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“Listen,” said Lockwood. “You’re not allowed to laugh.”
George and I shared a knowing glance: we were one-hundred percent going to laugh.
“What did Barnes want?” I said sweetly. “Another medal ceremony?”
“Or maybe it was the Times again?” said George. “That last fashion pull-out was such a success that they’re moving on to action figures?”
“It was neither,” said Lockwood with great dignity. “It was the National Archives. They’re naming a gallery after me.” He paused for a moment, then a moment more. “When you two howler monkeys are quite finished.”
I wiped tears from my eyes and George struggled to sit upright in his chair, hiccoughing. Lockwood stood stiffly, his arms folded. I was starting to get the impression that he was genuinely offended.
“Sorry Lockwood,” I choked out.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“I take it neither of you want to come to the opening ceremony on the 19th then?” Lockwood asked coolly. Two little spots of pink were starting to form high in his cheeks, a sign of genuine distress that a brand new girlfriend like myself simply couldn’t allow.
“Of course we do!” I exclaimed, extinguishing my fit of the giggles. “Don’t we, George?”
George scratched at some nefarious area in the depths of his chair. “‘Spose so, if it means that much to you.”
I leaned over to flick him on the ear.
“Ow! Yeah all right, I’ll be there. I’m surprised at you coming though, Luce. Isn’t the 19th when your first draft is due to the publisher?”
Oh hell, my stupid book. The publishing deal had seemed like such an unmissable opportunity at the time – although that was right after we’d defeated Marissa and Lockwood made his declaration of undying devotion (because he couldn’t ask me on a date like a normal person), so frankly I’d have agreed to almost anything. And I had mostly been enjoying putting our story down on paper until the wretched deadline started looming.
Stricken, I looked up at Lockwood and found his eyes fixed on me pleadingly.
“You won’t even have to do anything, Lucy,” he swore. “Just show up and look delightful. Which you do anyway. It won’t take any time away from your writing, I promise.”
As my avid readers were soon to learn, I had always had trouble saying no to Lockwood.
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t tell Holly. You know she’ll insist on taking me shopping.”
* * *
“Does the word ‘deadline’ mean anything to either of you?” I snarled.
Holly stuck her head around the curtain in the dressing room, smiling a winning smile that could have been borrowed from one A. J. Lockwood Esq.
“The quicker you pick a dress, Luce, the sooner you can get back to your manuscript,” she said, long eyelashes fluttering charmingly.
“I had picked a dress,” I groused. My suggestion that I wear the same blue number that I usually trotted out for formal occasions had been resoundingly shouted down by both Holly and Lockwood, and now the two of them had taken me out to play dress-up. “And I’m not wearing this one, I look like a pink wedding cake.”
Holly pursed her lips. “It is a little – layered.”
“How about this one, Hol?” Lockwood called from outside and her head disappeared.
“Lockwood, this is the ladies’ dressing room, you’re not supposed to be – oooh, that is so classic.”
“That’s what I thought. Luce doesn’t like fuss.”
Safe in the knowledge that neither of them could see me, I rolled my eyes at my reflection and began struggling out of the frothy tulle nightmare. Holly slipped around the curtain in again, brandishing yet another torture implement on a hanger. I gave her a pleading look, but somehow, I never managed to achieve the same effect as Lockwood.
“The quicker you get it on, the quicker you get out of here,” she reminded me sternly. I sighed and took the dress, and began wrestling my way into it as fast as I could.
Lockwood had been right, I didn’t like fuss. However, I did like this dress – oh, I really liked this dress. Fashion not being my thing, I couldn’t tell you the details beyond long, black and simple. But judging from my self-appointed personal dressers’ expressions when I stepped out from behind the curtain, it suited me. Holly’s eyes went wide and her mouth formed a perfect little “oh”. Lockwood’s face reminded me an awful lot of that day when I had walked down the stairs at Portland Row, wearing my new necklace for the first time.
“I’ll go and find some shoes to match,” burbled Holly. “And maybe some earrings. Something delicate, to go with your necklace.”
