords drawn.
They look at each other, and in that look you see hope once more.
Hope for him, that he has found his purpose once more. That he’s found his person again.
That she seems to have found him too. You don’t know her very well, but Lucy takes care of your brother. She’s got a good heart, and a smart head on her shoulders.
And he follows her. You watch as they defeat Visitors, as they return with matching grey streaks. As they hold each other after nightmares.
And you think, finally, that he might be okay.
~~~
It’s nearing the end, you can tell. Not his end, like you once feared. But your own.
They’re working their way through Fittes, through the horrors that building has manufactured for so long, breaking down the secrets of the Problem.
And you watch as they do it together. George, Lucy, Holly, Kipps (what a pleasant surprise), and Anthony. Just as it was always meant to be.
You feel…relieved. It’s a faraway feeling, like a memory of a feeling. The end is coming nearer now.
The image fades a bit, but you watch as they pick themselves up. As they rebuild. As they start anew.
Anthony does it all by Lucy’s side. And this time, when you notice the new necklace around her neck, one of sapphire, a symbol of unfailing love, of undying devotion, you can rest easy.
You go softly, whispering into the ether, “Well done, Anthony Lockwood.”