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It started with a small, shiny pebble. Smooth as glass, tumbled clean by the endless tides of the Thames. Picked up by the murky waters and spat out, over and over until it shone like a jewel.
You could have thought it was just a stone, perhaps kicked by accident, thrown by an errant child or knocked by a passing vehicle - that was Jake’s presumption, that first time something turned up on his doorstep.
He saw it as soon as he opened his door for his shift. It was right on his door mat of his little terrace house in Earlsfield. Jake was a cab driver, more specifically a night cab driver. His cab windows were reinforced with strips of silver to ward against unwanted passengers of the undead type. He'd done the job for years, passed not only the 'Knowledge' test that all black cab drivers in London had been required to since 1865, learning by heart all streets and landmarks within six miles of Charing Cross, but also the additional requirements put in place by DEPRAC. Not only did Jake know the best route from Euston railway station to Tower Bridge, he knew how to administer an emergency adrenaline shot, had basic Visitor defence skills and was authorised to use a salt bomb in assisting Agents returning to his vehicle if chased by Visitors. It was a vital role and paid well, it had to be why else would someone choose to do it.
Jake knew lots of Agents by name, many more by sight. The various different coloured hues of uniformed Agents as they would pile in, different faces, some impossibly young, all high-pitched voices and boundless energy when they started, through to young adults on the cusp of losing their talents - faces etched grey with worry and trauma. Jake knew lots of Agents, but was true friends with only those of Lockwood and Co.
He’d known Lockwood since his days with Grave Digger Sykes, ferried them here and there, at first hardly noticing the tall, dark, brooding teen that accompanied the older man. He was always polite but quiet, tolerated Sykes teasing with humour, laughed politely at Jake’s jokes. Yet, Jake could see the clenched cheeks, tight mouth and shuttered emotions. He knew his story, the orphaned boy. As the years passed his companions changed, some there for a short time and some stuck around. He had clocked the smiles and glances Lucy Carlyle sent to her employer, way before he did, the dozy sod. He had delighted in ferrying them to the Fittes at 50 Ball that time, all fancily dressed and a new necklace appearing at Lucy’s neck. That’s when he first thought Lockwood had a chance, not just at romance but at surviving. He'd been impressed with Holly Munro and her organised efficiency, she was the only one who recalled all he had told of his family and often asked after them. Then Kipps, no longer in his Fittes Uniform, but somehow a braver and taller figure for it. He'd met George Karim early on, ferried him back and forth from the archives many a time, impressed with his clear intelligence and often spent journeys nodding into the rear view mirrors and pretending he knew what he was talking about when George talked through his latest hypothesis. He preferred to recall this version of George, eyes bright and voice over loud delighting at a new discovery far beyond Jake's understanding, rather than the last time he had seen George, lying broken and discarded like litter in the road.
He bent down and picked up the stone, feeling the weight and how perfectly it felt in his hand, as smooth as glass. He held it up to the morning light, watching the banded colours that appeared as the light hit it, it was marbled with blues and greens, veins of some mineral caught within it he guessed. He pocketed the found treasure, whistling with delight at the curious item that had come across his path and continued his day.
The second item he found a few days later. Well to be more accurate, nearly trod on as he left for his late shift. It was approaching twilight, that blurry in between time that saw the first shimmers of Visitors start to appear, all hazy and opaque. The perfect time to ensnare careless folk out and about. Jake had readied himself to hurry to his cab.
“What the bloody hell?”
He lifted his foot, peering down, a large package was on his step. He wasn’t expecting any post, he hadn’t heard the doorbell. He looked again. A box of some kind, it was a bit crumpled, muddy in parts, but he could still make out the familiar cursive font promising chocolate delights within.
“A box of chocolates?” Jake leant down, picked the tatty box up, staring at it in confusion. He lifted the lid cautiously, sure enough there was the plastic tray full of indents of all different shapes and sizes ready to hold delicious morsels. Most were missing, there were maybe six or so left, all jumbled up. A slight waft of decay and fish emanated from the box, like it had been near or in a river. He withdrew his nose slightly wincing at the odour then peered around, local kids probably having a joke. He chucked it in the bin that was tucked in a little alcove by his front door and scarpered to his cab.
Over the next week more objects appeared on his doorstep. The deep green boughs and bright red berries of a sprigg of holly, next a tiny delicate skull - Jake was no expert but he thought it might be a water vole or mole. After that a piece of broken pottery with a colourful glaze still showing on one side, then three battered old pennies all in a line on his door mat - worn smooth so no telling how old they were.