She went tripping lightly back out onto the shop floor and Lockwood and I looked at each other. It was late enough in the evening that most sensible shoppers had gone home, leaving us alone in the dressing room. Something about the intensity of his gaze sent me into a fit of shyness.
“Do you like it?” I asked, hating the insecurity in my voice.
“Give me a twirl,” he said, reaching for my hand. He raised our clasped hands above my head and spun me in a circle. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turned, standing on tiptoe with my skirt flaring around me, my hair swaying and my colour high. I damn near looked beautiful. When I finished my spin and Lockwood steadied me with his hands on my hips, I actually felt like it too.
“That’s not an answer,” I said hoarsely.
“No?” He leaned in and kissed me, long and sweet and slow. “How’s that?”
I could have stood for a more extended Q&A session, but then Holly strode back in, all business with a towering stack of shoeboxes.
“Lucy, if you two get us thrown out of here before we can buy that dress, you’ll never get your book finished,” she announced, and sadly, that was the end of that.
* * *
Chaos reigned in 35 Portland Row the next day. I was frantically trying to type up the last pages of my roughly scribbled first draft, George was roaming the house searching for his clip-on tie and Holly was fussing over a non-existent pimple on her neck. As ever, Lockwood was the only one who kept his cool, although he did vanish for a good chunk of the afternoon. He came in from the brisk September day looking so dashingly wind-swept that I almost didn’t notice the little burrs clinging to the bottom of his trousers and the ends of his coat. From my perch in the library, I saw him sweeping past and I frowned. I had a good idea of where he had been, and it was rarely a good sign when he went there.
Abandoning my draft, I went padding up the stairs after him and knocked on the door of his room, hardly waiting for an answer before I entered. Our relationship was still fresh enough that I felt a thrill at being able to do that now, and based on his smile when I came in, he was having something of the same reaction.
“How’s the book going?” he asked me.
He was sitting on his bed, unlacing his shoes, so I went to sit beside him and put my head on his shoulder. I was rewarded by a swift press of his lips to the top of my head.
“Oh, it’s going. So are the tendons in my thumbs actually. Who’d have thought typing was such a dangerous activity?”
“I have every confidence that the girl who duelled Marissa Fittes can tackle one measly typewriter.” He finished taking off his shoes, tipped my chin up and gave me quite a serious kiss. “Going to be finished in time to get ready? You know Holly will be disappointed if you don’t let her do your make-up.”
“That’s a very good reason to spin out the typing process,” I said with a sigh. I truly appreciated Holly these days, even to the point of allowing her to treat me like a doll occasionally. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed it. “Did you… er, have a nice afternoon?”
“Have a nice time brooding in the cemetery, you mean?” said Lockwood and I winced. Subtlety was still not my strong point.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” he said, but his voice had a faraway note in it. “And yeah, I did actually. It’s a big day today. I wanted to tell them about it.”
Somewhere in between finding his parents’ last lecture and redecorating Jessica’s room, Lockwood had started to talk about his lost loved ones more, and always in this casual way, as though they were really not so very distant. And perhaps they weren’t. I thought sometimes of Jessica’s vanished death glow and the brighter London George had spoken about, and I thought I understood the easing of Lockwood’s desperate yearning for his family. From the way he spoke, I guessed that it was still present of course, and even still painful – but no longer an abyss that threatened to consume him. As someone who was rather attached to him myself, this was quite a relief.
“I’m sure they’re proud,” I said, carding my fingers through his hair.
“I’m sure they’re laughing as hard as you and George,” said Lockwood wryly. “But yes, proud too.”
He put his arm around me and rested his head on top of mine for a long moment. I didn’t want it to end, but duty called.
“I’d better go and finish those last few pages,” I said and he gave me a squeeze.
“Go write,” he said, and kissed my cheek. “I’d better do the same. I’ll probably have to say something tonight.”
“You haven’t written your speech yet? Lockwood!”
“I’d be started already if you weren’t in here distracting me.”
“Oh yes, make it my fault,” I said, shoving him away. “Go on then. If we’re late, Holly will murder us.”
