It's a very hard thing to do, sometimes. Pressing a doorbell.
I stared hard at the small round button and then stretched my hand out for the third time. Hesitated.
Oh, for God's sake.
I plunged my hand down and jammed that darned button right on the center. Hard. And then pressed it several times again just for good luck, my heart beating awfully fast as someone shuffled to the front door.
"Stop. You're going to break the thing."
I waited in trepidation as the locks were fiddled with, chains and bolts and iron safeguards pulled away before the doorknob finally began to turn. I swallowed thickly.
The door swung open and George stood there in all of his sloppy glory. Slippers were on his feet and there was a beanie on his head (a very hard thing to do, to imagine George in a beanie. But he does it. He wears it. And I'm left with my mind reeling and doubting the world for days afterward).
We stared at each other. Then:
"Oh. It's you," George said dispassionately.
"It's me." My mouth was a tad bit dry, and I swallowed again. It didn't help.
"Come slinking and sulking back?" George's eyes were narrowed. "I'll have you know that my bags aren't packed, however disappointed you may be."
"George, I'm—"
"—What? Angry? Wanted to scare me off, didn't you? So you could have Lockwood all to yourself." He sneered, eyes blinking quickly behind his glasses. His bulk took up the entire doorway, standing in front of it so I couldn't pass through. One hand leaned against the doorframe in a casual manner, though this conversation was anything but.
"What I'd said . . . I didn't mean it." I stood there on the stoop with my hands tucked into my pockets. Then I reconsidered; that darn pride of mine will be the end of me someday, but I just couldn't help myself. "But you really aren't the most charming fellow in London."
The door began closing pointedly.
"The toe-rag comparison was a bit extreme, though," I said hastily.
George sniffed, but the door halted its slow swing. "What did you say? Because I didn't hear anything."
All right, enough with the pride. If I had to get down on my knees and kiss George's foul boots in order to be let inside, I'd do it. Reluctantly. But I'd do it.
"I don't want you gone! I didn't mean it!"
"And the moon is made of cheese."
I swallowed again, pressing my fingers against each other tensely. "I don't want to argue, George. I'm sick of that."
"Too right."
"We get on each other's nerves, sure, but what I said . . . I really didn't mean it. I was just too angry to be thinking straight."
"Have I or have I not always been telling you to work on your anger management?" The plump boy rolled his eyes and opened the door wider now; I caught sight of Lockwood standing behind him, his slim frame pausing in the hallway before slipping into another room.
George still didn't let me in. I grappled for something to say. I'd hurt his feelings—snotty, plump George, with his retorts and apple cores, stung by my comments. And I . . .
"I'm really sorry, George," I said quietly.
"Apology accepted." George stood aside at last and let me through, taking off his glasses to rub at them with a dingy cloth.
I stepped inside with a mixture of relief and hesitation. Everything was unchanged in the hall. The artifacts were still where they should be, some of them hung on the wall and others stacked in the living room. I stepped carefully over the glued-together shards of a fertility gourd.
"Lucy?"
George again. I turned round. Had he had a sudden change of heart and decided to kick me back out?
"I'm sorry, too." He looked awkwardly at me, shoving his glasses back onto his nose and tucking the cloth into his pocket. "Shouldn't have said some things back there. Uncalled for."
I gaped at him. "Er . . . thanks for the apology," I stammered. Then I quickly made off down the hall again, taking the flights up and up to my room.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
Lockwood came out of the living room and stood in the hallway with George, his expression unreadable. "She's here?"
"You saw her yourself." George jerked his head at the kitchen. "Help me with dinner," he demanded. "All you've been doing all day is slouch around in a black mood. Food doesn't just cook itself."
"So have you."
"What? I've been cooking myself?"
"No. Been in a black mood." Lockwood's eyes trailed up the stairs towards the attic. George tried to hide another smirk.
"Well, I've recovered. I've received an apology."
"I heard you give one as well," Lockwood said.
George shrugged and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed a pan out of a cupboard and set it on the stove. He drizzled some oil inside, then grabbed a few frozen fish sticks out of the freezer and tossed them on. They hissed and crackled, and George flipped them expertly before they could burn. Good cooking made good food, and good food was everything.
Besides, he was the only person in this house who could make pancakes without burning the whole lot into a charred, inedible mess. Goes to show the lack of skill in his colleagues. The only things they could do right was swing a rapier. And then there was their total bull-headedness, of course. Lockwood and Lucy excelled in that.
The sound of feet treading on soft wood came to their ears, and a moment later Lucy arrived in the kitchen.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
"Fish sticks?" Lockwood asked lightly, not missing a beat. He was as impeccable as ever, dressed in a dashing coat down to his knees with a crisp white shirt underneath. One hand held a plate out to me.
