Lockwood & Co Read Free Page B

ripped out and hurled across the room. They lay scattered every which way, spines up, spines down, pages ruffling and twitching. The only spot free of them was the space inside the iron chains, and it was here that George was crouching, white-faced, hands crossed protectively over his head.
    ‘I know you’re an avid reader, George,’ Lockwood remarked, ‘but this is a bit messy even for y—’
    ‘Watch out!’ George’s cry came too late. Even as he spoke, a heavy hardback book struck Lockwood on the side of the head, sending him toppling to the floor. And now a host of others were rising into the air, carried by a random, unseen force. They whizzed this way and that, thumping into walls, bouncing off the windows. I dived to the side: one shot straight past me and crashed against a shelf. All across the room, books were shifting, shelves rattling, chair- and table-legs scraping as they moved across the floor. On the plinth beside the windows, the marble bust of Ernest Potts was shaking violently, as if it were about to burst. I bent down beside Lockwood, who lay on his side, half dazed.
    ‘I think I know who it is!’ George called. ‘He hates Potts – that’s why he’s come back and—’ He ducked as a book spun viciously past his nose.
    I looked desperately around the room. The violence of the attack was escalating. More and more objects were beginning to move.
    First things first. I needed to get Lockwood into the circle. I grabbed him by the arms, and began to pull him across the room. It wasn’t easy: he’s bigger than me and was carrying a lot of kit, and the whirling books that struck me made things worse. George jumped over the chains and sprang to help me. He bent towards Lockwood. As he did so, there was a disturbance in the air behind him. Glimmering threads of other-light appeared. They grew and melded, fusing into a tall thin shape that reached for George.
    I let go of Lockwood’s hand, tore my rapier from my belt and swung it over George’s head. The iron blade cut straight through the glowing form. The figure vanished. The rushing air went still. All across the library, books dropped crashing to the ground.
    A moment later we’d got Lockwood inside the chains, and were sprawled there, gasping. Lockwood was sitting up now, with a bad bruise on his temple. He still looked a trifle dazed.
    ‘So you think you know the identity of our ghost, George?’ I said, once I could speak.
    ‘Yeah,’ George said. ‘I reckon. I found it in a history of the school. His name was Harold Roach, and he was caretaker here, almost a hundred years ago. He’d been badly wounded in the First World War – one arm shot off, and injured in the leg as well. So he was an unlucky guy, but it sounds like he was already a nasty piece of work. He used to stalk around the school terrorizing the pupils. Apparently he always carried an old army knife, and he’d wave it at any kid who crossed him, threatening to cut off their ears.’
    ‘Ah, the great British education system,’ Lockwood said. ‘Made us what we are.’
    ‘There was also speculation that he used to steal money from the school funds,’ George went on, ‘though nothing was ever proved. Anyway, it all changed when this Ernest Potts became headmaster.’ He jerked his thumb towards the bust beside the window. ‘He wasn’t having any truck with caretaker Roach. Seems he confronted him – more or less accused him of nicking the cash. Roach denied it, but when Potts threatened to bring in the police, the man promptly slipped away and vanished. He was never found. Everyone assumed he’d scarpered with the money.’
    ‘Or else,’ Lockwood said softly, ‘he’s still here.’ There was a brief silence.
    ‘That all fits in with what I sensed too,’ I said. I told them about my experiences with the dagger and, briefly, the figure I’d seen in the corridor. ‘I think he hid somewhere in the school – the place where he was stashing the money he stole.