He knew now these were deliberate offerings. Who was leaving them, and why, he didn’t know at that time.
The gifts tailed off after those first few days.
Jake’s puzzlement wore off, he was lulled back to the routine and constancy of life. Shifts at work, maybe a bite to eat on the way home. A week or so later he'd called at the little cafe in the cabman's shelter on the edge of Hanover Square. The wooden shelters were built at the turn of the 20th century, provided by the benevolence of the Earl of Shaftesbury - in reality he’d been annoyed he couldn’t find a cab one snowy evening as there was no respite from the weather for cab drivers and they had all slunk off home. It looked very much like a large, green garden shed but to Jake and the other night cab drivers it was a sanctuary. There was a tiny cafe inside, run by a shirt, ancient Hungarian lady called Rita who smoked furiously and, the rumours had it, kept a bottle of brandy stashed away under the counter she would occasionally add to her tea. She stood for no nonsense and more than once had physically thrown a cab driver out when an argument over a game of cards or a knocked over cuppa had gotten out of hand. She was feared and loved in equal measure. It had hardly changed since the early 1900s, except of course events of the last few decades had necessitated a few additions. The windows and door now had iron defences over them and there was a ghost lamp on the pavement outside, casting its protective glow over it. The food hadn't changed since forever though, greasy bacon sandwiches or limp ham and salad barmcakes, coffee and tea served in cheap polystyrene cups so hot you couldn't pick them up for a good ten minutes.
Jake was sitting inside after a long night shift, the sun just starting to rise and shine through the small window, light ricocheting across the cafe where it hit the ghost trinkets hung across it. His cuppa was resting on the table next to him, he was listening half-heartedly to the usual chatter amongst the night cab drivers, a mixture of football team woes, complaints about Bunchurch Agents - always the usual culprits for various stains, burns or damage to seats - and the latest on DEPRAC and their bureaucratic stance on paying owed fees.
There was a commotion at the door, it flung open, the frame filled by the enormous figure of Tiny Trevor - cabbies aren’t known for their complexity of nicknames. If you were larger framed invariably you would be known as a synonym of small, bonus points if it was alliterative with your name.
“‘Ere Jake, you wanna see your cab, mate,” Tiny Trevor called, his deep baritone voice making the other cabbies stop and listen in.
Jake was on his feet immediately. His cab was his livelihood, if it had been broken into and vandalised he'd lose jobs and money. He rushed outside, heart hammering, his cab was on the other side of the square. He could see a small crowd forming near it, he swore under his breath it must be something bad. Tiny Trevor was half-running to keep up with him, jabbering away as he went, “Young Pete saw it first, well smelt it…”
The crowd saw him coming and separated, he came to a halt at the edge of them trying to catch his breath. Jake sensed the eyes of the crowd tracking him as he walked through, he couldn’t miss the mutters and the whispers from them. He reached his cab and found two more eyes, but this time distinctly dead, all glassy and unseeing.
There, laid on a sheet of newspaper, dead centre of the car bonnet, was a large fish.
“What is it Jake?” Tiny Trevor was scratching his head.
“It’s a fish Tiny Trev,” replied Jake slightly stunned.
“What kind, Jake?”
“I’m not a bloody fishmonger Trevor, how should I know, it’s a fish…a dead fish.” Jake cautiously extended a finger and poked it, as if to double check it was actually dead. He started to scan the surrounding edges of the square.
Young Pete stepped forwards, he was probably approaching his 80s and had been in the cab driving game for longer than anyone, he had started before The Problem. Another example of an unoriginal nickname that drifted through the cab ranks.
“Ere, Jake, I read this thing once about fish being scooped up by them choppers or planes that collect water to fight fires and then they fall out and land miles from land,” Young Pete was rubbing his white stubbly chin, he missed Jake’s rolle of his eyes. “Or maybe an eagle dropped it?”
“An eagle Pete? Of course! They're two a penny in bloody central London, and conveniently he dropped it right on that newspaper eh mate?” Jake’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. He was still scanning the surroundings, who he was looking for he wasn’t quite sure. Just at the edge of his peripheral vision he caught a tall, dark figure right at the corner of the tall buildings that loomed over the square, a flash of a long coat as they disappeared. Their face obscured by a large hat.
Jake knew that coat.
He knew that hat.
It suddenly all made sense.
