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After Lucy Carlyle walked out of Lockwood and Co, Anthony Lockwood had avoided the morning papers and gossip rags for two weeks. A stack of said publications sat face-down on the doorway table of 35 Portland Row, freshly delivered and completely untouched apart from Holly’s occasional dusting. George would pick the latest ones up from time to time to give the pages a quick glance and an occasional scoff. It was a sign that Lucy had made the papers again, presumably for assisting another agency with a big case. Every time George carried out this little routine, Lockwood watched him intently from afar, keen on catching any change in his tempered expression. With every new magazine or paper returned to the stack without so much as a frown, Lockwood heaved a sigh of relief. That was how he knew Lucy was doing alright — never engaging, never allowing himself to get too close to the pile, afraid that brushing a finger across her ink-printed name would leave a shameful mark.
So one could say, with quite a certain degree of confidence, that Anthony Lockwood never actively sought Lucy Carlyle out following their less-than-amicable separation. At least, not while the wound was still fresh.
But two months had passed, and the stack had disappeared from the doorway, rehoused in a corner of the library. Each publication bore marks of perusal, magazine spines near-cracked and newspaper pages messily dog-eared. There was a silent agreement amongst the other employees of the agency not to mention or touch the heap, much less ask its culprit for his motive. It wasn’t like he was looking for her, moreso doing research on her cases, trying to find a pattern amidst the ones she took up, sifting through every new client to see if he could gather a problem good enough for the Lucy Carlyle. He had no intention of sabotaging his own plan, especially not by being too impulsive, even if every bone in his body jumped at the idea of visiting that address in the papers. In fact, Lockwood thought he kept his distance quite well, maintaining an appropriate degree of gentlemanly professionalism.
It was pure serendipity, then, that he had ended up in Croydon with Lucy barely three feet in front of him. He’d split cases with George that night, what with them being severely understaffed. A Shade in a Bungalow brought him down South — normally, Holly would strike Type One cases down immediately, but the property’s new owners were desperate enough to rid their new home of Visitors that they’d proposed a rate much higher than usual. Apparently another agency had been enlisted to clear out the house, but missed out on the yard, leaving the very frazzled middle-aged couple to contend with an old man’s apparition out their back door amidst their move-in.
The source was simple enough to find — a gold-rimmed monocle in a wooden box, buried near the garden fence. Lockwood could only guess that the previous homeowner, whom he understood from the couple to be a widowed elderly woman, had left it behind. A gentle ache bloomed in his chest at the thought of her knowingly keeping a source just outside the house’s defences; just enough to revel in the simple comfort of presence, as the woman was well beyond the age to See. He chewed at the inside of his bottom lip before the dull swell could reach his throat.
The Visitor had been hesitant to even appear, and when he did finally materialise, brought with him such an overwhelming wave of yearning that an unrelenting heat rose towards Lockwood’s eyes and his guts tied knots around themselves, ones that threatened to make him regurgitate what little he’d had of dinner. The old man hardly registered Lockwood’s presence, seemingly confined to the far side of the yard of his own accord, longingly gazing into the sitting room, towards a set of weathered armchairs. It was strange to see a hollow being with such a soulful stare. Lockwood followed his eyeline to see that one of the wingbacks, a plush dark blue one with floral embroidery, had been turned to face the very window he was looking through. The new owners hadn’t gotten to the sitting room yet, then, hadn’t moved things out of place.
The old man was simply clinging onto everything as it was.
Again an unbidden itch clawed at Lockwood’s throat, and he swallowed quickly. His mind flitted to Lucy, wondering if she would have tried to communicate with the Visitor. If he’d have anything to say at all, beyond that melancholic gaze and solemn demeanour, his frame narrowed with age. There was no violence, no abrupt movement, no clawing or surging or jaw unhinging in the way it always did when Visitors wailed and Lucy would clamp her hands over her ears. The old man, like most Shades tended to be, was cocooned in his own shroud. He only acknowledged Lockwood as he was reaching for a silver net, but even then his features were muddied.
The shadowy haze shifted as the man’s features smoothened out into full cheeks and taut skin, thinned hair now a dense cluster slicked neatly back. An immaculate shirt stood in place of the threadbare cardigan and flannel he had worn a moment ago. In his clutch was a bouquet of flowers, pale and incorporeal as the hands holding them, but shining nonetheless. He glimmered with the blitheness of a youth long gone and shot Lockwood a toothy smile, far detached from his previously forlorn appearance. As soon as the silver net fell upon his source, the man disappeared.
His image kept Lockwood occupied as he packed up, first rays of dawn casting the yard in streaks of yellow. If Lockwood was the last person to remember the old man, it was only fitting that his memory was of the Visitor’s sprightliest form.
With a sudden beam of sunlight in his eye, Lockwood was too aware of how empty his stomach felt, and reached into his coat pocket for a snack. He came away with nothing but a scrap of tinfoil.
He’d ended up in a corner shop, fully intent on hastily acquiring a bar of chocolate and making his way home on an off-peak train. That plan dissolved itself when he glanced up from the (meagre) selection of sugary treats he had been inspecting, having caught a familiar silhouette out the corner of his eye. If her trademark blue-and-black ensemble didn’t make her immediately recognizable, then her purposeful gait as she slid in through the entrance certainly gave her away. He had teased her about it once, when things were worth laughing about – how she always seemed to walk with caution, one hand on her belt, ready to attack. Can’t be too safe , she’d said.
I’d protect you , he’d almost let slip.
He wondered if there was a world in which he never held his tongue around her, told her everything.
Lockwood’s immediate instinct was to duck, just in case she’d see him gaping at her over the shelves and run away. He didn’t want that. Who was he, anyway, to deprive her of the only shop open at the crack of dawn?
