We’d known the first magnesium flare would explode the moment it hit the glass, and we’d anticipated it would shatter the pane it struck. What we didn’t expect was that the blast would be strong enough to break all the panes in that huge warehouse window, and several in the windows on either side. So the effect was even better than we hoped: a wall of glassy shards toppling with the force and power of a melting ice shelf, cutting straight through a pluming cloud of salt, iron, and white magnesium flames.
Even before the shower of fragments burst to powder on the ground, two more flares were spinning through the smoke above, looping through the hole the first had blown.
And by the time they struck, Lockwood and I were already halfway down the steps, rapiers and flares in hand, hurtling towards the warehouse floor.
The noise of the original explosion and the crack of ruptured glass had deafened us, even through our woolly balaclavas. And we’d been expecting it. The effect it had had on those directly below, to whom it came as an utter shock, could be seen in the swarm of figures milling within the tumbling silver smoke.
The child psychics were out of their chairs and running, screaming, into the dark. The guards blundered left and right, protecting their heads against the rain of salt and glass. Two of Winkman’s clients had fallen forwards onto their knees as if the End of Days had come; the young blond man sat motionless in his seat as if paralysed with shock. Winkman’s son had leaped gibbering to his feet; Winkman himself stared left and right like a bewildered bull, fingers flexing, neck-cords straining beneath the skin.
He caught sight of us as we clattered down the steps and his black eyes opened wide.
Then George’s second and third flares struck the ground. Two more eruptions of billowing white fire. Winkman was blown sideways; he crashed into the table that held the bone glass and fell heavily to the floor. Behind him one of the lanterns toppled, smashed, went out. Hot iron particles shot high, looped down in a glimmering red cascade.
It was a scene of carnage and confusion. The man in pinstripes rolled onto his back, shouting, wisps of smoke rising from his suit. Winkman’s son had fallen heavily against his chair, breaking it in pieces. The bearded man gave a cry of terror. He stumbled to his feet and fled up the hall.
Still the young blond man sat immobile, staring straight ahead.
Lockwood and I were almost at the bottom of the steps. We’d calculated on our distraction giving us several seconds’ grace, and though George’s work had exceeded our wildest hopes, we knew it wouldn’t be enough. It was my job to maintain the distraction, while Lockwood snatched the mirror. I readied a fourth flare, lobbed it in the general direction of the flailing guards. Lockwood threw another, only his was directed firmly at the silver-glass case.
Two more explosions. One sent the guards scattering; the other shattered the case. Winkman, who’d been attempting to pull himself upright behind the table, disappeared in a blast of silvery fire.
Lockwood leaped over the protective chains and plunged into the smoke, trailing a scent of lavender; he had the hempen bag open in one hand.
When the silver-glass case had broken, the buzzing in my head had instantly grown louder. I looked into the fog and saw Lockwood’s silhouette bending over the table, and – above him – shadowy rising forms. Many hollow voices spoke together: ‘Give us back our bones.’
Then Lockwood opened the lavender bag, and with gloved hand swept the bone glass into it. The buzzing was stilled; the rising forms winked out. The voices were gone.
Lockwood turned, burst out of the smoke, came running back towards me.
Some yards away, the young man with the blond moustache got up. He reached for his polished cane, lying on the floor beside his chair. He twisted the handle sharply, tugged, drew forth a long and slender blade. He tossed the cane behind him, and started in our direction. I unclipped another flare, drew back my arm . . .
‘Stop! Or I fire!’
Winkman had risen up behind the table, his face blackened, his hair blown back, pince-nez askew. Burned salt encrusted his face, his mouth hung open, and his jacket was peppered with smouldering holes. He had a black snub-nosed revolver in his hand.
I froze with my arm still back. Lockwood halted, facing me, almost alongside.
‘You think you can run?’ Winkman said. ‘You think you can rob me? I will kill you both.’
Lockwood slowly raised his hands. He said something quietly at my side. His balaclava muffled it; I couldn’t hear a word.
