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He dips his fingers into the font and crosses himself. It’s been awhile since he’s been here, longer than he’d like. Usually, he just goes to the church around the corner from his flat, but there’s something about the high gothic arches and the scent of incense that wafts through the air of St. James. It’s the only place he doesn’t mind feeling small.
There are a few people here for confession, scattered throughout the pews, and the light is on in the booth; it’s occupied. But Quill has time.
He walks down the aisle and genuflects before taking a seat in a pew off to the side. Kneeling, he drops his head into his hands and rakes his fingers across his scalp. An hour ago, he filed the transfer forms for Bobby Vernon and Kat Godwin. Kat had kept a stiff upper lip and given him a short nod, but Bobby’s eyes had watered.
“So, you’re just giving up on us?”
“I’m doing this for you. Your Talents are wasted as long as I’m your team leader. Look at the cases we’re being assigned. You know it, I know it. You’re better off, I promise.”
Even though they had all been at Aickmere’s, had all played their part in stopping the Outbreak, everything was going to shit—literally, the last job they’d been assigned had been in the sewers. But whereas Lockwood & Co. was soaring to great heights in the aftermath, Quill was watching his star fade. He refused to take his team down with him.
Bobby looked down at his shoes. “It’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?” Kat asked.
“Don’t worry about me.”
And that was that.
Quill digs his nails into his palms. He needs to wash his hands clean, lay his burden down, and try to ease some of the gnawing guilt that’s sitting in the pit of his stomach.
He sighs. It would be so much easier if he’d actually done something wrong.
But that’s the rub, isn’t it? Every single step of the way, he’s done the right thing. He’s followed all the rules, he’s waited his turn—everything he had ever wanted was right there in his grasp. And then he followed Lockwood & Co. into Aickmere’s and it all slipped away as if he’d been holding water in his hands.
He’s ruminating, he knows, wearing the grooves thin on the record he’s playing over and over. But Bobby is right, it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that everything they had crumbled to dust while Lockwood & Co. basks in all the glory. And that’s even without their all-star Listener, from what he’s gathered from the rumour mill, and he’s heard she’s doing just fine on her own too.
Yet every time he goes back and retraces his steps, could he really have done anything differently? Could he have not led his team into Aickmere’s, especially after Ned? Oh, God, Ned.
He can feel guilty for that one. He deserves to feel guilty for that one.
But other than that? No, it shouldn’t feel this awful. Aickmere’s was the right thing to do. Letting his team move on was the right thing to do. He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes.
When he opens them, he registers a figure in an all-too familiar coat kneeling in the front row. He curses under his breath and quickly makes the sign of the cross again. Sure, St. James is in his neighbourhood, but he hasn’t pegged Lockwood as the church-going type. In all his years of coming here, Quill has never seen him before. He wonders if it’s God’s way of laughing at him. Thou shalt not covet and all that.
The light on the booth clicks off as the door opens, and before Quill can move, Lockwood stands abruptly and makes his way to the confessional. When he closes the door, it echoes.
Quill could leave. That’s an option. But it’s already been a long winter, and they’re barely halfway through. He doesn’t know when he’ll make it here again.
He takes one of the flimsy pamphlets stacked at the end of the pew, outlining an examination of conscience. It’s not like he needs it. They’re a bit outdated anyway, all things considered. They read as if they haven’t been updated since the Problem started. He wonders what happens to the souls whose Sources he burns. Is he damning them to hell or is it just nothing, in the end?
Maybe he’ll ask the priest what he thinks. His mind follows this train of thought down a rabbit hole to the technicalities of cremation. Most people are cremated these days—safer that way, one less Source for your ghost to attach itself to.
Not all, of course. Quill’s thoughts drift to a cemetery not too far from here. It’s been years since he’s been there. He’s tempted to go now, but wonders if Lockwood goes there often. He won’t risk it. With any luck, he won’t notice him here either.