The glimpse of her at the door appeared, imposed on the wrappers of the Snickers bars he was now eye-to-eye with, like an afterimage had been burned into his retinas. She had probably also just wrapped up a case, no doubt successfully – her hair was tied back the way it always was when she had to drop a source off at DEPRAC ( It gets too warm in there ). He recalled when she could barely gather a ponytail that stayed in place, and all the cursing that came with that fuss. Now, she maintained a compact bun, just like in every press photo from the last few weeks.
Not that he was looking too close.
What the hell was he supposed to do? The thought of reaching out to her had plagued his mind almost daily since she ducked out of Portland Row that dreadful morning. All this time spent thinking and frankly, scheming, about what case would be so worthy for her Talent that she would agree to exist in the same space as him. And George and Holly. It wasn’t just about him, of course. But it was never the time. There was never anything good enough and the weeks passed one after another and her cases got bigger and bigger and the space between them suddenly grew too big to be amicable and now the universe was playing this vile prank on him and -
“Excuse me. If I could just grab that…oh.”
Old Shade in the silver net, just come and take me.
Lockwood shifted over, still squatting, head down and now particularly entranced by his shoes. Maybe if he just didn’t look up, she’d disappear like a figment of his imagination, and he would carry on unsurprised that his brain had started conjuring her.
She cleared her throat, grabbing one of the Snickers bars and taking his precious afterimage with her.
Part of him wondered if she’d say something. Hi , maybe, like a normal human being. I’m surprised you’re not dead yet , with her usual snark and a deserved amount of bite. I’m better than you and your company and I’m never coming back , oh dear God. She was right.
“Did you know they’re coming out with a new flavour of those?”
What?
“Huh?” he said to his shoes.
What, huh, are you dense?
“Yeah. Blue raspberry or something. One of those limited-edition flavours.”
Lockwood looked up at the shelf he was perched in front of, thighs burning from the odd position he’d resigned himself to. Staring at him was a smiling gummy bear, the mascot of some sour candy brand. It was hardly the time to be that jubilant. He narrowed his eyes, as if the bear would get the message.
“I mean, I’m not a huge fan, but you seem to be.” Lucy continued, her tone casual, carrying something …playful . She didn’t seem like she was going to be bolting away from Lockwood and the heinous gummy bear any time soon. He supposed that was a positive, though he couldn’t wrap his head around why she seemed so calm.
Especially since he was physically unable to turn and talk to her. His neck might snap, and his head might combust.
“Yeah, well…the, uh… bear on the front convinced me to give them a go.”
You fight ghosts in your sleep. Come on, man.
“Always good to try new things, isn’t it?”
This time she chuckled, and Lockwood turned to look at her instinctively, like he did every time she laughed. He could never help himself, no matter how peculiar the circumstance.
Her lips remained upturned as he plucked up the courage (and leg strength) to stand without immediately toppling over. They faced each other now, properly, and he felt the walls come down ever so slightly, even if the space between them was tentative and suffocating. She was as bright as he remembered, and he was suddenly aware of how very weary he probably looked in comparison. For an instant he searched her eyes for any sign of recognition or, more likely, disdain. He found nothing. Could he no longer understand her?
“I guess so,” he started, trying to sound as relaxed as she did, grabbing that Snickers bar he came here for in the first place, “but at the end of the day, I find that a familiar pick does the best job.”
Please come back.
Lockwood was sure that Lucy’s chocolate bar was beginning to melt with how long she’d been standing there, just holding it. Talking to him. Tolerating him. Pretending they were strangers, because that was better than dealing with the ugly innards of their real issue. And what was their real issue? She’d wanted to keep the company safe and he’d thrown a fit, said all those things and left her alone at a café. He had been selfish, because of course he was, because this was Lucy Carlyle , and he could hardly begin to comprehend life without her. Really, he should have been on the floor begging for forgiveness instead of staring at creepy candy mascots.
Perhaps he would rather this charade, her setting the pace, granting him the grace to follow along. Penance for his mistakes. A limbo outside of his hunt for a worthy case, outside managing the agency, outside the snide remarks she’d left on the thinking cloth that he read and re-read countless times.
“What brings you here this morning? You an agent?” she gestured to his equipment belt, grin still on the edge of her lips as if she didn’t know almost every detail of his life, down to the way he arranged his bearings.
“I am indeed. I take it you are too?” he glanced pointedly at her rapier hilt.
She nodded, moving towards the till, where a storekeeper sat counting pennies. Lockwood gravitated towards her, as he tended to.
“So…you come here often?” Lucy piped up, sliding her payment across the counter.
Lockwood almost spat.
Later, they stood at the store exit, both swaying hesitantly. Leaving meant popping the bubble, unmasking the illusion. Going back to being suspended in-between. There was no telling when – if – Lockwood would see her again. The urge to spill every thought he’d had in the time they spent apart was overwhelming, and he could feel the words rising in his throat. She clearly had no intention to address anything now – she never said his name, made sure to keep things so light that he almost believed he’d never wronged her. It would be disrespectful of him to push her now. Before Lockwood could ruin their solace by running his mouth, Lucy spoke.
“Never hesitate at the boundary, right?”
A wavering smile followed, and Lockwood knew he was not dreaming. She knew all the implications of this too – how the moment she stepped out, the tension would dissipate and she would once again be star freelance agent, Lucy Carlyle. They would turn their backs on each other and go their separate ways, never to mention the corner store down in Croydon again.
Maybe the memory was all they could have for now.
“They taught you well.”
Lockwood mustered up his brightest grin, stepped out, and did not turn back.