Work Text:
How it starts:
It shouldn’t really have been a surprise that a lack of her grade 4, as well as any other formal documentation of parental consent was a major barrier for applying to literally any reputable agencies. A small nagging part of her couldn’t help but feel that if Norrie were here, she’d have found a way. Still, as she found herself darting into a small corner shop to find herself some refuge from the rain, she found herself wondering if she had made some huge, catastrophic mistake in doing this. She went to push the damp strands of her hair from where they stuck to her face and glimpsed the bruise on her wrist, barely visible from where her jumper sleeve had come up her arm at the motion. No, she couldn’t go back.
Just then, she noticed a boy she though might be her age or slightly older, as he grabbed random items from the shelf and stuffed them in a backpack.
“Oi” The shout came from her lips without her even processing it, and the boys head darted quickly to her, and then realising he was caught, turned just as quickly away as he began to run for the door. A hand shot out from behind the crisp boxes stacked next to the door and caught the boy’s hood, yanking him backwards and causing him to land abruptly on his bottom. A kindly looking man who must be in his late fifties emerged from behind the boxes, revealing himself as the owner of the hand that had shot out only moments before. He gave Lucy a warm and grateful sort of smile, before his face turned serious and he called to the timid girl behind the counter to call the police.
It was lucky for Lucy to have (however inadvertently) worked her way into the good graces of Arif, who as it turned out, was the owner of the shop and a very kind man who was looking for some extra help. It was hardly a bigtime London agency, or any agency at all, but it was a job. A job that came with a small flat above the shop and it was a far better outcome than ending up in the Nightwatch. As she eased her weary body onto the shabby iron-framed bed in the poky flat above the shop, she took a deep breath in; thinking desperately of Norrie and her promise and wondering if her best friend would have forgiven her if she gave up the big dreams of being a well-known ghost hunter. As her eyelids grew heavy, and she felt sleep claim her, she thought that of course, beautiful, kind Norrie would only have ever wanted her best friend to be happy. And Lucy had never wanted to hunt ghosts, not really. She was out, she was safe, she was free.
Two weeks later, after finally learning how to stock the shelves correctly following Arif’s unusual system and how to operate the till, Lucy found herself settling into the mundane life she was now starting to enjoy. She allowed herself to look out of the window when the shop was empty, so unused to feeling rested and alert during the daytime and wonder if the heaviness of guilt would begin to lift soon. She felt sick when she allowed herself to dwell on the news of another agent or nightwatch kid being fatally ghost touched or ghost locked and felt the overwhelming feeling that she should have been there. She should help them. ‘I should mind my own bloody business’ she forced herself to think as she shoved the last doughnut slightly to aggressively into the box. The jam spurted slightly out and ontop her finger and she thought it looked like blood. Blood on her hands, and again she thought of the mill, her friends, their deaths. Blood on her hands, like that mad lady from that weird poncy play written by that weird poncy man Norrie was always harping on about. Norrie’s fascination with the playwright had always been strange to Lucy, who couldn’t understand what was happening in his stupid plays and when Norrie would explain, Lucy had been unable to understand how anyone could see love or romance instead of the clear torture and tragedy present in every play. Norrie had always called her a philistine and Lucy smiled to herself in remembrance of their heated debates, wiping the jam from her hand and placing the box on the counter, waiting for Abigail to collect them for her usual Tuesday delivery run. She wrote the name of the client on the lid of the box as always and penned as legibly as possible the words, Lockwood and co., 35 Portland row.
How it's going:
Abigail was injured. Three months after working for Arif, Lucy and Abigail were finally working together like a well-oiled machine. And now Abigail was wheeling around with a broken ankle and stuck behind the till, leaving Arif responsible for stocking shelves while Lucy had somehow ended up being responsible for taking on the deliveries. She sighed heavily as Abigail called over to her that Arif had the next delivery ready and forced herself not to be annoyed; Abigail had hardly asked the damned Fitts agent to send her flying as they galivanted around London like God’s gift. Abigail had sworn blind that she recognised the lad who had injured her as none other than Quill Kipps, but she also claimed to have been making regular deliveries to a teenage boy that run his own company, so Lucy took it all with a pinch of salt.
She picked up the box of doughnuts and with another weary sigh, opened the shop door, bell tinkling gently and steeped out into the street. She looked at the ridiculously precise writing on the box and felt like Abigail’s writing matched the said girl very well; it was girly and curly and beautiful not scruffy and too large like Lucy’s. There was no need to squint and angle the box as she had seen Abigail; do on occasion when trying to interpret the letters Lucy wrote on the box. Lucy sighed once more, turning on her heel and taking of in the direction of Portland Row.
Lucy took in the impressive façade of the house, with it’s plaque pronouncing the name of the business and finally answering Lucy’s long wondered question of what kind of business Lockwood and co. was – another bloody agency, just one Lucy had never heard of. She rang the bell and almost jumped back as it was almost immediately wrenched open. The boy standing in front of her was scruffy and looked as though he had just been sucking on a lemon, his face was that sour. He looked her up and down in an almost derisive way and Lucy felt a wave of insecurity wash over her.
