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I stood outside Lockwood’s door, too sick with shame to knock, too much guilt weighing down my stomach to retreat.
A few hours earlier, I’d sat in the kitchen while Holly bandaged Lockwood’s head, watching my shoes scuff against the linoleum as I swung them back and forth. Occasionally Lockwood would hiss in a breath or Holly would make a tutting sound, and my eyes would dart over to them, but neither one paid me any mind whatsoever.
George clomped in and unceremoniously dumped the silver wrapped Source on the table. He looked at me, not looking at Lockwood, and at Lockwood not looking at me, then at the empty kettle on the counter. At the absence of tea, he’d waved a grumbly good night and went up to bed, as I should have done.
Instead, I waited. It took Holly all of ten minutes to finish her bandaging, then she insisted on accompanying Lockwood up the stairs to his bedroom, “in case of a dizzy spell.”
I sat in the kitchen by myself, my legs pumping in time with the clock on the wall. A surprisingly short time later, Holly was back.
“Lucy, you ought to go to bed, as well. It’s late and we could all use some sleep after the night we’ve had.”
I tried not prickle at her officiousness. I tried to see that she was just trying to be helpful, and not condescending. After all, she’d just saved my life.
“Shouldn’t someone stay up?” I asked. “With Lockwood, I mean. In case he has a concussion or–”
“And what would you do if he did?” she asked with a patronising little smile. I shrugged.
“Better to let him sleep,” she said with a firm nod. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in the morning to check on him, make sure he’s still breathing.”
My legs stilled, but I didn’t say anything. The rebuke was there, clear as day. Lockwood had almost died, and it had been my fault.
I tried to sleep, honestly I did. I changed into pyjamas without even turning on the lights and crawled under the covers. I watched the flash of the ghost lamp across my ceiling. Green. Black. Green. Black.
Time turned to toffee, sticking and stretching unpredictably. I’d glance at the clock and a minute had passed. Then twenty. Then two.
Was Lockwood alright down there, asleep in his bed? What if he really had stopped breathing? Shouldn’t someone be sitting nearby, just in case?
My stomach gurgled and I blamed it on the fact that we hadn’t had our usual post case cocoa. Maybe I should go downstairs. I could have a snack, get a glass of water, check on Lockwood…
I hopped out of bed, pulling on a jumper and a pair of thick, woollen socks. I went quietly down the stairs, skipping the creaky step near George’s room. I planned to just poke my head into Lockwood’s room, make sure he was okay, then go get a snack. Simple.
But as I stepped up to Lockwood’s door, I made a critical mistake: I hesitated.
What if he wakes up? Would he yell at me? What if he fires me? Where would I go? What if he’s in a coma? What if he never wakes up?
My stomach was gurgling even louder now and I worried it might give me away. Better to just get it over with quickly, then I could hop downstairs and eat a biscuit or five until the gurgling stopped.
I pulled myself together, head up, shoulders back, deep breath. Then I opened the door.
Lockwood’s room was dark – the November sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. I waited, taking deep, calming breaths.
The ghost lamp flicked on, a ghoulish glow leaching through the curtains. I could barely make out Lockwood’s form, a lump in the middle of the bed. From the doorway, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
This time I didn’t hesitate. I crept cautiously into the room, the ghost lamp lighting my way. I was halfway across the floor when the light snuffed out, plunging me into darkness. I stopped, waiting for my next chance, chewing my lip and hoping my stomach wouldn’t rumble and wake the whole house.
“Lucy.”
At the sound of Lockwood’s voice, I’m pretty sure I jumped clear out of my skin.
The good news was that I was too stunned to even scream, because a moment later he spoke again, and it was clear that he was still asleep.
“Lucy, no… have to… hang on, Lucy… Lucy!”
Any time before that night, I would have felt all kinds of lovely, gooey emotions at hearing proof that Lockwood was dreaming about me. Tonight, it just made me feel worse. I was certain that he was dreaming about the staircase and his mad dash to reach me at the top.
He kept muttering and twitching as I stood there, listening. As though by letting the anger and the fear in his voice peirce me with every word, I could atone for my actions. Perhaps, if I’d been tougher, I could have taken it. Maybe if I’d been stronger, I would have carried my guilt all the way down to the kitchen and left Lockwood’s room utterly undisturbed. But I was neither tough nor strong in that moment.
Ignoring the wet streaks on my cheeks, I walked cautiously across the floor to the side of his bed, finding my way in the dark. I reached out my hand, leaning over Lockwood’s bed until I connected with his chest. I felt his heart, beating frantically against my palm, the smooth fabric of his pyjamas warm to the touch.
His breath caught for a moment, then settled, evening out, his plaintive words subsiding.
I crawled onto the bed slowly, trying not to wake him – Holly had said he needed sleep. I curled up beside him, my hand never leaving his chest.
I lay there in the dark, feeling the rise and fall of every breath, until the sun came up and banished me from his side once more.