Lockwood And Co Quotes

Really?" "No. I'm being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember." "Irony's cleverer, so you're probably being sarcastic.

Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you.

- Plan F, we follow Plan F, right now. - Is that the one where we run away? - Not at all. It's the one where we beat a dignified emergency retreat.

Okay...' I hurried on. 'But why me?' 'You're a girl,' Lockwood called. 'Aren't you supposed to be more sensitive?' 'To emotions, yes. To nuances of human behavior. Not necessarily to secret passages in a wall.' 'Oh, it's much the same thing.

What, are you queuing now? Just how British are you people? Don’t just stand in line! Kill somebody!

I wasn't pretty, but as my mother once said, prettiness wasn't my profession.

It was one of those moments when a great Don't Care wave hits you, and you float off on it, head back, looking at the sky.

Well, I make that one murder victim, one police interrogation and one conversation with a ghost,” George said. “Now that’s what I call a busy evening.” Lockwood nodded. “To think some people just watch television.

Well, when you're being held at gunpoint by a geriatric madman in a metal skirt, you've kind of hit rock bottom anyway. It can't really get much worse.

Well,' Lockwood said, "if you judge success by the number of enemies you make, that was a highly successful evening.

Death is fugitive; even when you're watching for it, the actual instant somehow slips between your fingers. You don't get that sudden drop of the head you see in movies. Instead you simply sit there, waiting for something to happen, and all at once you realize you've missed it.

This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly around the face and boot her moaning backside out into the night. Which is why he's the leader, and I'm not. Also why I have no female friends.

Nothing could keep me from you. Nothing in life or Death...

It wasn't the body," he said. "I've seen worse things in our fridge.

Ah, two firm friends, reunited at last! There should be sweet violin music playing for us, but I'll settle for the screams of the dying.

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.

God rest her soul and may she never walk at night

Of the first few hauntings I investigated with Lockwood & Co. I intend to say little, in part to protect the identity of the victims, in part because of the gruesome nature of the incidents, but mainly because, in a variety of ingenious ways, we succeeded in messing them all up.

I'ts how I want to remember him, the way he was that night: with horrors up ahead and horrors at our back, and Lockwood standing in between them, calm and unafraid.

When you go out hunting wicked spirits, it's the simple things that matter most. The silvered point of your rapier flashing in the dark; the iron filings scattered on the floor; the sealed canisters of best Greek Fire, ready as a last resort... 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. OK, they may not save your life like a sword-tip or an iron circle can, and they haven't the protective power of a sudden wall of fire. But they do provide something just as vital. They help keep you sane.

Let's have the baddish one first,' George said. 'I prefer my misery to come at me in stages, so I can acclimatize on the way.

Never touch a mummified body part if you don't know where it's been. That's my motto.” [- Lockwood] “Holds true with unmummified ones too,” George said. “That's the motto I live by.

You shouldn’t have done it,” I said. “You shouldn’t have risked yourself.” “Come off it,” Lockwood said. “You know I’d die for you.” He chuckled. “Heaven knows, I’ve come near it often enough. Scrambling down a crack in the ground is nothing…

Who says I’m dying? Did you see the amount of sheer effort it took me to escape the land of the dead? I’m not going back in now!

There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George's stomach. Plaster didn't actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close.

George,' I croaked, 'are you okay?' 'No. Someone's buttocks are flattening my foot.' I shifted my position irritably.

At last! Am I glad to see you! Right, stab this guy quickly, and let's be going.

This is what the Problem means,” he went on. “This is the effect it has. Lives lost, loved ones taken before their time. And then we hide our dead behind iron walls and leave them to the thorns and ivy. We lose them twice over, Lucy. Death’s not the worst of it. We turn our faces away.

Is it just me,' Kipps said, 'or does that boy need punching?' 'It's not just you.

His face was uniquely slapable - a nun would have ached to punch him - while his backside cried out to heaven for a well-placed kick.

Strange how close the darkness is, even when things seem brightest. Even in the glare of a summer noon, when the sidewalk bakes and iron fences are hot to the touch, the shadows are still with us. They congregate in doorways and porches, and under bridges, and beneath the brims of gentlemen’s hats so you cannot see their eyes. There is darkness in our mouths and ears; in our bags and wallets; within the swing of men’s jackets and beneath the flare of women’s skirts. We carry it around with us, the dark, and its influence stains us deep.

I was having dark thoughts about waffles.

You're not our leader,' Dave said. 'No, but I know what I'm doing, which is a nice alternative.' - Lucy

I suggest we go into business together. ‘Carlyle and Skull,’ we’d call it, or possibly ‘Skull and Co.’ Yes, that’s it, with a little picture of me over the door. I can see it now….

In my eyes, refusing cake is an immoral act.

