South London Forever // George Karim

-cinnamon donuts and assholes-

"Hello, I'm Anthony Lockwood," Lockwood said politely, and there was the sound of springs squeaking. They really needed to get a couch that didn't sound like a kitten crying every time someone sat down. Alas, Lockwood insisted it had sentimental value, so they were stuck with it. He got the couch and Freddie got the kettle that didn't work anymore, the one with heart stickers on it that had probably faded over time.

"Is this your resume?" Lockwood asked, and there was a crinkling of paper. Freddie listened to the awkward silence from the hallway, her chest tight with anticipation, but not the good type.

"Yep. I uh, I've worked at a few different Agencies, but I got bored, I guess." The boy who came in said. "Not many practical cases for new recruits in big places."

"Well," Lockwood muttered, and his distracted tone went back to normal. "If you pass the tests, we've got one tomorrow afternoon, so there's that."

"What tests?" The boy sounded scared, and Freddie felt her stomach squirm. Lockwood chuckled, and she pictured the line-up on the coffee table between the pair. A jar previously filled with teabags, a source she had kept from her first 'official' mission [a cat collar], and Lockwood's rapier, which would have traces of the last ghost he fought.

"It says here your Talent is sight, so...what can you see on these objects?"

There was a silence, and Freddie knew the boy was trying to think of something cool to say about the tea jar. The scariest thing to happen to that jar was when Freddie knocked it off the counter because Lockwood didn't put it back in its right spot.

"Uh, there's nothing on it...apart from the drawing of a-"

"-Ignore that," Lockwood cut in with a sigh. "So, there's nothing on it?"

"Uh, yeah, I don't see anything."

"What about the collar?"

"That's...that's a lot of blood. Wow."

"Yes, it is. Caroline had a stroke in the kitchen, and was eaten by her cat before her neighbour found her body three days later. Well, found her ghost."

The boy didn't say anything for a minute, and Freddie tried not to smile as she imagine what his face would look like.

It was true, poor nine-year-old Freddie had smelt the tang of rotting flesh and gone to investigate. Nine-year-old Freddie had also thrown out her bloody socks later that day, as she listened to the men from DEPRAC marching in and out of the house next door.

"And the rapier?" Lockwood asked eagerly.

"There's...peanut butter? Or is that vomit..."

"Peanut butter, what else?"

Freddie knew why there was the hint of excitement in his voice. This was their twenty seventh interview this month, and the most promising yet. They both knew they wanted co-workers around their age, so that meant all the adults that had been fired from the big Agencies were given a glance over and a polite 'no', and most of the teens coming through the doors lied as much as they could in hopes to sound impressive.

Freddie didn't blame them, but Lockwood insisted they needed someone honest. Obviously, his ambitions were working out great. The boy continued, "uh, jam?"

It wasn't jam; it was blood. The two textures had a very big difference, Freddie found that out when she made toast once, and now she wasn't allowed to use knives. She sighed inwardly, and opened the door to the slightly cluttered loungeroom.