Read Online Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
Ads: Link
crossed to the window and pulled the blackout curtains back. Daylight stabbed me; for a moment my eyes recoiled. When I could look again, the room was
brightly lit. I could no longer see the glow above the bed, and the sense of psychic assault had been subtly muted. I could still feel its presence, though, and hear the faint crackling in my
ears.
The room had once been a pleasant blue, the wallpaper decorated with a child’s pattern of diagonally arranged balloons. There were posters of lions, giraffes, and horses stuck to a
bulletin board, and old animal stickers slapped randomly all over the headboard of the bed. Yellowing glow-in-the-dark stars dotted the ceiling. But that wasn’t what drew the eye. On the
right-hand wall two great vertical gouges had torn straight through the paper and into the plaster beneath. They were rapier slashes. In one place the cut had gone as deep as the brick.
Lockwood stood quietly by the window, staring out at the blank wall of the house next door. Some dried lavender seeds had dropped onto the sill from the vases that sat there. He brushed them
with a finger into his cupped hand.
Something like hysteria was building in my chest. I wanted to cry, to laugh uncontrollably, to shout at Lockwood….
Instead I said quietly, “So what was she like?”
“Oh…that’s hard to say. She was my sister. I liked her, obviously. I can find you a picture sometime. There’ll be one in the drawers here somewhere. It’s where I put
all her things. I suppose I should sort through it all one day, but there’s always so much to do….” He leaned back against the window, silhouetted against the light, pushing the seeds
slowly around his palm. “She was tall, dark-haired, strong-willed, I guess. There’s once or twice I’ve seen you out of the corner of my eye, Luce, and I almost thought…But
you’re nothing like her really. She was a gentle person. Very kind.”
“Okay, you
are
hurting my arm now, Lucy,” George said.
“Sorry.” I pried my hand free.
“My mistake,” Lockwood said. “It came out wrong. What I was trying to say was—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I shouldn’t have asked you about her in the first place….It must be difficult to talk about this. We understand. We won’t ask you
anything more.”
“So, this pot,” George said, “tell me about it. How
did
it keep the ghost trapped? Pottery on its own wouldn’t have done the job. There must’ve been some
kind of iron lining—or silver, I suppose. Or did they have some other technique, which—ow!” I’d kicked him. “What was
that
for?”
“For not shutting up.”
He blinked at me over his spectacles. “Why? It’s interesting.”
“We’re talking about his sister! Not the bloody pot!”
George jerked a thumb at Lockwood. “He says it’s ancient history.”
“Yes, but he’s clearly lying. Look at this place! Look at this room and what’s in it! This is
so
right now.”
“Yes, but he’s let us in, Luce. He wants to talk about it. I say that includes the pot.”
“Oh, come on! This isn’t one of your stupid experiments, George. This is his family. Don’t you have any empathy at all?”
“I’ve got more empathy than you! For a start I can see the bleeding obvious, which is that Lockwood
wants
us to discuss it. After years of emotional constipation, he’s
ready to share things with us—”
“Maybe he does, but he’s also completely brittle and hypersensitive, so if—”
“Hey, I’m still standing here,” Lockwood said. “I didn’t go out, or anything.” Silence fell; George and I broke off and looked at him. “And the truth
is,” he went on, “you’re
both
right
. I do want to talk about it—as George says. But I also don’t find it very easy, so Lucy’s spot-on
too.” He sighed. “Yes, George, I believe the pot had a layer of iron on the inside. But it cracked, okay? And maybe that’s enough for now.”
“Lockwood,” I said. I looked toward
brightly lit. I could no longer see the glow above the bed, and the sense of psychic assault had been subtly muted. I could still feel its presence, though, and hear the faint crackling in my
ears.
The room had once been a pleasant blue, the wallpaper decorated with a child’s pattern of diagonally arranged balloons. There were posters of lions, giraffes, and horses stuck to a
bulletin board, and old animal stickers slapped randomly all over the headboard of the bed. Yellowing glow-in-the-dark stars dotted the ceiling. But that wasn’t what drew the eye. On the
right-hand wall two great vertical gouges had torn straight through the paper and into the plaster beneath. They were rapier slashes. In one place the cut had gone as deep as the brick.
Lockwood stood quietly by the window, staring out at the blank wall of the house next door. Some dried lavender seeds had dropped onto the sill from the vases that sat there. He brushed them
with a finger into his cupped hand.
Something like hysteria was building in my chest. I wanted to cry, to laugh uncontrollably, to shout at Lockwood….
Instead I said quietly, “So what was she like?”
“Oh…that’s hard to say. She was my sister. I liked her, obviously. I can find you a picture sometime. There’ll be one in the drawers here somewhere. It’s where I put
all her things. I suppose I should sort through it all one day, but there’s always so much to do….” He leaned back against the window, silhouetted against the light, pushing the seeds
slowly around his palm. “She was tall, dark-haired, strong-willed, I guess. There’s once or twice I’ve seen you out of the corner of my eye, Luce, and I almost thought…But
you’re nothing like her really. She was a gentle person. Very kind.”
“Okay, you
are
hurting my arm now, Lucy,” George said.
“Sorry.” I pried my hand free.
“My mistake,” Lockwood said. “It came out wrong. What I was trying to say was—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I shouldn’t have asked you about her in the first place….It must be difficult to talk about this. We understand. We won’t ask you
anything more.”
“So, this pot,” George said, “tell me about it. How
did
it keep the ghost trapped? Pottery on its own wouldn’t have done the job. There must’ve been some
kind of iron lining—or silver, I suppose. Or did they have some other technique, which—ow!” I’d kicked him. “What was
that
for?”
“For not shutting up.”
He blinked at me over his spectacles. “Why? It’s interesting.”
“We’re talking about his sister! Not the bloody pot!”
George jerked a thumb at Lockwood. “He says it’s ancient history.”
“Yes, but he’s clearly lying. Look at this place! Look at this room and what’s in it! This is
so
right now.”
“Yes, but he’s let us in, Luce. He wants to talk about it. I say that includes the pot.”
“Oh, come on! This isn’t one of your stupid experiments, George. This is his family. Don’t you have any empathy at all?”
“I’ve got more empathy than you! For a start I can see the bleeding obvious, which is that Lockwood
wants
us to discuss it. After years of emotional constipation, he’s
ready to share things with us—”
“Maybe he does, but he’s also completely brittle and hypersensitive, so if—”
“Hey, I’m still standing here,” Lockwood said. “I didn’t go out, or anything.” Silence fell; George and I broke off and looked at him. “And the truth
is,” he went on, “you’re
both
right
. I do want to talk about it—as George says. But I also don’t find it very easy, so Lucy’s spot-on
too.” He sighed. “Yes, George, I believe the pot had a layer of iron on the inside. But it cracked, okay? And maybe that’s enough for now.”
“Lockwood,” I said. I looked toward
Similar Books
