Lockwood Read Free

could see. I unclipped a salt bomb from my belt. George readied his flare. We waited for the word.
    The handless ghost had wandered to the eastern side of the circle. It had lost a lot of ectoplasm in its attempts to get past the iron, and was even more sorry-looking and pathetic than before. What
is
it with Wraiths, and their hideous appearance? Why don’t they manifest as the men or women they once were? There are plenty of theories, but as with so much about the ghostly epidemic that besets us, no one knows the answer. That’s why it’s called ‘the Problem’.
    ‘OK,’ Lockwood said. He stepped out of the circle.
    I threw the salt bomb at the ghost.
    It burst; salt erupted, blazing emerald as it connected with the plasm. The Wraith fractured like a reflection in stirred water. Streams of pale light arched back, away from the salt, away from the circle, pooling at a distance to become a tattered form again.
    We didn’t hang about to watch. We were already off and running across the black, uneven ground.
    Wet grass slapped against my legs; my rapier jolted in my hand. Pale forms moved among the trees, changing direction to pursue us. The nearest two drifted into the open, snapped necks jerking, heads lolling up towards the stars.
    They were fast, but we were faster. We were almost across the glade. The elm tree was straight ahead. Lockwood, having the longest legs, was some distance out in front. I was next, George on my heels. Another few seconds and we’d be into the dark part of the wood, where no ghosts moved.
    It was going to be all right.
    I tripped. My foot caught, I went down hard. Grass crushed cold against my face, dew splashed against my skin. Something struck my leg, and then George was sprawling over me, landing with a curse and rolling clear.
    I looked up: Lockwood, already at the tree, was turning. Only now did he realize we weren’t with him. He gave a cry of warning, began to run towards us.
    Cold air moved against me. I glanced to the side: a Wraith stood there.
    Give it credit for originality: no skull or hollow sockets here, no stubs of bone. This one wore the shape of the corpse
before
it rotted. The face was whole; the glazed eyes wide and gleaming. The skin had a dull white lustre, like those fish you see piled in the Covent Garden market stalls. The clarity was startling. I could see every last fibre in the rope around the neck, the glints of moisture on the bright, white teeth . . .
    And I was still on my front; I couldn’t raise my sword, or reach my belt.
    The Visitor bent towards me, reaching out its faint white hand . . .
    Then it was gone. Searing brightness jetted out above me. A rain of salt and ash and burning iron pattered on my clothes and stung my face.
    The surge of the flare died back. I began to rise. ‘Thanks, George,’ I said.
    ‘Wasn’t me.’ He pulled me up. ‘Look.’
    The wood and the glade were filled with moving lights, the narrow beams of white magnesium torches, designed to cut through spectral flesh. Bustling forms charged through undergrowth, solid, dark and noisy. Boots crunched on twigs and leaves, branches snapped as they were shoved aside. Muttered commands were given; sharp replies sounded, alert and keen and watchful. The Wraiths’ advance was broken. As if bewildered, they flitted purposelessly in all directions. Salt flared, explosions of Greek Fire burst among the trees. Nets of silhouetted branches blazed briefly, burned bright against my retinas. One after the other, the Wraiths were speedily cut down.
    Lockwood had reached us; now, like George and me, he stopped in shock at the sudden interruption. As we watched, figures broke free into the glade and marched over the grass towards us. In the glow of the torches and explosions, their rapiers and jackets shone an unreal silver, perfect and pristine.
    ‘Fittes agents,’ I said.
    ‘Oh
great
,’ George growled. ‘I think I preferred the Wraiths.’
    It was worse than we thought. It