George Karim

5

Chapter Five

He stops on the street of Portland Row. Here I am, once again, at the steps of the door I had knocked on hours before. Just like last time the curly-haired boy, who Lucy pointed out to be George, answered.
There it was. A familiar face of furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.
“Are you stocking us?”
“No”, I say offensively.
“This is the second time you have appeared at the front, and you did follow us to Franklinn Lane.” He said so matter-of-factly.
“I was not following you.”
“Explain yourself then”
Before I got my chance to rebuttal, Inspector Barnes had stepped in between our ‘playful banter’.
“ Where’s Lockwood?”
“He’s in the library.”
George steps aside, allowing us to cross the entrance he was previously guarding. Inside, the walls had intricate designs of flowers and vines in front of a green background.  The corridor held an umbrella basket with swords resting handles up. A coat rack of jackets, coasts, and an out-of-place top hat fills it to the brim. A low-style bench sits opposite it. To the right was a parlor with two couches and one granny pink armchair. There were kick-knacks of voodoo masks and various decorative jars. An unlit fireplace marked the center of the room. A full wall of books to the left of it and a cabinet/desk sat on the right. Lovely-smelling lavender was scattered in vases throughout the home. Light fixtures took up half of the space. The other half were dispersed new papers, magazines, past due bills, and case files.  It looked un-kept, but oddly comfy. I guess it was because everywhere were signs of the living. After all I death I had encountered, I was pleased to be here.
“Inspector Barnes. What can I do for you?”
Lockwood said standing up from his previous position of sitting on the couch in his suit and tie which he still was wearing. You would think he was playing grown-up with the attire he chose.
“I was hoping to further discuss what we were conversing about earlier.”
I poked my figure from behind the tall Inspector.
“I see you’ve brought the American.”
He greets me and in a very British custom offers me tea. Without a reply, he orders George to show me to the kitchen. The hunched-over kid walks me through an alternate door and into the kitchen. A kettle is already whistling and he removes it along with tea bags and two mugs. His back is faced toward me the entire time as if shielding himself from my presence.
“George?”
He spins around to give me his undivided attention.
“Yes?”
“Do you know what they are talking about?”
“Not a clue.”
“oh”
I open my mouth to say more but he hands me the cup and immediately leaves. I got the feeling he doesn’t have many friends.
The door does nothing for auditory integrity, so I can hear every word being spoken.
“How about a wager?”
The young voice of a very stereotypical English accent posit. There was a long pause of consideration from the recipient.
“Alright then, She must master second grade by the next two months.”
“Deal.”
‘Who was she? Was she me? As in I?’, The voice in my head asks.
Inspector Barnes waltz into the kitchen, a grin on his face as if he had just been told the greatest news.
“Miss Flores, I have good news. Since you have talent and are untrained, you will stay here and study under Mr. Lockwood and his associates.”
My head tills to the side to see a young Mr. Lockwood straightening his jacket preparing to join the conversation.
“Hello, Flores was it? Allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Antony Lockwood, Leader of his agency.”
He flashes a smile so charming any girl would melt. I bet he practices that in the mirror every morning.
“I’ll be off then. Good Luck.”, Inspector Barnes says to me before leaving.
“Right then”, Lockwood clasps his hands. “I’ll show you around.”
I obediently follow him down to the basement.
“This is where we keep any and all important files. Most of the boxes are old cases going back to the beginning of The Problem. George is utterly obsessed with it.”
He makes his way to an iron sliding barn door.
“This is our high-security room.” He unlocks it and steps inside the room with shelves stocked with boxes of explosives and various other combat items.
“Supplies and sources are kept safe in here.” 
He motioned to silver cases of all sizes containing everyday objects. Objects that I would have previously assumed to be harmless. Lockwood continues the tour with no pauses for questions. I am led up the stairs to the bedrooms.
“This one's mine room and that one over there is George’s. I suggest knocking before entering. I can’t tell you the bizarre sights I’ve witnessed.”
He gestures to the lower landing we had passed on the way up.
“That’s the bathroom but don’t recommend using it. I, myself, hate sharing a bathroom with him.”
He tilts his upper frame towards his companion's room giving the impression ‘him’ was George.
“
And up here,” he continued to the very top floor. “Is Lucy’s room. This is also where you will be staying, hope that’s alright.”
“It’s fine.” The room had newspapers on the wall and a single full-size bed.
“Umm. Mr. Lockwood?”
“Just Lockwood is fine.”
“Lockwood”, I corrected myself. “Where’s my bed?”
He looks about the room as if trying to find the second bed. Lockwood rubs the back of his neck and chuckles a nervous laugh, clearly embarrassed about not having an adequate answer.
“Right. Well, we just got paid from our last case, so I’ll stop by Tammy’s later and have one delivered by tomorrow. I’m sure Luce and you can work out some sort of sleeping arrangement for tonight.”
I nod my head in polite agreement. Before he leaves the room, he lets me know that if I had any questions I could ask George. Lockwood referred to him as the keeper of the home. I rest my bag, which I had been lugging around everywhere, against the antique wardrobe. I slump to the ground and allow my body to go limp. The bamboo bedframe stabbed at my back, but I could care less. My life has just been spun around, smacked into a brick wall, and splattered on the ground. I’ve never really been one with my emotions. They tend to get bottled up until the pressure and amount are too much, and I just. Explode. I shut my eyes and converse with the little voice in my mind. I go over what I had seen, heard, and felt; obviously, not ready to believe that ghosts are real or that I can hear and see them. Most of all I was coming to grips with the death of my dad and sister. My knees curl up for me to lay my head on. In the quiet of the attic, I dozed off.