Read Online Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
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were in Trafalgar Square. As I got out of the taxi, I saw that a crowd had
gathered below Nelson’s Column, lit by the sputtering white light of many ghost-lamps. They were ordinary citizens, a rare sight after dark. Some carried signs; others were taking turns to
make speeches from a makeshift platform. I could not hear what was being said. A ring of police and DEPRAC officers surrounded them at some distance; farther out still, and spilling out into the
street, stood a large mass of psychic investigation agents, presumably there to protect the assembly. They wore the brightly colored jackets that most agencies use. Silver Fittes ones; the burgundy
splendors of the Rotwell agency; the canary yellow of Tamworth; Grimble’s green pea-soupers: all these and many more were present and correct. A DEPRAC tea van had parked on one side and was
doling out hot drinks; and many other cars and taxis waited close by.
Lockwood made a beeline straight across the square. I hurried after him.
I don’t know what the collective noun for a group of psychic investigation agents is, but it ought to be a
posture
or a
preen
. Knots of operatives stood in color-coded
groups, eyeing their hated rivals, talking loudly and uttering barks of raucous laughter. The smallest agents—kids of seven or eight—stood drinking tea and making faces at one another.
Older ones swaggered to and fro, exchanging insulting gestures under the noses of their supervisors, who pretended not to notice. Chests swelled, swords glinted in the lamp-light. The air crackled
with condescension and hostility.
Lockwood and I passed through the throng to where a familiar figure stood, gloomily regarding the scene. As usual, Inspector Montagu Barnes wore a rumpled trench coat, an indifferent suit, and a
bowler hat of dark brown suede. Unusually, he was holding a Styrofoam cup of steaming orange soup. He had a weathered, lived-in face, and a graying mustache the approximate size and length of a
dead hamster. Barnes worked for DEPRAC, the Department of Psychic Research and Control—the government bureau that monitored the activities of agencies and, on occasions such as this,
commandeered them for the common good. He wouldn’t have won any prizes for grace or geniality, but he was shrewd and efficient, and not noticeably corrupt. That didn’t mean he enjoyed
our company.
Beside him stood a smallish man resplendently decked out in the plush livery of the Fittes Agency. His boots shone, his skintight trousers gleamed. An expensive rapier swung from a jeweled belt
strap at his side; his silver jacket was soft as tiger’s pelt, and perfectly matched by exquisite kidskin gloves. All very swish; impressive, even. Unfortunately, the body within the uniform
belonged to Quill Kipps, so the overall effect was like watching a plague rat lick a bowl of caviar. Yes, the classy element was there, but it wasn’t what you focused on.
Kipps was red-haired, scrawny, and pathetically self-satisfied. For a variety of reasons, possibly connected to the fact that we often said this to his face, he had long disliked us here at
Lockwood & Co. As a team leader for Fittes’s London Division, and one of the youngest adult supervisors in that agency, he had regularly worked with Barnes at DEPRAC; in fact, he was
reading to him from a three-ring binder as we approached.
“…forty-eight Type One sightings last night in the Chelsea containment zone,” he said. “And, if you take the reports as gospel, a possible
seventeen
Type Twos.
That’s a staggering concentration.”
“And how many deaths so far?” Barnes asked.
“Eight, including the three tramps. As before, the Sensitives report dangerous emanations, but the origin is not yet clear.”
“Okay, once this demonstration is over, we’ll head down to Chelsea. I’ll want the agents split across the four sectors with the Sensitives organized into supporting bands
that—Oh,
gawd
.” Barnes had noticed our arrival.
gathered below Nelson’s Column, lit by the sputtering white light of many ghost-lamps. They were ordinary citizens, a rare sight after dark. Some carried signs; others were taking turns to
make speeches from a makeshift platform. I could not hear what was being said. A ring of police and DEPRAC officers surrounded them at some distance; farther out still, and spilling out into the
street, stood a large mass of psychic investigation agents, presumably there to protect the assembly. They wore the brightly colored jackets that most agencies use. Silver Fittes ones; the burgundy
splendors of the Rotwell agency; the canary yellow of Tamworth; Grimble’s green pea-soupers: all these and many more were present and correct. A DEPRAC tea van had parked on one side and was
doling out hot drinks; and many other cars and taxis waited close by.
Lockwood made a beeline straight across the square. I hurried after him.
I don’t know what the collective noun for a group of psychic investigation agents is, but it ought to be a
posture
or a
preen
. Knots of operatives stood in color-coded
groups, eyeing their hated rivals, talking loudly and uttering barks of raucous laughter. The smallest agents—kids of seven or eight—stood drinking tea and making faces at one another.
Older ones swaggered to and fro, exchanging insulting gestures under the noses of their supervisors, who pretended not to notice. Chests swelled, swords glinted in the lamp-light. The air crackled
with condescension and hostility.
Lockwood and I passed through the throng to where a familiar figure stood, gloomily regarding the scene. As usual, Inspector Montagu Barnes wore a rumpled trench coat, an indifferent suit, and a
bowler hat of dark brown suede. Unusually, he was holding a Styrofoam cup of steaming orange soup. He had a weathered, lived-in face, and a graying mustache the approximate size and length of a
dead hamster. Barnes worked for DEPRAC, the Department of Psychic Research and Control—the government bureau that monitored the activities of agencies and, on occasions such as this,
commandeered them for the common good. He wouldn’t have won any prizes for grace or geniality, but he was shrewd and efficient, and not noticeably corrupt. That didn’t mean he enjoyed
our company.
Beside him stood a smallish man resplendently decked out in the plush livery of the Fittes Agency. His boots shone, his skintight trousers gleamed. An expensive rapier swung from a jeweled belt
strap at his side; his silver jacket was soft as tiger’s pelt, and perfectly matched by exquisite kidskin gloves. All very swish; impressive, even. Unfortunately, the body within the uniform
belonged to Quill Kipps, so the overall effect was like watching a plague rat lick a bowl of caviar. Yes, the classy element was there, but it wasn’t what you focused on.
Kipps was red-haired, scrawny, and pathetically self-satisfied. For a variety of reasons, possibly connected to the fact that we often said this to his face, he had long disliked us here at
Lockwood & Co. As a team leader for Fittes’s London Division, and one of the youngest adult supervisors in that agency, he had regularly worked with Barnes at DEPRAC; in fact, he was
reading to him from a three-ring binder as we approached.
“…forty-eight Type One sightings last night in the Chelsea containment zone,” he said. “And, if you take the reports as gospel, a possible
seventeen
Type Twos.
That’s a staggering concentration.”
“And how many deaths so far?” Barnes asked.
“Eight, including the three tramps. As before, the Sensitives report dangerous emanations, but the origin is not yet clear.”
“Okay, once this demonstration is over, we’ll head down to Chelsea. I’ll want the agents split across the four sectors with the Sensitives organized into supporting bands
that—Oh,
gawd
.” Barnes had noticed our arrival.
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