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Robin had screamed as he fell.
It had been Lockwood's fault, no doubt about it. They'd been atop a tower block in Lewisham, littered with rubbish from residents who thought to evade the fly-tipping laws by hauling their mouldy furniture skyward. And, miniature dump notwithstanding, the rooftop had been spacious enough that the best plan of attack had been to set up three separate circles to try and garner more details about the apparition.
He’d said he was nervous, that he didn't feel comfortable on his own. Lockwood had clapped his hands on his shoulders — which were thinner than his own, despite Robin being slightly older — and smiled his most encouraging smile. 'Everything will be fine,' he'd said. 'You can do this.'
It turned out he'd lied, and Robin had screamed the whole way down. Lockwood had never known it could take so long to fall fifteen stories, but by now he'd developed an uncanny ability to recognise the time interval.
So… Well, he knew very well that it hadn’t been fifteen stories, even though the lights above him had long since vanished. Soil crumbled beneath his fingers and he quickly found a new handhold as he continued his scramble down in the dark. It definitely hadn't been fifteen stories. Of course, that didn't mean— more soil slipped, and he silently scolded himself.
He needed to concentrate, or he'd die. And then he'd be no good to anyone.
Still, with darkness pressing in on all sides, it was hard to shake the echoes from his ears. And it was better to dwell on the past than give in to the panic he could feel in his chest, or the growing knot of grief that threatened to engulf him.
Robin's mother had screamed too, when he'd gone to deliver the news. He'd begged Barnes to do it for him, but was harshly (and, in hindsight, fairly) told that this was part of being an agency head. And so he'd gone, barely fifteen himself, to tell a mother that he'd lost her son.
Lockwood had no psychic hearing, but he was haunted by the cries of ghosts all the same.
His toes hit ground, and, tentatively, he tested out the sturdiness, first lowering one foot fully and then the other. When it held his weight he paused, first engaging his Sight to check the area was clear, and then scrambling for the torch in his pocket.
The narrow beam illuminated tall walls of dark earth and loose stone, so close it made him feel claustrophobic. But no Lucy. How? If this was the bottom, and he’d come down where she fell, then she should be— Ah.
There, less than three feet away, at around knee-height, was a large, glistening rock. Beyond it, the floor gave way to another gaping gash of darkness. More to go, then.
He squatted at the edge of the ledge and reached a hand out, resting it against the stone for support as he went to peer over the ledge. The stone was warm, and when he shone his torch on it the world stopped and suddenly he was drowning, trapped underwater as a torrent of feelings rushed up through his chest to choke him. But he didn’t…he didn’t want to think about what that meant. He didn’t have time to think about what that meant, not when he was perched on a ledge that could give way at any moment, not when a fall meant he’d never find her, so he leaned into his training and forcefully shoved it all back down. A quick check to make sure the area (thankfully) held no other surprises, and then he allowed himself a split-second of relief that he shouldn’t have to see that, and then it was time to be done with indulgences and get back to it.
Cool, dank air rose from the hole before him. Shining his torch down into the crevasse revealed very little, though at least it seemed to grow wider. Once again, the torchlight failed to touch the bottom.
A deep breath, and Lockwood squeezed his body through the gap and resumed his scrambling, unsteady descent, his hand and footholds all but crumbling as he went. He had to move quickly, or he’d fall. And if he fell, he’d never bring Lucy home. So keep going, it was.
Two more ledges, each devoid of Lucy, and now the weight of the darkness was threatening to crush him. He should have found a body by now, surely. So where was she?
Lucy, with her fear of heights, would have never kept going down if she had a choice. No, if she'd landed safely on one of the higher ledges then she would've stayed there. She'd only be this far down if she'd been dragged down.
It's like the poltergeist wanted her for some reason, Kipps had said. That thought kept a tiny candle burning, made him think that if the poltergeist had gone to all this trouble then surely it must want her alive. But then he'd think that sounded far too much like Lucy, with her endless misplaced empathy for entities without rational thought; and then he'd remember how viciously violent every poltergeist on record had been; and then he'd remember the moments he wasted on that first ledge, gazing at a stone embedded in the wall and covered with still-warm blood.
Too much blood. Enough to confirm what Lockwood already knew, anyway. He was looking for a body.
Sure, he'd done a good job at acting cool and calm and collected once he’d come back to himself in the foyer up top. He'd stepped back from George and declared that he was off to fetch Lucy, logic be damned; George, of course, knew why he was so adamant about bringing her home, and let him go with little trouble. Holly and Kipps had had other opinions, but he'd been halfway down the first drop before they'd realised he was serious, if the way Holly had shouted at him down the hole was any indication.
No matter - it had to be done. If Lockwood was going to have to say goodbye, he wanted to do it properly. And for that, they needed her body.