I looked blankly back at him. "Eh?"
The plate was shaken pointedly at me, so I took it.
George was standing in front of the stove, a pan in front of him, intently frying some sizzling object. Lockwood dolled out the silverware onto the dining table while I stood there awkwardly, a plate in my hand.
It was like the argument had never happened. I would be lying if I said I wasn't relieved.
"Fish sticks, Luce," Lockwood repeated. He plopped down into a chair and leaned back, propping his feet up on the table. "George's dish for tonight. Right, George?"
"Right. And don't you scratch the wood," George warned, pointing a spatula threateningly in Lockwood's direction; or, more precisely, at Lockwood's feet. "That table's been newly varnished."
"Just look at that shine," Lockwood agreed in admiration. He smiled at me, his one hundred watt smile, and then jerked his head at the seat beside him.
I put my plate down and sat, smoothing out the fabric of my skirt. We smiled at each other, comfortably. Everything felt fine again.
George came around, dumping a plate full of fried fish sticks in front of us. Then he sat next to Lockwood in his usual place.
We stared at each other.
"Well, take a fish stick, Luce," Lockwood said immediately, cutting business-like through the silence. He dumped one on my plate. "Actually, take two . . . you need some feeding up. And two for myself, of course . . . and one for you, George. Are we all good? Where's the juice? I remember buying juice yesterday."
George stabbed at his fish stick. "As the cook, I rightfully demand another."
"You don't need any more 'feeding up,' George."
"Hey!"
And so the meal progressed.
" . . . And she was the battiest client I've ever had, I swear," Lockwood was saying through our peals of laughter. It was sometime later in the evening, when night was falling outside. George and I were at the table, and Lockwood was finally washing the dishes at the sink. The watch-lights began flickering on outside; Lockwood drew the blinds down, stacked the last plate on the rack.
"A hundred cats, Lockwood?" I leaned against the table in disbelief.
"Yes, and during the night when the Type One would appear in the basement, they'd all come running and yowling into her room like an insane horde. I came over once and saw it myself. It was a sea of terrified cats."
"How'd she feed them all?" George asked doubtfully.
"Who cares, George?" I wrinkled my nose. "One cat is enough."
"Amen to that," Lockwood agreed cheerily. More laughter.
And thus we finished our cocoa and said good night.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
I was on my way up to my bedroom when I saw a bulky form moving around in the bathroom. I halted on the landing and looked in.
George was washing his hands at the sink, the ghost jar on the table beside him. It made a sickly face at me; I ignored it. "Hey, George."
He continued washing his hands. "Privacy, Lucy? It might be something you've never heard of—"
"Oh, please. You're just washing your hands."
"Could've been getting into the shower."
"With the door open? I think not."
George dried his hands and scooted past me. "Well, if you're going to tinkle then be careful. I think I left a drop on the toilet seat."
"A drop? What—oh, that's disgusting, George." I followed him out. He swiveled on his heel and faced me, one hand on the doorway into his bedroom. I looked over his shoulder and saw stacks of dirty laundry atop his desk, an apple core on his bedspread, and underwear lying boldly over his lamp. "So's your room, by the way. Do you ever clean?"
"What do you want?" George asked, rolling his eyes.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," I blurted.
"You already have."
"Well . . . yes . . . but—"
"Look, Lucy, it's all right." For a moment he looked a lot like Lockwood, a sparkle of humor in his eye, his back straight. Then the moment faded and George was . . . George. Slouching, belching George, who was now scratching his stomach and looking at me with eyes squinting behind his glasses. "What's this for? You're not usually like this." A pause, and then his eyes squinted harder. "He's on your mind again."
Stupid, perceptive, all-knowing George. I grimaced. "Yeah."
"Stop thinking about Matthew Callahan. He's going to drive you insane—if you're not already."
"Wow, thanks. That really helped," I said sarcastically. "I guess I thought . . . that if I wrapped up this squabble of ours . . . then he'd be off my mind, too? I don't know. I just—you have that condescending look on your face again! Whatever, George. G'night." I turned to go and progressed back down the narrow, carpeted hall, trying my best to force thoughts of a certain blond-haired child from my mind. As my foot touched the first step of the stairs, a voice called suddenly from behind me.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow what?" I craned my neck around to catch George standing back in his doorway again, rubbing once more at those greasy glasses of his. "George?"
"Tomorrow we'll go to the library," George said firmly, "and dig up some dirt on Matthew's death. And watch your feeble step on the way upstairs—I think I left some books on the staircase. You might trip and break your neck, and God knows what Lockwood would do to me."
