‘On every side,’ I said. ‘They’re coming for us on every side . . .’
There was a short silence.
‘Anyone got tea left in their thermos?’ George asked. ‘My mouth’s a little dry.’
2
Now, we don’t panic in tight situations. That’s part of our training. We’re psychical investigation agents, and I can tell you it takes more than fifteen Visitors suddenly showing up to make us snap.
Doesn’t mean we don’t get tetchy, though.
‘One man, George!’ I said, sliding down the mound of earth and jumping over the mossy stone. ‘You said one man was buried here! A bloke called Mallory. Care to point him out? Or do you find it hard to spot him in all this crowd?’
George scowled up from where he was checking his belt-clips, adjusting the straps around each canister and flare. ‘I went by the historical account! You can’t blame me.’
‘I could give it a good go.’
‘No one,’ Lockwood said, ‘blames anyone.’ He had been standing very still, narrowed eyes flicking around the glade. Making his decision, he swung into action. ‘Plan F,’ he said. ‘We follow Plan F, right now.’
I looked at him. ‘Is that the one where we run away?’
‘Not at all. It’s the one where we beat a dignified emergency retreat.’
‘You’re thinking of Plan G, Luce,’ George grunted. ‘They’re similar.’
‘Listen to me,’ Lockwood said. ‘We can’t stay in the circle all night – besides, it may not hold. There are fewest Visitors to the east: I can only see two there. So that’s the way we head. We sprint to that tall elm, then break through the woods and out across the Common. If we go fast, they’ll have trouble catching us. George and I still have our flares; if they get close, we use them. Sound good?’
It didn’t sound exactly great, but it was sure better than any alternative I could see. I unclipped a salt bomb from my belt. George readied his flare. We waited for the word.
The handless ghost had wandered to the eastern side of the circle. It had lost a lot of ectoplasm in its attempts to get past the iron, and was even more sorry-looking and pathetic than before. What is it with Wraiths, and their hideous appearance? Why don’t they manifest as the men or women they once were? There are plenty of theories, but as with so much about the ghostly epidemic that besets us, no one knows the answer. That’s why it’s called ‘the Problem’.
‘OK,’ Lockwood said. He stepped out of the circle.
I threw the salt bomb at the ghost.
It burst; salt erupted, blazing emerald as it connected with the plasm. The Wraith fractured like a reflection in stirred water. Streams of pale light arched back, away from the salt, away from the circle, pooling at a distance to become a tattered form again.
We didn’t hang about to watch. We were already off and running across the black, uneven ground.
Wet grass slapped against my legs; my rapier jolted in my hand. Pale forms moved among the trees, changing direction to pursue us. The nearest two drifted into the open, snapped necks jerking, heads lolling up towards the stars.
They were fast, but we were faster. We were almost across the glade. The elm tree was straight ahead. Lockwood, having the longest legs, was some distance out in front. I was next, George on my heels. Another few seconds and we’d be into the dark part of the wood, where no ghosts moved.
It was going to be all right.
I tripped. My foot caught, I went down hard. Grass crushed cold against my face, dew splashed against my skin. Something struck my leg, and then George was sprawling over me, landing with a curse and rolling clear.
I looked up: Lockwood, already at the tree, was turning. Only now did he realize we weren’t with him. He gave a cry of warning, began to run towards us.
Cold air moved against me. I glanced to the side: a Wraith stood there.
Give it credit for originality: no skull or hollow sockets here, no stubs of bone. This one wore the shape of the corpse before it rotted. The face was whole; the glazed eyes wide and gleaming. The skin had a dull white lustre, like those fish you see piled in the Covent Garden market stalls. The clarity was startling. I could see every last fibre in the rope around the neck, the glints of moisture on the bright, white teeth . . .
And I was still on my front; I couldn’t raise my sword, or reach my belt.
The Visitor bent towards me, reaching out its faint white hand . . .
Then it was gone. Searing brightness jetted out above me. A rain of salt and ash and burning iron pattered on my clothes and stung my face.
The surge of the flare died back. I began to rise. ‘Thanks, George,’ I said.
‘Wasn’t me.’ He pulled me up. ‘Look.’
The wood and the glade were filled with moving lights, the narrow beams of white magnesium torches, designed to cut through spectral flesh. Bustling forms charged through undergrowth, solid, dark and noisy. Boots crunched on twigs and leaves, branches snapped as they were shoved aside. Muttered commands were given; sharp replies sounded, alert and keen and watchful. The Wraiths’ advance was broken. As if bewildered, they flitted purposelessly in all directions. Salt flared, explosions of Greek Fire burst among the trees. Nets of silhouetted branches blazed briefly, burned bright against my retinas. One after the other, the Wraiths were speedily cut down.
Lockwood had reached us; now, like George and me, he stopped in shock at the sudden interruption. As we watched, figures broke free into the glade and marched over the grass towards us. In the glow of the torches and explosions, their rapiers and jackets shone an unreal silver, perfect and pristine.
‘Fittes agents,’ I said.
‘Oh great,’ George growled. ‘I think I preferred the Wraiths.’
It was worse than we thought. It wasn’t any old bunch of Fittes agents. It was Kipps’s team.
Not that we discovered this immediately, since for the first ten seconds the newcomers insisted on shining their torches directly into our faces, so we were rendered blind. At last they lowered their beams, and by a combination of their feral chuckling and their foul deodorant we realized who it was.
‘Tony Lockwood,’ said an amused voice. ‘With George Cubbins and . . . er . . . is it Julie? Sorry, I can never remember the girl’s name. What on earth are you playing at here?’
Someone switched on a night lantern, which is softer than the mag-torches, and everyone’s face was illuminated. There were three of them standing next to us. Other grey-jacketed agents moved to and fro across the glade, scattering salt and iron. Silvery smoke hung between the trees.
‘You do look a sight,’ Quill Kipps said.
Have I mentioned Kipps before? He’s a team leader for the Fittes Agency’s London Division. Fittes, of course, is the oldest and most prestigious psychical investigation agency in the country. It has more than three hundred operatives working from a massive office on the Strand. Most of its operatives are under sixteen, and some are as young as eight. They’re grouped into teams, each led by an adult supervisor. Quill Kipps is one of these.
Being diplomatic, I’d say Kipps was a slightly built young man in his early twenties, with close-cut reddish hair and a narrow, freckled face. Being undiplomatic (but more precise), I’d say he’s a pint-sized, pug-nosed, carrot-topped inadequate with a chip the size of Big Ben on his weedy shoulder. A sneer on legs. A malevolent buffoon. He’s too old to be any good with ghosts, but that doesn’t stop him wearing the blingiest rapier you’ll ever see, weighed down to the pommel with cheap paste jewels.
Anyway, where was I? Kipps. He loathes Lockwood & Co. big time.