‘First we will discover who you are,’ Winkman said, ‘and who sent you. We will do this at my leisure. Put down the canister, girl. You are surrounded now.’
Sure enough, the guards had re-emerged from the shadows; each also carried a gun. The young man, still immaculate in his soft brown coat, stood by, sword-stick glittering in the light.
Lockwood spoke again, urgently; once again I couldn’t hear it.
‘Put down the flare!’ Winkman cried.
‘What was that?’ I muttered. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Lockwood ripped up the bottom of his mask. ‘The other case! The one with the ghost! Do it!’
It was lucky I already had my arm in position; even so, it wasn’t an easy shot. The glowing case with the rusted sword was several yards away, and half blocked by Winkman’s head. Probably, if I’d thought about it, I’d have missed hitting it, five times out of six. But I didn’t have time to think. I swivelled slightly, lobbed the canister high; then I ducked down low. At my side, Lockwood was already ducking too, so Winkman’s bullets passed somewhere directly over us. Neither of us saw my canister hit the case, but the sound of breaking glass told us at once that my throw had been successful. That, and the screams of warning in the room.
I jerked my head up, saw a sudden alteration in the behaviour of our enemies. None of them were any longer focused on us. From the ruins of the broken cabinet, where the sword now lolled at a drunken angle, a faint blue shape had issued, steaming and fizzing in the last flecks of tumbling salt and iron. It was slightly larger than man-sized, and blurry, as if a strong, firm silhouette had been partially dissolved. In places, it was utterly translucent; in the centre of its torso it had no colour or definition at all. Around its edges, scraps of detail could be seen, little twists and bumps that suggested clothes, and smoother places resembling dead skin. And up near the top – two shining pinpoints of light glittering like frost? These were the eyes.
Cold air leaked from the Phantasm. It had no visible legs, but flowed forward towards the men as if on a rolling strip of cloud. The guards panicked; one fired a bullet straight through its body, the other turned and fled across the hall.
Winkman picked up a shard of silver-glass and sent it whizzing into the ghost. It cut through one outstretched arm with a fizz of plasm. I heard a spectral sigh of disapproval.
The young man held his sword-stick out, adopted an en garde posture. Slowly he moved towards the advancing shape.
Lockwood and I didn’t stop to see more. We were running for the stairs. I reached them first, went clattering up.
A scream of rage. Out of the smoke behind Lockwood’s shoulder the Winkman boy came charging, a shattered chair arm in his hand. Lockwood swiped backwards with his rapier. The boy howled, clutched at his wrist; his club fell to the floor.
Up the stairs, three at a time. Behind came shouts, curses and the soft sighing of the ghost. I looked back down as we raced along the walkway. The warehouse floor was almost invisible through the layers of silver smoke. A faint blue shape flexed and darted, seeking to get past the silvered flashing of the sword.
Somewhat nearer, a great barrel-chested figure was limping swiftly up the steps.
Through the glass doors; Lockwood slammed them shut. He shot two bolts into position and joined me, careering up the stairwell.
We’d climbed several flights when the hammering on the doors began.
‘We need those bolts to hold a little longer,’ Lockwood gasped. ‘We need to be a long way down that drainpipe before they see us, or we’ll be sitting ducks.’
A bang, followed by a vast and tinkling crash, sounded from below.
‘He’s shot his way through,’ I said. ‘On the upside, that’s one bullet less for us.’
‘How I love your optimism, Luce. What floor are we on now?’
‘Oh, no . . . I forgot to count the flights. We needed to go up six.’
‘Well, how many have we done?’
‘I think we need to go up a couple more . . . Yes, this is our floor, I think – it’s down along here.’
As we left the stairwell, Lockwood checked the doors, but there were no more bolts to draw. We pelted down the corridor.
‘Which office room was it?’
‘This one . . . No, that’s not right. They all look the same.’
‘It must be the one in the corner of the building. Here – look, there’s the window.’
‘But it’s not the right room. Lockwood – where are the notice boards?’
