Free Lockwood by Jonathan Stroud

Twists of lavender smoke rose from buckets of coal burning at the edges of the camp.
    Evidently we had reached the operations centre for Sweet Dreams Excavations and Clearance. A number of figures stood at the top of the chapel stairs, silhouetted against the open doors. We heard raised voices; fear crackled like static in the air.
    Lockwood, George and I dropped our bags on the ground beside one of the smoking buckets. We climbed the steps, hands resting on our sword hilts. The crowd’s noise quietened; people moved aside, silently regarding us as we drew near.
    At the top of the steps the angular, trilbied figure of Mr Saunders broke free of the throng and bustled over to make us welcome. ‘Just in time!’ he cried. ‘There’s been a small incident and these fools are refusing to stay! I keep telling them we’ve top agents arriving – but no, they want paying off. You’re not getting a penny!’ he roared over his shoulder. ‘Risk’s what I employ you for!’
    ‘Not after what they’ve seen,’ a big man said. He was aggressively stubbled, with skeleton tattoos on his neck and arm, and a chunky iron necklace hung over his shirt. Several other burly workmen stood in the crowd, along with a few frightened night-watch kids, clutching their watch-sticks to them like comforters. I also noted a posse of teenage girls, whose shapelessly floaty dresses, black eyeliner, outsize bangles and lank armpit-length hair marked them out as Sensitives. Sensitives do psychic work, but refuse to ever actually
fight
ghosts for reasons of pacifist principle. They’re generally as drippy as a summer cold and as irritating as nettle rash. We don’t normally get on.
    Saunders glared at the man who’d spoken. ‘You should be ashamed, Norris. What next, jumping at Shades and Glimmers?’
    ‘
This
thing’s no Shade,’ Norris said.
    ‘Bring us some
proper
agents!’ someone shouted. ‘Not these fly-by-nights! Look at them – they don’t even have nice uniforms!’
    With a clatter of bangles, the floatiest and wettest-looking of the Sensitives stepped forward. ‘Mr Saunders! Miranda, Tricia and I refuse to work in any sector near
that grave
until it’s been made safe! I wish to make that clear.’
    There was a general chorus of agreement; several of the men shouted insults, while Saunders struggled to be heard. The crowd pressed inwards threateningly.
    Lockwood raised a friendly hand. ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said. He flashed them all his widest smile; the hubbub was stilled. ‘I’m Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Company. You may have heard of us. Combe Carey Hall? Mrs Barrett’s tomb? That’s us. We’re here to help you tonight, and I’d very much like to hear what problems you’ve experienced. You, miss’ – he turned his smile upon the Sensitive – ‘you’ve clearly had a
terrible
experience. Are you able to tell me about it?’
    This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly round the face and boot her moaning backside out into the night. Which is why he’s the leader, and I’m not. Also why I have no female friends.
    True to type, she batted big, moist eyes in his direction. ‘I felt like . . . like something was rushing up beneath me,’ she breathed. ‘It was about to . . . to clasp me and swallow me. Such baleful energy! Such malice! I’m never going near that place again!’
    ‘That’s nothing!’ one of the other girls cried. ‘Claire only felt it. I
saw
it, just as dusk was falling! I swear it turned its hood and looked at me! A moment’s glimpse was all it took. Ah, it made me swoon!’
    ‘A hood?’ Lockwood began. ‘So can you tell me what it looked like—?’
    But the girl’s squeaks had reignited the passions of the throng; everyone began talking now, clutching at us. They pressed forward, pushing us against the door. We were the centre of a ring of frightened spot-lit faces. Beyond the chapel steps, the