Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase

I stared at him. ‘For a minute there I thought you’d been listening to George.’

‘Lucy, I’ve not been listening to George.’

‘Really?’

‘No. I’m being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember.’

‘Irony’s cleverer, so you’re probably being sarcastic.

‘You’re a girl,’ Lockwood called. ‘Aren’t you meant to be more sensitive?’
‘To emotions, yes. To nuances of human behaviour. Not necessarily to secret passages in a wall.’
‘Oh, it’s much the same thing.

The shape neither shrank nor changed, nor became vaporous, nor departed, nor did any of the other things the Fittes Manual claims they’ll do when you give them hope of release.

‘Listen, Luce, you followed your instincts perfectly at Combe Carey, and because of that we all survived.’ He smiled at me. ‘I trust your Talent and your judgement, and I’m very proud to have you on my team. OK? So stop worrying about the past! The past is for ghosts. We’ve all done things that we regret. It’s what’s ahead of us that counts – right, George?’

Take his appearance. There was something about it that acted as a trigger to one’s worst instincts. His face was uniquely slappable – a nun would have ached to punch him – while his backside cried out to heaven for a well-placed kick. He slouched, he slumped, he scuffed his way about the house like something soft about to melt. His shirt was always untucked, his trainers extra-big, the laces trailing. I’ve seen reanimated corpses with better deportment than George.

Lockwood tossed the folder aside. ‘Well, that was useful.’

‘Really?’

‘No. I’m being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember.’

‘Irony’s cleverer, so you’re probably being sarcastic. What’s she say?’

Type Two always means someone’s done something to somebody

Might mean nothing; might mean a lot

But tea bags, brown and fresh and plenty of them, and made (for preference) by Pitkin Brothers of Bond Street, are perhaps the simplest and best of all