I stood and headed for the door, then paused to look back at him. He was watching me with an expression of unbearable sweetness.
“Lockwood,” I said. “I really am proud, you know.”
He ducked his head almost shyly.
* * *
The National Archives is not the most inspiring place in the world for a party, being composed mostly of concrete and dusty metal shelving units. That night, however, they’d done their best: banners papered the walls and colourful streamers hung from the ceiling. A large red ribbon had been tied across the entrance to the new Anthony Lockwood Gallery, with an enormous pair of ceremonial scissors at the ready beside it on an ornamental table. Some genius had even obtained prints of the photos from Lockwood’s fashion spread in the Times and put them up in a sort of mini art installation. A number of the younger female guests were gathered around it, twittering, when we made our entrance. George and I nudged Lockwood and sniggered, but to my surprise, he didn’t laugh at us. Instead, he swallowed, his eyes round and almost scared.
“Well, Mr Lockwood, blowing up Fittes House wasn’t enough for you,” said a familiar dour voice. We turned to find Barnes glowering up at the shiny bronze plaque over the new gallery. “You had to make your mark on the National Archives too.”
“In my defence, Inspector,” said Lockwood, rallying so smoothly that it was hard to tell he’d faltered. “I think you actually did most of the blowing up that time.”
Let it be known that Barnes very nearly cracked a smile. His moustache seemed to quiver at the unfamiliar sensation.
“You have me there,” he agreed, and raised his champagne glass in an only slightly ironical salute.
“Mr Lockwood!” Another guest had spotted us, and was bearing down on us. Heads turned at the sound of the name, and an excited rustle ran through the room. Lockwood met the stares with his most charming and professional smile, and shook hands warmly with the woman that had called his name – some senior government minister, I believe. He looked like he was born to this world, joking and conversing smoothly, taking a personal interest in all the people that crowded around him. Only I who held onto his free hand could feel the tightening grip that signified his nerves.
After what seemed like about three years of small talk, hors d’oeuvres and non-alcoholic punch – because I was old enough to risk my life fighting ghosts every night but still too young for fermented grape juice apparently – we were all invited to sit for around of what promised to be interminable speeches. First the head librarian of the Archives gave a rather rambling discourse on the honourable pursuit of knowledge, which would have been more suitable if they’d been naming the new gallery after George. Then the government minister stood up to make some self-serving remarks that were thinly disguised as compliments to Lockwood and Co, before ceding the podium to Inspector Barnes, who made a short, gruff speech containing far less flattery and far more sincerity. When he finished by muttering that he was “quite pleased to work with such fine young people,” there was some half-hearted and confused applause from the rest of the audience and wild cheering from our little contingent. Kipps stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly and Holly elbowed him violently in the ribs.
Then, finally, it was Lockwood’s turn. He strolled onto the small platform that had been erected as a stage as though he were walking into his own living room, his natural poise so at odds with the awkward and unctuous adults that had come before him that he seemed almost like a different species. He didn’t hide behind the podium or read from a sheaf of notes, but stood there in front of us all, his hands in his pockets and his smile lighting up the room. A hush descended over the crowd, until you could have heard a pin drop in that wide space.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning his head to look up at the plaque with his name on it. “I suppose my career’s just peaked.”
A wave of surprised giggles ran through the crowd, but Lockwood didn’t acknowledge it. He continued to stare up at the plaque, his expression thoughtful. People began to shift awkwardly in their seats.
“What’s he playing at?” muttered Kipps, and was elbowed by Holly and I simultaneously.
When Lockwood did begin to speak again, it was in a voice so quiet that he might have been talking to himself. We all sat forward, straining to hear.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,” he said, and the words were measured, rhythmic, as though he were reciting from memory. “A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to break down and a time to build up; a time to mourn and a time to dance.” He turned back to face us again, and his smile returned, but with a certain translucent quality about it, showing a rare glimpse of the bruised heart beneath. “I believe we’ve all done more than our fair share of mourning, ladies and gentlemen. I know I am not alone here in having lost people I loved to the Problem. I am sure I am not even alone in having lost my entire family to it. In the face of that loss, to take pleasure in a plaque in a library is rather a silly thing – an incredibly vain thing, as my dearest and best friends so gently pointed out.” And here he paused to look at George and I, and winked, full of affection. “And they are quite correct, of course. I am horrendously vain.”
