Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow by Jonathan Stroud Read Free Book Online

I could head off, but it was nice to rest for a moment. “Some drivel about death. Your usual threats.”
    The skull gave a hoot of derision.
“See what I’m working with? Useless! The brain of a flea! No, ‘Death’s in Life,’ I said, ‘and Life’s in Death.’ And I’ve been waiting for a half-decent response from you ever since. Good thing I didn’t hold my breath.”
It paused to consider a moment.
“Not that I have any.”
    “I didn’t respond,” I murmured, “because it made no sense then, and it makes even less sense now.” I folded my arms, stretched back in the chair…
    “Lucy?”
    With a sudden start, I realized someone was at my side. I sat up, blinking. Harold Mailer stood there, slightly too close to me. His jumpsuit was peppered with black dust; a faint smell of burning hung about him. He grinned down, rubbing the bumpy knuckles of his hands.
    “Bit sleepy? That’s okay. It’s all finished. Time to get home.”
    “Sure. I was just resting.” But I hadn’t heard him come over—maybe I
had
nodded off, just for a moment. I got to my feet, all aches and awkwardness, moving slightly away. When I reached out for the backpack, I realized that its top was half open. Most of the jar was hidden; just one corner was showing. The ghost had gone quiet, but a faint greenish glow still emanated from within. I pulled the drawstrings tight, flipped shut the top. When I glanced at Harold Mailer, he was smiling hard at me.
    “Interesting gear you carry around with you,” he said. “Looks bulky.”
    I shrugged. “It is. Some kind of new lamp I was trying out. New Rotwell one. Wasn’t very good. Too bulky, as you say….So, everything’s done, then?”
    “Everything’s done. If you’re ready, I’ll escort you to the gate.”
    It was eight thirty when I finally got back to the little apartment where (whatever the skull might claim to the contrary) I most definitely lived alone. It was a studio on the third floor of a high-rise in Tooting, south London, not far from the Balham ironworks. My room was square, and not very large. There was space for a single rumpled bed beneath the window, a sink next to it, and, beyond that, a dresser for my clothes. On the opposite side of the room the carpet stopped abruptly and a yellowed strip of linoleum marked out a “kitchen” area—a battered stove, a fridge, a pull-down table, and a little wooden chair, all squeezed into a corner. And that was about it. For showers and stuff, I used a communal bathroom on the other side of the landing.
    The place wasn’t perfect. It hadn’t been painted in a long while, and there was a permanent smell of baked beans in the kitchen area, no matter what I cooked. The edge of the linoleum was curling up, and I was always tripping over it. The mattress on my bed had seen better days. But the room was warm and safe and dry, and most of my agency stuff (including the skull’s jar) could be stacked neatly between the door and the bed. To be honest, when I was home, I spent most of my time sleeping, so I didn’t care about the décor. I’d been there four months, all told. It was okay.
    That morning, as I usually did when I got back from a job, I made brief notes in my personal casebook, drafted my invoice for Rotwell’s, then went across the landing for a shower. After that I went out and got myself some take-out food. I should have cooked something, but I didn’t have the energy. I sat on the bed in my pajamas, dunking fries in ketchup, eating a burger, listening to the traffic pass on Tooting High Street.
    A voice spoke from the ghost-jar.
“So, here we are again. Just you and me. Two jolly roommates. What shall we talk about?”
    I dipped my burger into the ketchup. “Nothing. I’m going to sleep in a minute.”
    There was a moment’s pause.
“Mmm, maybe that’s for the best,”
the voice said.
“Look at you. Damp-haired, puffy face, eating fast food alone in bed…If I had tear ducts, I’d weep for you. You