The skull’s…spirit? He…he looks different.” The youth scowled. “Yeah? You look just the same. I was banking on frostbite taking a few of your fingers, or even your nose. Here’s hoping something else has dropped off that I don’t know about. If not, I’ll be sorely disappointed.” Lockwood stared. “Does he always talk like this?” “No. Usually he’s worse. See what I have to put up with?

At Lockwood & Co., George was famous for not being able to throw or catch with any accuracy. Back in the kitchen at Portland Row, even the casual passing out of fruit or bags of chips became an exercise fraught with danger.

Has anyone got any bandages? I've just split my sides laughing.

Because you're unique . You shine like a beacon, attracting the attention of all dark things." It chuckled. "Why do you think I'm chatting with you?

She was so radiant, it was like the other-light was already on her.

It was higher and shriller than Holly’s, so we knew that it was Kipps.

Oh, we'll suffer in silence. You've given us plenty of practice at that.

Ignoring the whispers of the skull, which kept suggesting different, unlikely kitchen utensils that could be used for murder, I sketched out a map of the room.

Whatever the cost, as long as you’re in my company, be sure I’ll always be there for you.

It was a time of beginnings and a time of endings.

Penelope Fittes—” “Has got nothing whatsoever to do with it, as you well know. It was Lockwood who came knocking on your door, and that’s why you considered the proposal, and let’s face it, that’s why you said yes.

Lucy, I’m a malevolent skull, without an ounce of compassion. You’ve got to be worried if I’m feeling sorry for you.

They were hot, itchy, and hard to see out of, plus the wool covered our mouths and made it difficult to speak. Aside from that, it was a joy to wear them.

If she’d repeatedly fallen over while crossing soft ground, you could have sewn a crop of beans in the chin-holes she left behind.

Do you trust me?' the skull said. ... 'Yes,' I said. 'Sort of.' 'Then break the bloody glass.

Doubts, like ghosts, gain strength in darkness; even with the dawn I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing.

More ghosts have been created in bedrooms than anywhere else.

This guy’s a drag.” I spoke under my breath. “He sure is.” “Know what I suggest?” “Yep. And the answer’s no. I’m not going to kill him.” “Oh, you’re no fun.

It's a curious thing with George. With his glasses off, his eyes looked small and weak - blinky and a bit baffled, like an unintelligent sheep that's taken a wrong turn. But when he put them on again, they went all sharp and steely, more like the eyes of an eagle that eats dumb sheep for breakfast.

His rapier was at his belt, glittering as he swung. He reached down, ripped the sword clear. I jumped over a slashing frond of plasm, spun round with the water bottle in my hand. I hurled it across to Lockwood. George threw his rapier to me. Watch this now. Sword and bottle, sailing through the air, twin trajectories, arching beautifully through the mass of swirling tendrils towards Lockwood and me. Lockwood held out his hand. I held out mine. Remember I said there was that moment of sweet precision when we gelled perfectly as a team? Yeah, well. This wasn't it. The rapier shot past, missing me by miles. It skidded halfway across the floor. The bottle struck Lockwood plumb in the centre of his forehead, knocking him through the window. There was a moment's pause. 'Is he dead?' the skulls voice said 'Yay! Oh. No, he's hanging onto the shutters. Shame. Still, this is defiantly the funniest thing I've ever seen. You three really are incompetence on a stick

Do you remember,” George went on, “what we found in the tunnels beneath Aickmere’s? Aside from a massive pile of human bones.” “I found Lucy,” Lockwood said.

Here we go," the Skull sighed. "Cue crisis!

Is mindless violence your solution to everything?” The ghost considered. “Pretty much, yeah.

What could it be? Not a date, surely—the boy’s got eyes.

I’d never punched an old lady before; I didn’t have any problem doing so now.

George had his faraway look, the one that made him look like a constipated owl.

A warm feeling filled me. It was made of tea and biscuits and sudden gratitude.

Lockwood gave a sudden exclamation; when I looked at him, his eyes were shining. 'On second thoughts, we can scrap my last suggestion,' he said. 'Stuff the mingling. Who wants to do that? Boring. George - this library. Where is it?

Our eyes adjusted; we gazed at what was in the room. And then I felt the floor pitch under me, as if we were suddenly at sea. George cleared his throat. I put out my hand to clench his arm. Lockwood stood slightly behind us, waiting. "Your parents?" I was the first to find my voice. "Close," Anthony Lockwood said. "My sister.

Ooh, I smell something burning... Wait, wait - it's your pants ! Your pants are on fire, you massive liar ! You so weren't on a case !

Burglary’s more fun than socializing, I always say.

But Holly the gun-toting, wild-haired madwoman of the night before was in there somewhere, I knew. It made me look upon her with fond affection.

Well, she may think it was her idea, but I’d been looking for an excuse to get you back all winter.

