Lapsewood felt like a new ghost. Arriving in London, he didn’t materialise in a dark back alley this time. Instead he chose the middle of the busy thoroughfare of the Strand. Even the tram that trundled straight through him, giving him a distasteful view of the contents of its passengers’ shoes, didn’t put him off. It would take more than a face full of bunions to upset this new Lapsewood. All his life, and his subsequent death, he had watched the world from the sidelines, too fearful to do anything other than that which was expected of him. Now, he was dealing with things himself. He had been devasted when Colonel Penhaligan had taken away his job, but he could no longer imagine returning to his desk job with its endless paperwork. General Colt had asked Lapsewood to do the job alone because he was too cowardly to endanger his own position, but that didn’t matter to Lapsewood. For once in his life he was going to do the right thing rather than the easy one. He would find Tanner, stop the exorcist and vanquish the hell hound back to the Void. The only problem was that he had absolutely no idea where to start.
On the pavement outside Charing Cross Station where the taxicabs gathered, a man waved the latest edition of the Evening Standard in the air.
‘Standarstandarstandar,’ he shouted, ‘Kitchen Killer kills again.’
Lapsewood glanced at the headline. If the living really knew what death was like, would they be more careful with their lives? he wondered.
‘Five murdered,’ cried the newspaper seller. ‘Confused coppers can’t cope.’
A uniformed policeman with his hands behind his back stopped beside the man and coughed. ‘Ah-hem.’
The newspaper seller tipped his cap to the officer and shouted, ‘The city’s finest constabulary close to cracking the case. Standarstandarstandard.’
The policeman nodded approvingly and moved on.
Lapsewood turned to Ether Dust and left in search of Nell. She would be able to help him track down Tanner. However, after several hours, there was still no sign of her. In fact there were far fewer ghosts on the streets than the last time he had visited. Several hours of fruitless searching later he eventually found a spirit lying in a doorway. He was hitched up on one elbow, with a half-drunk bottle of spirit ale in one hand, mumbling quietly to himself.
‘Grunt?’ said Lapsewood. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lying down,’ replied Grunt, sounding worse for wear. ‘And drinking. You want some?’ He offered up the bottle.
‘No, thank you,’ replied Lapsewood. ‘What happened to you?’
‘You were right. Getting out of that place did me the world of good. I’m much happier now.’ To prove it, Grunt let out a loud sob and took another swig of ale.
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Yep,’ agreed Grunt. ‘It’s not the same, you know, getting drunk with spirit ale. Do you remember what it was like getting drunk when you were alive?’
‘I was never a drinker,’ said Lapsewood.
‘When you’re alive, it numbs the pain. After I found my wife dead, the first thing I did was find myself a bottle. Our pain, though, it’s different, isn’t it? Memory, Lapsewood. That’s our pain. It takes something stronger than spirit ale to take that away.’
‘Yes.’ Lapsewood noticed how the ale had turned the grey goo that leaked out of Grunt’s neck an alarming shade of purple.
‘I think people should be ghosts first,’ said Grunt. ‘If we were dead before we were alive we’d appreciate it more, wouldn’t we?’
‘Perhaps we are,’ said Lapsewood. ‘Maybe a new life lies on the other side of the Unseen Door.’
Grunt emitted a snort of unamused laughter at the notion.
‘Did you find Tanner?’ asked Lapsewood. ‘Did you give him the message?’
More laughter. ‘I gave him the message, all right. Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Your boy has got someone murdering people.’
‘Murdering?’ said Lapsewood, thinking he must have misheard him.
‘Yep. For their ghosts,’ slurred Grunt. ‘They call him the Kitchen Killer.’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Lapsewood was lost for words.
‘What with Tanner’s killer terrorising the living and this black demon hound that roams the city feeding on the souls of ghosts, there’s very little hope left in London. Haven’t you noticed how few Rogues there are around? Us ghosts are a dying breed.’ He laughed so much that the fluid bubbled up through the gap in his neck.
‘I have to speak to Tanner,’ said Lapsewood. ‘I’m sure he can’t have meant to . . . I mean, I never said . . .’
‘Whatever means necessary. Those were your exact words.’
‘I have to put this right,’ said Lapsewood determinedly.
‘That’s what I tried to do. I tried to put things right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I haunted him, Lapsewood.’
‘Who? Tanner?’ said Lapsewood, confused by how one could haunt a ghost.
‘No.’ Grunt spat. ‘That villain who killed my wife. I haunted him good and proper. I didn’t have a licence either, and I don’t care. They can throw me in the Vault if they want. It can’t be any worse than this.’
‘What did you do?’
Grunt took a big swig from the bottle and Lapsewood watched as half of it oozed back through the neck scarf. ‘I threw a cup at him,’ he said.
‘A cup?’
Grunt nodded. ‘A tin cup.’
‘The man who killed your wife, whose crime you were hanged for? You threw a tin cup at him?’
‘The strange thing is that it didn’t make me feel any better.’
‘No,’ replied Lapsewood flatly.
‘He was terrified, scared out of his wits, and yet even then I wished I could swap places with him. I’d rather feel fear than nothing, but the next day in the pub, he was there telling it like it was a funny story. That’s when I realised there’s nothing we can do, us ghosts. Nothing. Working at the Bureau makes us feel like we’re making a difference, but we’re not. With all our licences, forms and permissions, what difference does it make? None that I can see. That’s when I found this bottle. Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ said Lapsewood. ‘I can do something. I can put right that which I’ve made wrong.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Grunt. ‘Good luck, Lapsewood.’
‘Good luck, Grunt.’