He looked pointedly towards the corner of the room that was festooned with pictures of him in elegantly tailored suits, and the audience laughed again, with a note of relief this time. Self-deprecating humour was far more in keeping with their expectations.
“But that’s the nature of this world, I think,” Lockwood went on, leaning back against the podium, his legs crossed at the ankle, one hand resting casually on his rapier. “Our sorrows are enormous, our joys are trivial. In the face of our mourning, of fifty years of the Problem, dancing and laughter seem frivolous. There’s a part of me that feels like I’m spitting on my parents’ and sister’s graves by being here, trotting out platitudes in front of you, when they’re gone forever. That same part of me thought the only place my name would ever be written is on a gravestone beside theirs.”
A woman behind me whispered something and was fiercely hushed by her neighbour. I would have snapped at her myself, if I could have torn my eyes away from Lockwood’s face. A stinging had started in my eyes, matched by a burning flame in my chest.
“But I don’t believe that anymore,” said Lockwood, and a wistful expression came over his face. “I don’t believe that grief is the only real, worthwhile thing in this world. I don’t believe that we should dismiss the things that make our lives worth living.” And here, if I wasn’t mistaken, his eyes lingered on me specifically. “And I believe that it would make my parents and my sister happy to see our name here, to see my name among the living. So I am ridiculously proud, and unutterably grateful, firstly to the National Archive, for doing me this great honour, secondly, to all of you for listening to me so patiently, and thirdly, to my family, dead and living.”
This time there was no mistaking it; his eyes came to rest on me, then George, then Holly and even Kipps, and when he spoke again, it was only to us.
“Thank you for keeping me alive,” he said and bowed his head in acknowledgement. There was a stunned silence, followed by some scattered clapping and then a mighty roar broke out, a hundred voices raised in acclamation and approval. Lockwood accepted it with an almost royal serenity, smiling and waving politely.
Eventually, our throats got sore and our hands got tired, and the tumult died away. The minister stood up again, and made a half-hearted joke about Lockwood being a hard act to follow, which no one really laughed at. After Lockwood’s searing honesty, no one was really in the mood for clichés. Sensing that much at least, she hurried through the process of declaring the Anthony Lockwood Gallery officially open and offered him the ridiculous ceremonial scissors.
“No thanks,” he said cheerfully. “I brought my own.”
And he drew his rapier, polished to a shaft of silver light, and cut the ribbon with one snake-swift blow. The audience gasped, and then burst into laughter and more applause.
“You’ve got to hand it to him,” said George, leaning over to shout in my ear over the din. “He knows how to put on a show.”
A band struck up a cheerful waltz number, and the catering staff came out with a second helping of drinks and dainties. People swarmed around Lockwood, pumping his hand and clapping him on the back earnestly. We had to fight our way through a sea of people to get to him. When we did, Kipps shook his hand, George bumped his shoulder against his and Holly hugged him. I waited until the other three were done, put my arms around his neck and kissed him like we were at home alone in Portland Row. It went on for a long time.
“Steady on, Luce,” said Lockwood breathlessly when we broke apart. “We’ll end up in the papers.”
“Like you’d object to that,” I said, but as it happened, he needn’t have worried. The others had formed a human shield in front of us, blocking out the rest of the world for a short time.
“I would if you would,” he told me, a small, serious frown on his face, and then put on his best attempt at a blasé expression. “So how do you think I did?”
“Oh, I think half the audience wants to adopt you,” I said, and he pouted a little. “The other half is in love with you, although I might be a little biased on that one.”
The pout transformed into a radiant smile, and he tugged me closer.
“Yeah?”
I looked at him, felt him in my arms, warm, alive and hopeful, and I smiled right back.
“Yeah,” I said.