𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Forty Nine - Sleepover!

The following morning, Lockwood & Co arrived at the station and saw a gaunt figure in black waiting on the platform beside the sacks of supplies.

"Hardly recognised you there, Kipps." George said. "You know, without your swanky jacket and sword. I thought if you took them off, you fell apart into separate wriggling pieces."

It was true that Kipps looked different. Perhaps, more than any other operative, he had been defined by his connection to the Fittes Agency. His jewelled rapier, the unnecessary tightness of his trousers, the cocksure spring in his step – everything had always trumpeted his excessive pride in being a member of the organisation. That day, he wore black jeans, a rollneck jersey, and a black zip-up coat. Perhaps his jeans were a trifle tight, his boots a trifle pointy, but it was fairly sensible attire, almost without vanity. Fortunately, he hadn't entirely changed. He still possessed his air of ineffable gloom.

"I just had a realisation." He said when they were on the train and rocking slowly through the south London suburbs. "After the Guppy job. I mean, there we were, in a house possessed by a wicked and powerful entity, and you were all running around like madmen – fighting, screaming, being fools – but dealing with it... and I was just a fifth wheel. I couldn't see it, I couldn't hear it... I was just too old to do anything useful. And that's what being a supervisor is: it's a life of sending others out to fight and die. I've known that for a while, but it took you to make me realise I couldn't bear to continue with it. I couldn't stay at the Fittes Agency. I'd rather do something else."

"Like what?" George said. "Art critic? Train spotter? With that rollneck you could be almost anything."

"It was probably another dumb decision." Kipps said. "Like agreeing to come along with you today. Lockwood says he wants my expertise, but I'm not sure what I can contribute apart from standing around like a fencepost. Maybe I can make the tea."

"Actually, I think it's admirable." Nola said. "Your decision. It's about being true to yourself."

He grunted. "You're good at that, certainly. That's why you've come back to Lockwood and Co, I suppose. Couldn't stay away from your boyfriend, could you?"

Nola gulped. After her and Lockwood's interaction in the basement, she was still a tad lost as to where she stood with the company. "As it happens, I'm only temporarily—" But the train was rattling over a particularly loud set of points, and then Lockwood and George were arguing over who should carry the salt bags, and Holly was handing biscuits round, and Nola couldn't get a word in edgeways. She sat in a corner of the compartment by the window, staring at the reflection of myself that ran like a ghost over the vista of grey roofs.

After the loss of the skull, after Harold Mailer's murder and the pursuit through Clerkenwell, Not had needed help badly – and Lockwood had offered it. There'd been no one else to turn to. It had been a good decision. But after that, it had seemed only natural to stay on at Portland Row, only natural to let Lockwood help her retrieve the skull, only natural to help him hunt for it in the night market... And then – was it natural to accompany him to Aldbury Castle too? Sure, she could invent plenty of excuses to justify it. She was keeping herself safe from the Winkmans. She was (perhaps) pursuing the Rotwell Institute and the missing skull. She was giving Lockwood & Co the support they deserved. She was absolutely, sickeningly in love with her ex-boss... All of that may well have been true. But, it boiled down to the same thing in the end. She was simply happy to have the chance to be with them again.

It was with inconclusive thoughts like these that Nola occupied herself as the train left London and dawdled its way into the countryside. By ten o'clock, without danger or alarm, they had reached their destination.