A few weeks later he was able to confirm his suspicions. He was returning from a job, ferrying some Tendy’s Agents back from the furnaces to their headquarters, tuning out their chatter about the job and the new Listener who had started and someone thought cute. He dropped them back at Tendy’s headquarters and had taken a little short cut when he spotted a familiar figure, plaid shirt, glasses and an overly large puffer jacket. For the only agency not to have an official uniform, Lockwood and Co were incredibly easy to spot. He wondered if they knew they had their own unmistakable colours, George with his oranges, Lucy with her blue. Jake smirked at the memory of Lockwood’s blue socks to match Lucy’s dress that time, the lovestruck fool. This wasn’t Lockwood though, here was George Karim wandering down the pavement, a bunch of books in a bag over his shoulder and what looked like a whole load of rolled up maps under his other arm.
Jake popped his indicator on and pulled over his cab.
“Fancy a lift home George? It’s on my way,” he yelled out of his little side window. George paused his walk and peered in the cab, a slight look of bewilderment on his face, although that was normal for him thought Jake. George pushed his glasses up on his nose and frowned slightly, Jake knew him well enough to interpret his movements and expressions.
“My gift to you George, no charge. You don’t need to worry I won’t land Lockwood with an unexpected bill.”
George grinned and jumped in the back. “You know he hates those, Jake, as does Holly. She said she was going to cut back on biscuit funds the other day.”
Jake drew in a sharp overexaggerated breath through his teeth. “Bloody hell we can’t have less biscuits, nah this one is on the house mate.”
Jake checked his mirror and pulled out back into the flow of the traffic. They travelled in silence for a minute or so.
“Lucy and Lockwood alright?” enquired Jake.
“He’s run out of priceless jewellery to offer her, but has actually started to talk to her and they went for a walk last week, came back all rosy cheeked. They’d clearly snogged.” George was grinning as he talked. “I think they’ve finally bloody got together.”
Jake beamed. “About time, remind me to collect my winnings from Kipps.”
George laughed amicably, “oh you were in on that one as well?”
Jake nodded glancing back at the young man in his rear view mirror. “That one and….the one about you and Flo…” He concentrated on the road, overtaking a van, then took a quick peek at his passenger. George had reddened slightly and was looking out of his window in a studious manner. Jake smiled to himself, he reckoned he was right on that one as well, that’d teach Kipps to make a bet with him.
Jake risked his chances further.
“Well tell Flo I appreciate her kindness. Me and the Missus have never eaten so much salmon before. Your girlfriend didn’t have to do that for me. I’m guessing you know?”
George spluttered slightly, covered it with a cough. “Yeah I know about them, it's her way of thanking you for you know…”
Jake signalled right and turned, they were nearing Portland Row, the familiar style Georgian houses of that area appearing on both sides. The rest of the journey was silent except for the hum of the engine and the final click of the indicator when they pulled up outside 35 Portland Row.
Jake turned in his seat. “I need no thanks George, I thank whatever Gods or deities that were there for me that day that I found you. That you are here, happy and well that’s enough for me. Tell Flo I don’t need any more presents…unless she’s got a couple of grand she wants to shift my way.”
George laughed brightly. “Wouldn’t be surprised, who knows what’s under all those layers of clothing and money doesn’t seem to hold much value for Flo.”
Jake gave George a warm smile, kept his thoughts of thinking George would find out what was really under Flo’s layers soon enough to himself. “ Well she hit the jackpot with you mate. Couldn’t be happier for you. Oh looks like we’ve a welcoming committee!”
The door to Portland Row had opened, Lockwood was heading down the stairs to the cab, Lucy on the top step was waving towards Jake. In the window he could see Holly and Kipps. He knew Flo wouldn’t be there, she'd be out on the river in her beloved Matilda.
Lockwood bounded towards the cab, opening the door, all energy seemingly returned from whatever had happened those few weeks ago at Fittes. Jake wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.
“Jake, good to see you mate! Didn’t know George was getting a cab back. Fancy a cuppa, Holly’s brought some far too healthy looking muffins but don’t worry I’ve got a secret stash of chocolate biscuits hidden away.”
Jake shook his head, not wanting to disturb this little team. He crossed the last word from his mind, they weren’t a team, they were a family.
“Kind of you guvnor, but I best be off.”
George started to collect his bags, passing the rolled maps to Lockwood who was waiting for him. “I’d like you to Jake, Flo might pop round later. I know she’d like to say hello and well thanks.”
Jake thought for a moment. “Well as long as it isn’t thanks by fish again, my cab did stink a bit. I guess I can collect my winnings from young Kipps as well why I’m here.”
Lockwood looked at him quizzically but didn’t ask more. He turned and followed the figure of his friend who was already joking with Lucy on the threshold of their home.
Jake locked his cab and turned towards the steps. He followed the sound of chatter and laughter towards his promised cup of tea.