“I know why you’ve come along,” George said suddenly. “Don’t think I don’t.”
I’d been having dark thoughts about waffles, and the unexpected statement made my stomach lurch. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“Well, I’m guessing it’s not the thrill of my company that brings you here.” He glanced at me. “Is it?”
“I love being with you, George. I can scarcely keep away.”
“Exactly. No, you’ve made it pretty obvious,” he said, “what’s on your mind. You need to be careful, though. Lockwood isn’t pleased.”
We stepped in unison over one of the runnels of flowing water that protected the clothes stores on Regent Street. It was one of the safest areas of the city, and the streets were busier now. “Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I don’t think he’s got any right to object. It’s his fault. I didn’t ask for this.”
“Well, nor did Lockwood.”
“Of course he did. He hired her, didn’t he?”
George gazed at me, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “I’m talking about your fascination with this ghost, this Little Tom. What were you talking about?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. The same. That’s why I’m here with you. I want to know the story.”
“Right…” We walked another few yards in silence. Up ahead was the Rotwell Building, a shimmering hulk of plastic and glass. Above the entrance, on a pole, the agency’s red lion symbol stood rampant. “So how’re you finding Holly?” George asked.
“I’m…adjusting,” I said. “Slowly. You’re obviously over the moon.”
“Well, she’s making us more efficient, which has to be good. Not that I’m sure about everything she does. I caught her trying to get rid of our Thinking Cloth the other day. Said its scribbles made the kitchen look like the inside of someone’s head. Well, it—but that’s the point.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I find hard. All her fussy rules and regulations. And then there’s the way she looks….There’s a word for it.”
“Yeah,” George said, with feeling. “Glossy. Or were you thinking lustrous?”
“Um, no…that wasn’t quite it. I meant, sort of more…overmaintained.”
He pushed his spectacles up his nose and glanced at me. “She knows what a comb is, I suppose.”
“Are you looking at my hair? What are you saying?”
“Nothing! I’m not saying anything. Absolutely not. Oh…” George’s wriggling awkwardness froze suddenly into something deeper, an expression of numb discomfort. “Heads down, Luce….Don’t look now.”
Directly ahead of us, outside the Rotwell building, stood Quill Kipps. With him were his two close associates, Kate Godwin and Bobby Vernon.
In the daylight Kipps looked slighter than usual. As ever he was flamboyantly dressed, but his face was gray, and there was a haze of ginger stubble on his chin. He wore a black armband tight upon his sleeve, and carried a thick sheaf of documents under one arm. He’d already spotted us. This was a blow. If we’d had the chance, we’d have crossed the street or something.
We drew level with them. Vernon was remarkably small and scrawny; it was as if someone had shaved bits off normal-sized agents and created him from the scrapings. Godwin, a Listener like me, was as chilly as ground-frost, and probably about as hard underfoot. They nodded at us. We nodded at them. There was a pause, as if everyone were going through the usual round of hostilities and cheap comments, only silently, to save time.
“We’re sorry to hear about Ned Shaw,” I said finally.
Kipps stared at me. “Are you? You never liked him.”
“No. Still, that doesn’t mean we wanted him dead.”
His narrow shoulders shrugged skyward beneath his trim silver jacket. “No? Maybe. I couldn’t say.” Kipps often seemed engulfed in bitterness when he spoke with us. Today his hostility seemed less automatic and less personal, yet more deeply felt. I didn’t answer. George opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Kate Godwin checked her watch, stared off down the street like she was waiting for someone.
“How did it happen?” I said finally.
“Typical DEPRAC foul-up,” Bobby Vernon said.
Kipps rubbed the back of his neck with a pale hand. He sighed. “It was a building on Walpole Street. Open floor-plan office. We were working our way through it, taking psychic readings. Some of Tendy’s group were up on the floor above. Bloody idiots disturbed a Specter, drove it down the central stairway to our level. Came straight through a wall where Shaw was and clasped him around the head before any of us could move.”
Kate Godwin nodded. “He didn’t have a chance.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Yeah, well. It’ll happen again,” Kipps said. “Not to us, maybe, but to someone.” His eyes were always red-rimmed; I thought they seemed redder than normal. “We’re out again tonight on a three-line whip. Barnes has us all performing like so many dancing bears. The Chelsea outbreak’s crazy. There’s no system to it—or if there is, I can’t see it.”
“Got to be a system,” George said. “Something’s stirring up the ghosts in that area. There’ll be a pattern, if you know where to look.”
Kipps grimaced. “You think so? The best minds in DEPRAC have failed to find it so far, Cubbins. I’ve just been at a meeting here, and no one’s got a clue. The most they’ve come up with is to suggest holding a special agency parade to reassure the public that nothing’s wrong. Can you believe it? We’ve got thousands of people evacuated, ghosts rampant, rioting in London—and they’re planning a carnival. The world’s gone mad.” He scowled at us as if it had been our suggestion, and flourished the sheaf of papers. “Oh, and see this? Copy of all the case reports the different teams have filed in the last week. Apparitions, Glimmers, chill spots—you name it. Hundreds of incidents, and no pattern whatsoever. All team leaders are supposed to read it now, and come up with our own suggestions. As if I’ll have time for that! I’ve got a funeral to go to.” He slapped the papers disgustedly against his fist. “I might as well lob this in the trash.”
We stood there awkwardly. I didn’t know what to say.
“You can give it to me, if you like,” George said. “I’d be interested.”
“Give it to you?” Kipps’s brief laugh had no humor in it. “Why should I do that? You hate me.”
George snorted. “What, you want me to blow you a kiss? Who cares whether I like you or not? People are dying here. I might be able to do something with it, do us all a favor. If you want to read it yourself, fine. Otherwise give it here. Just don’t put it in the stupid bin.” He stamped his foot, red in the face and glaring.
Kipps and his companions blinked at him, slightly taken aback. I was a bit, too. Kipps looked at me; then, shrugging, tossed the papers across to George. “Like I say, I don’t want them. I’ve got other things to do. We may see you at the carnival—if Lockwood and Co.’s invited, which I strongly doubt.” He gave a cursory wave, and with that, the three Fittes agents sloped off into the crowd.
If the National Newspaper Archives building were ever haunted, it would be a devil of a job to sort it. Spreading over six vast floors, each honeycombed with eight-foot-high shelves and book stacks, it’s bigger than any factory and more complex and labyrinthine than the oldest Tudor house. Plus, you’d be constantly tripping over all the scholars crouched in gloomy recesses, staring at old documents, trying to understand the history of the Problem. History was what the Archives were about; you could smell it in the air, taste it on your breath. After half an hour of leafing through century-old magazines, you felt it fused to your fingertips, too.