Lockwood had thrust open the window and was looking out into the night. His hair hung down as he craned his neck out. ‘We’ve come too far – we’re even higher than before. The pipe’s here, but there’s a nasty kink in it just beneath us, which I don’t think we can climb past.’
‘Can we go back down?’
‘We’ll have to.’
But when we ran back to the stairwell, we heard the thump of feet a flight or two below, and saw the first faint torch-beam on the wall.
‘Back again,’ Lockwood said. ‘And quickly.’
We returned to the little office. Lockwood motioned me to guard the door. I positioned myself flat against the wall, took my last canister of Greek Fire from my belt and waited.
Lockwood crossed to the window and leaned out. ‘George!’ he called. ‘George!’
He listened to the night. I listened to the passage; it was very quiet, but it seemed to me that it was an attentive silence.
‘George!’ Lockwood called again.
Far below us, in the dark of the river, the hoped-for voice. ‘Here!’
Lockwood held the hempen sack up high. ‘Package coming down! Are you ready?’
‘Yes!’
‘Take it and then go!’
‘What about you?’
‘No time. We’ll join you later. Plan H! It’s Plan H now, don’t forget!’
Lockwood threw the bag out into the night. He didn’t wait for George’s answering shout, but jumped back into the room and called to me.
‘We’re climbing up, Luce. That’s the only option. We get to the roof and then see.’
Stealthy, cautious footsteps sounded in the passage. I peered round the door. Winkman and two other men – one of the guards, and another I didn’t recognize – were advancing along the corridor. As I moved my head back, something whined past and bit into the far wall. I tossed the flare round the corner and ran across to Lockwood. Behind me the floor shook; there was a silvery explosion and assorted cries of woe.
‘Put your feet on the sill,’ Lockwood said, ‘reach out and swing yourself up. Quick now.’
It was another of those occasions when if you think too hard, you’re lost. So I didn’t look at the gulf below or at the glinting river, or at the great expanse of moonlit sky that threatened to tilt and tumble before my dizzy eyes. I just stood on the sill, pulled myself out and threw myself against the pipe, clutching it, dropping only a little way before my feet found purchase, and I was clinging safely to it. At once I began to climb.
In two ways this second ascent of the drainpipe was easier than the first. I was climbing for my life, so I didn’t care so much about the wind, the flaking paint, or even the drop below me. Also it was shorter – I only had the equivalent of one floor to climb before I reached a rusty ledge of black guttering, and found myself clambering over it onto a flat expanse of leaded roof. In all, the whole thing probably took me just over a minute. I’d paused a single time, when I thought I heard a shrill shout of anger (or perhaps pain) somewhere below. But I could not bear to look down; I could only pray that Lockwood was close behind. And sure enough, almost immediately I heard a scratching noise below the gutter, and saw him haul himself up beside me.
‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘I thought I heard . . .’
Lockwood pulled off his balaclava and smoothed his hair back. He had a small cut on the side of one cheek, and was breathing heavily. ‘Yes. I don’t know who he was, but I expect he deserved it. Unfortunately, when he fell out of the window, I lost my nice new Italian rapier.’
We knelt side by side on the roof for a time, until our breathing slowed.
‘The only good thing about being up here,’ Lockwood said finally, ‘is that I can’t see Winkman clambering up after us. Aside from that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, let’s see what our options are.’
Our options, in short, were limited. We were on a long stretch of flat roof above the swollen Thames. To one side rose a sheer brick wall – belonging to a rooftop structure that had probably once enclosed the warehouse’s power units. It ran across the width of the roof, and we could not easily scale it. On the other side of us was the river. Far below us, moonlight glinted on water lapping at the joists and girders. It seemed a long way down.
I looked, but I couldn’t see Flo or George, or their little rowing boat, at all.
‘Good,’ Lockwood said. ‘That means they’ve hightailed it. Or sunk to the bottom, of course. Either way, the bone glass is out of Winkman’s hands.’
I nodded. ‘Nice view up here. The city looks quite pretty when you can’t see all the ghosts.’ I glanced at him. ‘So . . .’
