𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Thirty Two - Knock Knock

The Greater London Metropolitan Furnaces for the Disposal of Psychic Artefacts – the Fittes furnaces, as they were generally known – were located in the eastern industrial district of Clerkenwell. They had been created by Marissa Fittes, legendary founder of the Fittes Agency, more than forty years previously, when the need for safe destruction of psychic Sources was becoming clear. In those early days, the furnaces had occupied the site of an old boot factory, sandwiched between a printer's studio and a hat warehouse. In the modern day, they filled two full city blocks, in which the furnace halls rose like great brick temples, and a forest of tall, thin chimneys blew ash towards the river and the sea. That, at any rate, was the idea. As often as not, the wind dropped it on the surrounding districts, peppering people's coats and hats with grey-black powder. 'Clerkenwell snow', as it was called, was mostly tolerated for being harmless.

High walls topped with iron spikes bordered the yards where agency vans pulled in each morning with fresh deliveries of Sources gathered during the night. Originally intended for Fittes operatives alone, the complex had for decades been open to all agencies. It was neutral ground. The fierce rivalry that existed between companies, which on the street could end in shrill dispute and sometimes violence, had no place within these walls. Rapiers were left with aged doormen; and agents' behaviour was monitored by grim-faced attendants who threw out anyone creating a disturbance.

If you came on foot, as Nola did that day, you passed through the pedestrian entrance on Farringdon Road, depositing your rapier on the way, then crossed a cobbled courtyard where runnels of fresh water provided extra defence against all undead things. Climbing some steps, you pushed aside a silver-glass door and entered a wide reception chamber, decked with lavender and iron. Seven attendants sat here in separate booths, processing each new object brought for destruction. This was the vetting room.

As Nola walked through the empty waiting area between the lines of frayed guide-ropes, she heard someone calling her name.

"Hey, James! What have you got for me today?"

The attendant in booth four was a thin young man with pale skin, hooded eyes and large, rather knobbly hands. His name was Harold Mailer. At eighteen, he knew the furnaces as well as anybody, since he had worked there since the age of eight. He had a horse's laugh and a skittish, nervous manner. He'd taken Sources off of Nola's hands several times over the winter. They got on well enough. He was really quite fond of Nola.

Nola entered the booth and, with some relief, set the silver-glass box on the counter. It was surprising how heavy a mummified head could be. The young man watched her, scratching an ear.

"Looks like you've had a busy night." He turned the box from side to side. "Who's this fellow?"

"No idea. Eighteenth century criminal, most likely. Haunted – would you believe – by a witch's ghost. Think we could toast him fast? I'm exhausted here."

Harold Mailer pulled over a wad of forms and selected a Biro with an impressively chewed end. "Anything for you, James, anything for you. I'll need the usual details."

Nola gave the time, place and circumstances of the capture and handed over the authorisation form. Then, she signed the paperwork on behalf of the Rotwell Agency.

Harold had cropped fair hair, freckles and protruding ears. His eyebrows were remarkably faint. Nola could only just see him raising them sky-high. "Rotwell's again? Not old Farnaby's lot?"

"Yeah. This really is the last time." She sighed. "They're bloody useless."

"You should spread your net wider, James. Why don't you hook up with Anthony Lockwood again?"

Nola's eyes bolted open as she cleared her throat awkwardly. "Bad choice of words there, Harold." She mumbled awkwardly.

"I had him in here last week with that Holly girl. They'd just finished that epic job at Camden Lock. I expect you read about it in True Hauntings. A Screaming Spirit manifesting from a skeleton at the bottom of the lock gate. No one had thought to look there, it being water – but canals aren't running water, are they? They're static. It was Lockwood who figured it out, of course."