Free Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase by Jonathan Stroud Page A

knew from early on,’ he continued, ‘that you had a Talent. You had the Sight, of course, morethan most of the other kids, and the bravery to use it. But according to your letter, that wasn’t your real strength. You could listen too. And you had the power of Touch.’
    ‘Well, Listening’s my thing, really,’ I said. ‘As a kid in my cot I used to hear voices whispering in the street – after curfew, when all the living were inside. But I’ve got good Touch too, though that often merges with what I hear. It’s hard to separate them. For me, Touch sometimes triggers echoes of what’s happened.’
    ‘George can do a bit of that,’ the boy said. ‘Not me. I’m tone-deaf when it comes to Visitors. Sight’s my thing. Death-glows and trails, and all the ghoulish residues of death . . .’ He grinned. ‘Cheerful subject, isn’t it? Now then, it says here you started out with a local operative up north . . .’ He checked the paper. ‘Name of Jacobs. Correct?’
    I smiled blandly; my stomach clenched with tension. ‘That’s right.’
    ‘You worked for him for several years.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So he trained you up, did he? You got your Fourth Grade qualifications with him?’
    I shifted slightly in my chair. ‘That’s right. Grade One through Four.’
    ‘OK . . .’ Lockwood considered me. ‘I notice you haven’t actually brought your final certificates. Or indeed any letter of referral from Mr Jacobs. That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?Official references are normally provided in these situations.’
    I took a deep breath. ‘He didn’t give me any,’ I said. ‘Our arrangement ended . . . abruptly.’
    Lockwood said nothing. I could see he was waiting for details.
    ‘If you want the full story, I can give it,’ I said heavily. ‘It’s just . . . it’s not something I like dwelling on, that’s all.’
    I waited, heart juddering. This was the moment. All the other interviews had terminated just about here .
    ‘Some other time, then,’ Anthony Lockwood said. When he smiled at me, a warm light seemed to suffuse the room. ‘You know, I can’t think what’s keeping George. A trained baboon could have made the tea by now. It’s really time for the tests.’
    ‘Yes, what tests are these?’ I said hastily. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’
    ‘Not at all. It’s what we use to assess the candidates. Frankly I don’t set much store by people’s letters or referrals, Ms Carlyle. I prefer to see their Talent with my own eyes . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give George another minute. In the meantime, I suppose you want the rundown on us. We’re a new agency, been registered three months. I got my full licence last year. We’re accredited with DEPRAC, but – just to be clear – we’re not on their payroll, like Fittes or Rotwell or any of that mob. We’re independent, and we like it that way. We take the jobs we want and turn down the rest. Allour clients are private customers who have a problem with Visitors, and want it sorted quickly and quietly. We solve their problems. They pay us handsomely. That’s about the size of it. Any questions?’
    With the issue of my recent past out of the way, I had a clear run now. I wasn’t going to mess it up. I sat forward on the sofa, making sure my back was straight, my hands neat in my lap. ‘Who are your supervisors?’ I asked. ‘Do I get to meet them too?’
    A frown flickered across the boy’s forehead. ‘No supervisors here. No adults. It’s my company. I’m in charge. George Cubbins is deputy.’ He looked at me. ‘Some applicants had a problem with this set-up, so they didn’t get very far. Does it bother you?’
    ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘No, I like the sound of it fine.’ There was a brief silence. ‘So . . . there’ve always been just two of you? Just you and George?’
    ‘Well, we generally have an assistant. Two’s enough to deal with most Visitors, but for tough cases all three of us go along. Three’s the