He grinned at me. ‘So . . .’
There was a scrabbling at the far end of the roof. Lockwood jammed his mask back over his face. Hands appeared on the parapet; a figure pulled itself swiftly up and into view. It was the blond-haired young man. His brown coat was missing, and his black dinner jacket was lightly flecked with ectoplasm stains. Other than that, he seemed in fair condition. Like us, he had clambered up the pipe from the window below.
He got lithely to his feet and dusted himself off. Then he unclipped his sword-stick from his belt. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You’ve performed extremely well. That was an excellent chase – I haven’t had so much fun in ages. You know, I think your last spot of Greek Fire almost knocked Winkman right through the wall – which, believe you me, is no bad thing. But this looks like the end of the line. May I have my seeing-glass now?’
‘It’s not yours,’ Lockwood said firmly.
The young man frowned. ‘Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.’
I gave Lockwood a tactful nudge. ‘Your balaclava.’
‘Oh yes.’ Lockwood pulled up the bottom of the wool. ‘Sorry. I was saying that, strictly speaking, it isn’t your glass. You haven’t yet paid, or even bid for it.’
The young man chuckled. He had very blue eyes and a pleasantly open countenance. ‘I appreciate the point, but Julius Winkman is raving and roaring down below. I believe he would tear you apart with his bare hands if he could. I am not nearly so crude; in fact, I see an opportunity that would be to both our advantages. Give me the glass now, and I promise to let you both go. I’ll say you escaped with it. Then both of us win. You live, and I keep the glass, without having to pay that revolting troll Winkman.’
‘It’s a good offer,’ Lockwood said. ‘And very amusing. I almost wish we could agree. Sadly, I don’t have the glass.’
‘Why not? Where is it?’
‘I threw it in the Thames.’
‘Oh,’ the young man said. ‘Then I really will have to kill you.’
‘You could let us go anyway, in a spirit of good sportsmanship,’ Lockwood suggested.
The young man laughed. ‘Sportsmanship only goes so far. That spirit-glass is something special, and I had my heart set on it. Anyway, I don’t believe you have thrown the thing away. Maybe I’ll kill you and get the girl to tell me where it is.’
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I still have my rapier.’
‘However we do it,’ the young man said, ‘let’s get this done.’
He walked swiftly towards us along the roof. We looked at one another.
‘One of us could fight him,’ Lockwood said, ‘but then we’d still be in the same position.’ He looked over at the river. ‘Whereas . . .’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But Lockwood, I really can’t.’
‘It’ll be all right. Flo’s flaky, but we can trust her about some things. Water depth is one of them.’
‘We make such a habit of doing this,’ I said.
‘I know. But it’s the last time.’
‘Promise?’
But we were already running across the bumpy lead, building up as much speed as we could. Then we jumped out together, hand in hand.
Somewhere during the next six seconds I let go of Lockwood. Somewhere amid the screaming, rushing plunge, I let the rapier spin away. At the moment of jumping I had my eyes tight closed, so I didn’t see the stars take flight, or the city leap to meet us, as Lockwood afterwards said he had. Only later, much later, maybe four or five seconds in, when I couldn’t believe I wasn’t already dead, and opened my eyes just to prove it, did I see the brightly sparkling waters of the Thames spread out in silent greeting beneath my rushing boots. I was in the process of remembering the rules about hitting the surface like an arrow so you didn’t break all your bones when, with a whip-crack and a roaring, I was ten foot under in a cone of bubbles, and still going down.
At some point I hit equilibrium: I slowed, slowed . . . and hung suspended in the blackness, without thought, without emotion, without much attachment to life or living things. Then the current tore me up and sideways, and in a flurry of panic I recalled my life and name. I struggled, thrashed, and swallowed half the river – at which point it vomited me out.
I was whirling on an oily swell somewhere in the middle of the Thames. I lay back, coughing, gasping. Lockwood was at my side; he grasped my hand. Staring up towards the moon, I had a final glimpse of a slim figure standing silhouetted on a far-off rooftop, before the black waters swept us both away.