“You Arif’s new girl then? Was expecting Abigail, she never said about being away.” The boy’s way of speaking was blunt and harsh, making Lucy bristle and bite the inside of her cheek to avoid making an unpleasant remark in response. She took a deep breath and forced a strained smile onto her face as she always did when forced to deal with customers. “Yeah, I’m Lucy, been working at the shop a few months, but Abigail’s broken her ankle so I’m covering her deliveries at the mo.” She felt the words leave her in a rush but couldn’t help feel a strange and foreboding feeling creep over her as a girl came rushing out from within the house and pushing past them to run down the street. The boy sighed and walked to the door where the girl had just run from, “Told you she looked too timid to be an agent” he remarked and left Lucy standing on the doorstep, still holding the box.
Annoyed, Lucy followed him “Oi, do you mind, I have more deliveries to make, now unless you want me to take these doughnuts back, you owe me some money and – why the hell do you have a ghost jar in your sitting room!” Her rant was cut off as she caught sight of the jar, the grotesque thing making faces out of the jar suddenly pause and look right at her. Almost curious, but no, the thing was just an echo of life, that’s impossible, and also not her business. Not anymore.
A cloth was draped over the jar suddenly and she looked up, meeting the eyes of another boy, tall and thin and handsome looking very interested in her, all of a sudden. “My apologies” he said in a smooth drawl, “George here has been very rude, hasn’t he. My name is Anthony Lockwood, I’m afraid you’ve caught us in the midst of interviews, looking for a new junior agent. Interested?” He had a small, crooked smile as he finished speaking and Lucy thought she finally understood how so many girls back home had made such impulsive decisions. Luckily for her, the unpleasant boy from before, George, suddenly butt in “She’s a doughnut girl Lockwood, not an agent. Looks like a strong wind would scare her stupid. Let’s just give up for the day and enjoy our doughnuts.”
Again, she bristled, enraged by the way a boy she had only just met had decided she was not worthy of their time. She sat herself on the sofa in front of the now covered ghost jar and set the doughnuts down next to her, she picked up a knife on the table, assuming it was to do with the interview, “Barking, gunshots, hunting and laughter, belonged to a very kind man, gentle, not an arse so obviously not you.” She couldn’t help the petty remark as she set the knife back down and picked up the watch next to it, the small smirk she was wearing as she threw it back down almost immediately, wrenching herself from the sofa and whirling on the boys who were watching her in fascination.
“That is vile! You shouldn’t have anyone touching that thing, certainly not in a bloody interview!”, the boys looked at one another, and she could see George shoot a look as if to say ‘told you she was a wimp’, not one to back down, Lucy grabbed the last item from the table and sensing no psychical energy, screwed her eyes shut, concentrating. There’s nothing, no residual energy, no emotion tied to it, nothing at all, opening her eyes, she looked at the boys who were now very close and then at the cup. “Is this a trick question or did you forget to put this away? There’s nothing to it. Nothing at all.” To her surprise, the boy’s excitement grew on their faces and they exchanged another look.
Lockwood smiled and took the cup from her, “quite right. George’s toothbrush cup. Have to separate the honest from the ones who will say and do anything to pass. You’re very impressive. And hired.” He gave her a wide grin and she felt herself start to smile in response before catching herself.
“Hired? No, I have a job. A job I’m trying to do if you would pay me, please, I should get back for my next delivery, I can’t hang about any longer. I’m done with ghosts, the whole business.”
His face fell. “Ah, right, of course. Doughnuts, all that talent and you’re waiting for us to pay you… for the doughnuts. Right.” He handed her a few notes and then strode out of the room, his long coat that she just now noticed, billowing behind him. She looked awkwardly at George who was now looking at her as though she were a strange puzzle that he wanted to examine. She felt trapped and exposed, and she couldn’t help it. In that moment, she allowed herself to be the kind of girl George had initially accused her of being. She ran.
As she entered the shop, she opened the door so hard that the tinkling bell was barely heard under the THUNK of the door as it smacked against the wall. Arif and Abigail, talking pleasantly at the counter, looked up concerned. Arif strode gingerly towards her, as though scared of spooking a wild animal. “Lucy, dear, what happened? Did something happen?” He looked out the window of the shop as though expecting to see something chasing the girl who was now pressed against the door, cheeks pink and splotchy, tears streaming silently across them. She shook her head and forced herself to give him a shaky smile, not wanting to scare him any further. “Sorry. Got scared by a stray dog, Silly really.”
She wiped her cheeks and forced herself to walk to the counter, body feeling as though she were trudging through molasses, to collect the next box and embark on her next delivery. She found herself hoping fervently, that her next delivery would be boring and standard and wouldn’t give her the heartbreaking sensation of feeling almost complete at using her gifts after so long, and the sick feeling of guilt as she recalled the incident when she had used them last. ‘No’, she thought, ‘No, I’m done with all that. That’s not me anymore’.