Lockwoods key

Chapter 3

For Lockwood, locking himself in the room had become a common occurrence. It was one he didn't enjoy, but he felt it was necessary. Without it he thought he'd lose his mind. Downstairs the other three bustled around with their daily lives, researching, baking or practising swordplay as time remained frozen for him. He wondered if his life had stopped completely since reading that article.

"I don't know why he's being like this." He'd heard them say. Part of him wasn't surprised. Deep down he knew that they were all different from him. The normal children. But he hadn't realised how big the divide was until now. It saddened him, but also that anger from many years ago had resurfaced. All the bullying and condescending comments from adults, loneliness and nightmares. 

"Maybe it's because... ya know. Of that."

That. The horrible truth of his past. And maybe they were right. But it wasn't that which had pushed him back to the numbness of isolation. It was people that were still alive that had caused that. Maybe he felt worse because they were alive.

It didn't take him more than a minute to climb down the side of the house, out his window and use the ivy as a ladder. He'd done it many times before and was now a master of the window escape.

Only ten minutes later did he find himself by the canal, coat fluttering in the late spring breeze as he walked beside the bedraggled figure of the only person who wasn't currently driving him insane.

"New gloves Flo?"

"Yep. Some lass gave'em to me in exchange for a pot of tea. Pretty young thing, bit odd but I liked her. She weren't one of those posh types ya know."

Feigning ignorance, Lockwood pushed a little further. He had a hunch that the girl would have gone to the underground, and Flo knew every face down there.

"Posh types eh? She wearing a fur coat or something?"

"Nahh, a Fittes uniform. Normally I tell the nasty buggers to shove off, but these gloves are rather toasty..."

He looked down at the gloves in question, black fingerless cable knit and soft to the touch. Expensive. Far too expensive for Flo to have brought them herself. 

"...Said she was hiding from someone, so I took pity on the poor lass. She didn't seem like the troublesome type but there was something in the air about her. Like an electricity when a lurker is watching ya."

"Would I be able to meet her?"

Flo's drooping eyes narrowed, nose scrunching slightly in suspicion.

"What's she to you? You ain't hunting her too are ya?"

"No. The opposite actually. I'm trying to help her get away from the people who are." He lied. It was uncomfortable, lying to Flo. He felt transparent around her, as if she could read his mind. Maybe she could.

"Very well. Follow then." She sighed. If she could tell she wasn't letting on just yet, and he trusted her enough to believe she wasn't leading him into a trap. Walking down the coastline to the sewer entrance, the putrid smell of mould and decay made Lockwood cough, trying not to choke on the pungency that threatened to suffocate him. It was almost too dark to see, the lantern Flo had pulled from her cloak hardly illuminating a few inches ahead on her. Knowing Flo however she could navigate here blind. 

It opened to a grand underground market place, stalls of sticks and cloths where sellers bartered objects stolen, made or forged to either the extremely wealthy or rock- bottom poor of the place. Stages were illuminated by spotlights to highlight the scantily clad women dancing, dressed in what would hardly be called nightgowns as they attempted to take on the appearance of alluring ghosts or sirens. Surrounding them, men in scraps or lavish suites watched and drooled, trousers bulging with more than just money and goods. 

Keeping his head down Lockwood pulled his coat closer around him, a chilly draft flowing in from the coastline tunnel. Apart from the momentary gusts however the area was surprisingly warm, with dustbin fires and sweaty bodies making the air humid and layering sweat over the already horrific smell. Every now and again however they got the privilege of walking past a food stall, where roasting spiced and charred meat briefly intervened to relieve the senses. The most crowded parts however were the auction bays, where men and women climbed over each other with wads of cash in hand to try and buy whatever haunted item was up for grabs.

Every meter or so were niches in the walls, either leading to corridors, railroads or a mattress where people sat, slept and suffered in their poverty. Flo led him down a closed railroad, the space much quieter and the air much more breathable. A few people mulled around a dustbin fire, central to a circle of mattresses as if they were just on a scouts camping trip. Mattresses, pillows and blankets were all stained or worn, with rats crawling over them in some places.

"Oi, Chrissy. You got a visitor." Flo called, grabbing the attention of the figure lying on the leftmost mattress. She was huddled under a pile of blankets, and wrapped one around her as she stood up, stumbling slightly.

The firelight illuminated her face, her eyes meeting Lockwoods. 

He wasn't sure if it was their sunset orange colour or the glow of the flames but they burned into him. It was suddenly too hot to be wearing a coat.

"Lockwood." She frowned, dark eyebrows furrowing. "What do you want?"

"To talk." He replied, holding out his hand, "nothing else."

Looking at his hand with contempt she turned away, going to sit back on the mattress. Flo nudged the brunet man forward, and he followed her, frowning when she tripped a little over her own feet.

"You're ill."  

"No shit." She responded with a sour tone. There was exhaustion in her voice as well, and she hadn't bothered to run yet. "So, Mister Anthony Lockwood, to what do I owe the pleasure?"