PROBLEM - Anthony Lockwood

CHAPTER FOURTY THREE

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xliii

this is the worst bad idea out of all of the bad ideas

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"I'M SEBASTIAN SAUNDERS," introduced an old man who smelled like stale cigarettes, "And this is my partner: Pamela Joplin."

"Business parter," Pamela clarified, "We're sweet dreams excavations - maybe you've heard of us."

Alice frowned as she surveyed the two of them; the woman looked to be in her late thirtes, maybe early forties, and the man looked to be in his sixties. She had short brown hair and a glint in her eye that screamed curiousity, even though she seemed quite awkward.

Instantly, Alice hated them both.

"Grave diggers?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow.

She hated gravediggers. There used to be an excavations company - or technically, cult - who would dig up the bodies of witches and experiment on their bones. Alice's childhood best friend had been dug up like that.

Hand clapping with a ghost.

She forced herself to swallow the memories down.

"We prefer 'exavation' and 'clearance'," Saunders declared, handing Lockwood a business card. He read it and then handed it to Alice. "I'm sure you'll have seen the headlines, Mr. Lockwood. After all of the avoidable deaths, DEPRAC now requires councils to assess their cemetaries for risky plots. We're currently engaged in a major operation in Kensal Green Cemetary."

Alice didn't know why, but that cemetary sounded oddly familiar to her.

"But, that's huge," George noted.

"Thank you," Saunders mused, "Pam usually susses out the dodgy ones before they present any serious danger. We dig for bones. She digs for stories."

Lockwood scoffed slightly, causing Alice's gaze to flicker to him. His head was in his hand. In that moment, she could see the sheer exhaustion dug into his face. It was smeared with dirt and dust, and his hair was a mess. A gorgeous looking mess, one which she desperately wanted to run her hands through.

Control yourself.

"I use burial records to look for traumatic causes of death likely to tip the odds for visitation," Pamela explained. "Sucides, murders, sudden tragedy. You never know when a spirit might activate."

George's eyes were as wide as saucers. "You're a researcher?" he breathed, "Did you know Fittes has its own database now?"

"It's not very good," Pamela replied, "Broad in scope but lacks depth - give me a stack of books any day."

"I couldn't agree more," George smiled.

Lockwood sat up, clasping his hands, Alice could guess that he was thinking of the last night's utter disaster in a field when he said: "Mr. Sauders, Ms. Joplin, thank you very much. But our team are mansion specialists. We don't do odd jobs for the council."

"Are you sure, we heard you'd be grateful - oh, sorry.... 'amenable' to this work?" Saunders stated.

"Well, you heard wrong," Lockwood refused. He turned to Lucy and Alice, "Our Listeners, for example, are two of the best in the country-"

"Lockwood," Alice cut across, "We're good, that's it."

"We're a good, normal agency," Lucy assured.

Alice turned to Lockwood and shot him a pointed look, "Who needs a job," she added in a whisper.

He forced a smile on his face and turned back to the clients.

"Kensal Green Cemetary is London's most prestigious cemetary," Joplin began, "Owned and run by the Bickerstaff family-"

"What?" Alice gasped.

"-Until one of their sons was caught digging up corpses," Sauders interjected, "The scandal that brought the word 'necrophilia' into common usage."

Alice looked hard at the floor. She'd never noticed how interesting the carpet looked - Edmund Bickerstaff was one of the most powerful death witches in history - The carpet had a unique design.

She wanted to jump out of a window.

"Yes, but before then, the clientele was very high end," Pamela assured.

Lockwood sat forwards, "The grave in question is in the older section? The classy one?"

Lucy raised an eyebrow mockingly, "The classy one?"

"Yeah, pre-pleb?" Lockwood inquired.

Once a central London rich boy, always a central London rich boy.

George grimaced, "The one where the bodies were dug up by the pervert."

The death witch, Alice wanted to say, The witch who used to channel the souls of the dead, perform necromancy, and try to cross over to the other side. Instead, she just continued to look at the carpet.

"Well, a visitor with more historical significance would be more attractive to us," Lockwood clarified.

"It is within the original curtilage, yes, but I can't give you a name," Pamela replied. "A hidden unmarked grave, not on any official list. One of our sensitives found it, triggered by extreme nausea, which eventually made her pass out. Whatever's inside there - it's powerful."

Alice clenched her jaw, glaring hard at a smudge on the carpet.

Edmund fucking Bickerstaff.

Why was every single case witch related? Couldn't there be a normal case? And a death witch, no doubt. Couldn't it be something nice like an earth witch or a fire witch visitor - perhaps even another blood witch after the Five from Combe Carey Hall, or another Banshee.

But no. Death witch.

Death witch like her mother. Death witch like herself.

Alice wanted to set herself on fire.

"We've a legal obligation to bring in agents, for any grave which might contain a type 2," Saunders continued, "DEPRAC cover the expense, so the work must be done at night - so our claims can be verified. Bureaucratic BS, but - uh... makes things interesting. You'll be well supported, we've got night watch, sensitives, security to keep out the relic men. The cemetary really comes alive at night."

Yes, especially if a death witch is buried in it, Alice wanted to say. Instead, she kept staring at the smudge on the carpet and wondered how the ever living fuck she was going to be able to keep her already dissolving cover after a job like this.

There was absolutely no way in which she could create another diversion or hide herself in the cemetary to defeat the ghost of Bickerstaff.

For the 400th time in the last few weeks, Alice wished she'd let herself burn to death in Sheen Road.

Lockwood leaned forwards, clasping his hands together, "So, you're telling me, you think there's an unidentified type two in an unmarked grave, and you want us to come and help you dig it up... at night?"

Pamela grimaced, "Put it like that, Mr. Lockwood and I'll admit it could sound better."

Lockwood grinned, "Ms. Joplin, it sounds irresistible."

Alice decided she should start digging her own grave.