Fiddling with the pamphlet, Quill wonders what Lockwood is doing here anyway. The Lockwood he knows is an arrogant prick who doesn’t rely on anyone or anything, let alone God. He makes quite the show of it anyway, of shrugging off supervision and flaunting the rules meant to protect him. It’s his recklessness that’s always driven Quill mad. He wonders what Jessy would think.
Then again, maybe she’d be proud. He’s doing well, Quill can’t deny that. One could even say that Lockwood’s thriving, even when everything is so dark and terrible, even when everything just seems to be getting worse. But he’s been in that confessional for an awfully long time.
Quill’s never known Lockwood to make an apology, and he can’t help his curiosity. It’s not like he can’t guess. During the Outbreak, he noticed that Carlyle and Lockwood kept sniping at each other, right up until the point that she slipped through Lockwood’s hands and fell down into the basement. It was the only time that Quill had ever seen Lockwood frightened. And then she’d left. So, something must have happened.
He looks at the light on the confessional booth. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but he really needs to get going. Five more minutes, he tells himself. He starts a decade of Hail Marys to track the time.
In the middle of the seventh, the door finally opens and Lockwood slumps into a nearby pew. His head is bowed and his hands are clasped. Quill can’t quite see, but it looks like his shoulders are shaking. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that Lockwood was crying.
There’s another figure slowly making their way towards the confessional, but he’s closer. Silently, Quill slips into the booth and exhales a sigh of relief.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two months since my last confession.”
***
When he’s done, he nearly runs into Lockwood as he opens the door.
“Bloody hell—”
“You’re in the house of God, Tony,” Quill replies, keeping his voice low. He knows he’s being smug, but he feels considerably lighter than he did five minutes prior.
Lockwood runs a hand over his face. “What are you doing here, Kipps?” he asks sullenly.
Quill shrugs. “Same as you, I suppose.” Then he clocks that Lockwood’s eyes are rimmed red and that the dark circles underneath are even darker than usual. He hasn’t seen him in a couple weeks, but Lockwood looks thinner, not at all the brazen agency head grinning on the front page of the paper. Quill feels a twinge of guilt and wonders if he should roll back into the booth. Instead he stands up straighter and looks Lockwood in the eye.
“Come here often?” Quill needs to know if he needs to stay clear of here altogether. It’d been a shame, Quill thinks.
“Not really, no.”
They hold each other’s gaze too long, even as an old woman passes between them into the confessional. To Quill’s surprise, it’s Lockwood who looks away first. There’s a fresh scar on his neck that he hadn’t noticed before, and any lingering resentment melts away into concern.
“You alright?” Quill asks softly.
Lockwood shakes his head like he’s coming out of a trance. He looks back at Quill. “Yeah. Long winter.”
Maybe it’s as simple as that: an act of contrition in the face of death. Sure, in their line of work, death is possible most nights. But even after the Outbreak was contained, the statistics have been abnormally high. It’s the worst season he’s ever seen. It’s understandable.
“You guys seem to be doing well though,” Quill replies.
A hint of a smile passes Lockwood’s face, but it’s a sad one. “We are.”
Quill wants to ask about Carlyle, but doesn’t.
“And you?” Lockwood asks civilly. “Bobby Vernon heal up okay?”
“He was in hospital for a bit, but he’s back in the field now.”
“Hmm, that’s good.”
The church is quiet but the silence between them is awkward all the same. Quill’s gaze wanders toward the stained glass windows.
“I should let you—” they both start at the same time. They nod in agreement.
Quill moves towards the pews. Before he kneels, he turns back to Lockwood. “Be careful this winter, Lockwood.”
Suddenly, the mask comes back, and Lockwood scoffs. “Well, that’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it? Careful doesn’t make the headlines, Kipps.”
This boy is exhausting. “There are things more important than headlines, Tony.”
Lockwood shakes his head and chuckles ruefully. “I’ll see you on the other side of this winter, Kipps.”
He wants to reach out to him, grip his shoulder and tell him that Jessy would want him to be careful. But he doesn’t. He just sighs and says, “See you in the spring.”
Lockwood turns to go, and Quill kneels down to make his penance.