𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Seventeen - Have Your Cake And Eat It

Lockwood returned from his Chelsea excursion early the following morning, having spent the hours of darkness walking its streets silently and alone. He appeared both energized and baffled by the experience, which had served to back up what the agents had seen from the viewing platform and heard from Inspector Barnes.

His focus evaporated from the Chelsea excursion, however, when he walked into the living room and found Nola unconscious on the sofa. George was sat on the armchair beside her, flicking through his comic book whilst keeping a watchful eye on the girl.

"James?" Lockwood frowned as he approached the sofa. As he got closer, he noticed a fresh bruise on the top of her forehead. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her lips parted. Her skin was washed out and pale. At a first glance, he feared the worst. Relief struck when Lockwood noticed her chest moving up and down slowly. "George, what's wrong with her? Is she ill? Hurt?" Lockwood hesitated. "Ghost touched?" He gulped, suddenly becoming haunted by a nasty flashback of his sister.

George looked up from his comic, peering at Lockwood through the rims of his glasses. "She fainted. Bumped her head. She hasn't eaten."

Lockwood's eyebrows knotted together with confusion. "What?"

"She hasn't eaten." George repeated. "Since we visited Miss Wintergarden's house at Hanover Square."

Lockwood's dark eyes widened. "That was days ago!"

George nodded, slapping the open comic book down on his lap. "Correct, Lockwood. And she hasn't slept properly since before even that. She's been too caught up in this fight you two are in!"

Lockwood remained silent for a moment. He felt as though he has been slapped directly across the cheek. "Jesus, I'm a fool." He approached the sofa, perching down on the end where Nola's bare feet were brushing the leather surface. "Has she woken up since she fainted?"

"Yeah." George adjusted the arms of his glasses. "She woke up in the taxi on the way home; told me then that she'd 'forgotten', though I think the word she was looking for was preoccupied, to eat anything and hasn't been sleeping properly. I got her through the front door, with some effort, and as soon as she hit the sofa she flaked out. Hasn't come round since. Out cold."

Lockwood leaned over her, brushing her fringe to one side and examining the bruise. "Do you think she needs to go to the hospital? It looks like quite a nasty bruise."

"It is. She smacked her head off the pavement." George said. "But she already told me that we're not to take her to the hospital, in the taxi. She threatened 'castration', so, you know, I'd rather not."

Lockwood managed a weak chuckle at her hostility, yet frequented worry soon flooded his face once again. "I thought sending her with you would keep her safe. Chelsea is a nightmare; Visitors are everywhere, agents are dying left, right and centre. If she made some sort of connection with a Visitor there, God knows what could happen..." He said quietly.

"Chelsea was that bad?" George's attention has peaked, and his comic book has become closed.

Lockwood nodded woefully, resting a hand upon Nola's leg. "Terrible, George. I can't-"

"My God, you two are loud."

Nola had awoken, and was groaning upon the sofa. She managed to heave herself up into a seated position, and was rubbing her forehead. "Yikes, pavements are rough."

Lockwood was gazing at her as if she was the product of some sort of miracle. There she was, dishevelled, sleepy, and most likely rather irritable after being awoken, yet he still got that funny feeling in the middle of his chest. That feeling was soon consumed by guilt, however.