𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Thirty Seven - Chop Chop

Despite their best intentions, the afternoon was far advanced by the time the agents arrived at the house of the Ealing Cannibal. They had forgotten that everyone liked to get out of central London well before curfew. The traffic on the arterial roads was sluggish, and repair works at the Chiswick roundabout delayed them even more. As the cab moved slowly through the suburban streets of Ealing, the last commuters were already in force on the pavements, hurrying home beneath the flickering ghost lights. The sun had swung low, and a layer of black cloud lay over them like a broken slab of chocolate, with streaks of blue-and-yellow sky showing through the cracks. The air held the threat of rain.

Whether or not their driver knew the reputation of The Leas, he knew the business the teenagers were in, and didn't care to get too close to their final destination. He dropped them, and their swords, work bags and lengths of chain, at the end of the street, and they walked the final hundred yards to the house where horrors stirred.

It's a common misconception that places that have suffered psychic trauma must look sinister too. They're usually believed to have gaping windows, creaking doors, and walls twisted subtly out of true. But as with people, so with houses – a smiling, innocuous exterior can conceal the blackest heart, and number 7, The Leas, didn't look like anything much at all.

It stood halfway along the east side of a crescent of modest detached buildings, each with its own garage, each with its own neat scrap of lawn beside its thin concreted drive. They were fairly modern homes, the windows broad and generous, the roofs made of pleasant reddish tiles. The front doors were panelled with glass, and protected by simple, flat-topped porches. It was neither a poor district nor a rich one. Laurel hedges separated the plots, and cypress trees rose up in the rear gardens, black and sharp as knives.

Number 7 looked in no worse repair than any of the other houses. In fact, in many ways, it seemed in better shape. The nearby buildings were noticeably shabby, with cars rusting under tarpaulins on weedy drives. Small signs, perhaps, that what had happened there so long ago still worked its poison on the neighbourhood. But the house that was once inhabited by Mr Solomon Guppy was white and painted, its lawn mowed, its hedges trimmed. The local council, conscious of civic pride, had not allowed it to fall into disrepair.

The street was quiet. The only signs of life were small ones – lights coming on in downstairs windows, curtains being drawn. The agents hadn't set eyes on anyone until, nearing number 7, a thin figure detached itself from the shadows of the hedge. Arms folded, it waited gloomily as they drew near.

George let out a groan. "Penelope Fittes must have hundreds of supervisors. Why did she have to choose him?"

The young man wore the silver-grey jacket of the Fittes Agency, and had an ornate-handled rapier hanging at his belt. His narrow freckled face was twisted in an expression of sour disapproval, but they'd had enough experience of Quill Kipps to know that this meant little. He was quite possibly in a good mood.

"Looking on the bright side..." Lockwood whispered. "Kipps has worked with us before. He already knows we won't listen to a word he says. That's going to save a lot of time. Nice to see you, Quill!" He called. "How's tricks?"

"Before you say anything, I didn't ask to be given this job." Kipps said. "I dislike the idea just as much as you do. Let's just be clear about that."

Lockwood grinned. "I'm sure it's a match made in heaven."

"Yeah." Kipps said feelingly. "I'm sure."

Once one of Lockwood & Co's most bitter rivals, Quill Kipps had reached his early twenties, and thus his psychic Talents had begun to leach away. No longer able to detect ghosts effectively, he had consequently been put in charge of others who could. Personal losses had since mellowed him, and he had fought alongside Lockwood & Co in the recent past. Despite being as congenial as a mustard sandwich, he was, they knew, both tough and bloody-minded. As Lockwood had said, they could have had a worse companion.