There hadn't been much of Robin left to bury. Fifteen stories turned a body into an unrecognisable mess, and by the time they'd raced down the stairs to the ground the foxes had already started on what was left. Lockwood had been forced to stand guard over what remained to keep the scavengers away until DEPRAC arrived. He'd been wearing his father's best shoes — the last pair that fit him — but he threw them out the very next day.
The constant zig-zagging path of the crevasse — ledge after ledge as the hole changed directions — at least gave him hope that this time, there’d be a body.
And as awful as it was, Lockwood desperately hoped that he would find her body, and find it soon. There had been a lot of blood on the ledge up above, and he’d heard the sickening crunch as she’d hit the wall in the foyer before she fell. If she'd hit her head hard enough, at either of those points…instant. Almost painless. The best way to go, all things considered. A mercy.
His eyes stung and he blinked it back, taking deep, calming breaths as he shuffled sideways along the newest ledge, all too aware of the crumbling edges. Squatting as close to the hole as he dared, he raised his torch and flicked it on again. Dark soil crumbled down the sides, but dark grey stone, white with mould, made up the majority of one wall. The other edge was further away than the previous ones had been, and seemed as though the result of a cave-in.
Bitingly cold air rose up from below, emanating from both the stones and the darkness. This was it, then — the notorious King's Prison, the heart of the Chelsea Outbreak. He was here.
The torchlight didn't reach all the way to the ground, and the wall closest to him was the stone one. The stonework was uneven enough that he'd perhaps have enough purchase to scramble down somewhat safely, but he didn't trust how slippery that mould looked and the top seemed curved, as though he were standing atop an arch, so the first bit would be particularly tricky. The other side was mostly earthen but a mess of roots and stone, and what little he could see resembled an extremely steep, extremely unstable hillside. The type that often ended in a cliff drop.
Not much of a choice, then. A leap of faith, either way.
Wiping furiously at his eyes, he stood and judged the distance, then clicked the torch off and pocketed it. His hands went to his belt, checking each pouch by touch alone, then his rapier, ensuring the velcro straps that kept it at his hip were still nice and secure. Good. Then he shut his mind down — pushed aside images of Lucy in agony, blue and swollen, or blessedly pain-free but in pieces stuck between the tread of his shoe — blocked the cold from his body, and gazed into the darkness below, opening his eyes up further to see through to the world beyond the veil.
They were down there, he could tell, their energy somewhat distant, tickling the edges of his senses. They didn't seem to be waiting for something, and he couldn't see any Other-light. It should be reasonably safe to jump.
He shuffled back a step, then closed his eyes to the darkness and leapt for the other side, the earthen slope. The surface was less stable than he'd thought, and he narrowly avoided twisting his ankle as he careened down blindly, soil and stone flying up and splattering his coat. His rapier caught on a rock and he only kept it by grabbing the blade at the last second, ignoring the way it cut into his palm. He’d need it at the bottom.
Up top, Lucy had appeared out of the maelstrom, vaulted over the barrier and then coolly slid all the way down between the escalators, like the absolute madwoman he knew she was. Down here in the dark, Lockwood was barely keeping his footing, all four limbs flailing as he tried desperately not to fall on his arse like Holly had. If Lucy’s ghost was waiting at the bottom, maybe she’d laugh so hard at his entrance that she’d just move on.
And then his foot hit solid ground and he stumbled, his momentum carrying him forwards and causing him to trip and land flat on his face. Pain jolted through every inch of his body, harshly reminding him of every cut and bruise he’d amassed over the night, but he kept his eyes closed as he sat up and gingerly checked his nose for breaks.
It seemed to be in one piece. Well, at least something of his would stay unbroken today.
And then…and then he couldn’t put it off anymore. So he took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he'd see when he opened his eyes. It'd be a bright one, he was sure — she glowed so brightly in life, in death, surely… And he'd see one, he knew. He'd already had his miracle, when he'd somehow harnessed flight, swapping a concussion for two extra weeks with her that he'd then proceeded to squander. God, if he could go back…
But he couldn't, so he took another breath and opened his eyes.
The darkness was absolute.
The darkness was absolute.
With shaking hands, he reached for his torch, his heart suddenly pounding. If she was alive…if she was alive, he'd make it all right. He'd give her his house and his heart and the stars from the damn sky, anything she wanted, and he'd never, ever let her out of his sight again if only she wasn't—
He flicked the torch on, carefully guiding the narrow beam back and forth as he searched the flagstones for a body, or, if he dared to hope, a sign that she was alive, and not only alive but still fighting. Still going. Still somewhere he could save her from, not just bleeding out in the dark.
The beam landed on a carefully-placed candle, and for a moment — just a moment — he forgot how to breathe.
Then he leapt to his feet.