Can I offer you some tea while you ransack our place?' Lockwood asked politely.

What have they done to your poor arm?' - Holly 'Oh, don't worry, it's just a graze.' - Lucy 'I'm talking about the bandages. That's simply the most incompetent bit of first aid I've ever seen. Lockwood, George - how much dressing did you use?

In the meantime,” he said, “There are ghosts to foil and lives to save. But right now, it’s a lovely evening and I’m going for a stroll. That was the other thing I’d wanted, to see if you’ll come with me?

I see things . . . beautiful things . . .

Okay, maybe I’d been a little ratty, but there’s something about rotting corpses leaping at my face that puts me a bit on edge.

We were a total mess. We'd been up all night. We smelled of ectoplasm, salt, and fear. We looked at one another, and grinned. Then we began laughing.

Looks?” the skull said. “Who cares about that? It’s superficial. Outward appearance doesn’t interest me at all. Why do you think I hang around with you?” It chuckled. “Insult aside, that’s just one way in which I’m superior to every one of you, except for Cubbins.” I blinked. “What? Why? What’s George got to do with anything?” “What a person looks like doesn’t bother him much, or hadn’t you noticed?

Lockwood sat up awkwardly, adjusting his Bubble-Wrapped loops of chain. 'We're in good shape,' he said. 'We've lost the heavy duty chains and the stuff in the bags, but we've got our rapiers, iron, and silver seals. And we've found what we wanted now.' I stared at the clean, calm surface of the door. 'Why couldn't it come after us? Ghosts can pass through walls.' Lockwood shrugged. 'In some cases a Visitor is tied so completely to the room where it met its death that it no longer has any conception of there being any adjacent space at all. So...when we left its hunting ground, it was as if we ceased to exist, as if we ceased to be....' I looked at him. 'You haven't really got a clue, have you?' 'No.

He gripped me tighter around the waist and pulled me to him. “No,” he said into my ear. “No, Lucy. That’s not the way it’s going to be.

Then I realized he was still holding my hand.

This is the way it was with Lockwood, his shifts were sometimes so sudden that they took your breath away. But his energy and enthusiasm were always impossible to resist.

Unfortunately, the body within the uniform belonged to Quill Kipps, so the overall effect was like watching a plague rat lick a bowl of caviar. Yes, the classy element was there, but it wasn’t what you focused on.

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.

Lockwood didn’t speak until everything was quiet again. “I know you’re worrying about me, Luce,” he said. “But you really mustn’t. These things happen when you’re an agent. You’ve been snared by ghosts in the past, haven’t you? There was the one that made the bloody footprints, and the thing in the tunnels below the Aickmere Brothers store. But it’s fine, because I helped you then, and you’ve helped me now. We’re there to help each other. If we do that, we’ll get through.” Which was a lovely thing to say, and it made me feel a little warmer. I just had to hope it was true.

We’re in line to get to you.” “What, are you queuing now? Just how British are you people? Don’t just stand in line! Kill somebody!

It's a commonly known fact that while cats can't stand ghosts, spiders love them.

His dark eyes sparkled as he looked into mine. In that instant it was as if nothing in the world fascinated him as much as me.

Mr Lockwood,' he said slowly. 'It's like the end of the world.

Holly, you look upset. Crack those doughnuts open.' 'Thanks, I'll have an apple.' 'You've got to learn that when you're stressed, an apple doesn't cut it.

What a great article," Lockwood said, for the twentieth time that day. "Couldn't have been better." "They spelled my name wrong," I pointed out. "They didn't mention me at all," George said. "Well, in all the essentials, I mean." Lockwood grinned round at us.

Strange, sometimes, how you make a particular choice. When it's not a specific thought or line of argument that decides you, but more a set of jumbled sensations that changes your mind.

Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you. Everything pauses while you do familiar things with taps and kettles; it allows you to catch your breath and become calm.

Take me! You need a companion.” “Yep,” I said. “And I’m going with Lockwood.” In fact, I had to hurry. I could hear him putting his coat on in the hall. “Aha…Are you? Oh, I see. Better leave you to it, then.” “Right. Good.” I paused. “Meaning what?” “Nothing, nothing.” The evil eyes winked at me. “I’m no third wheel.” “I don’t

He looked like a kid caught making an angel in the snow, except his glasses had been blown off and one of his hands was bleeding. He breathed heavily; his belly rose and fell. I knelt close. 'George?' A groan, a cough. 'It's too late. Leave me....Let me sleep....' I shook him firmly, slapped the side of his face. 'George, you've got to wake up! George, *please.* Are you okay?' An eye opened. 'Ow. That cheek was the one part of me that *wasn't* sore.' 'Here, look - your glasses.' I scooped them out of the ash, put them on his chest.

I opened my mouth to speak – but before I could do so, the ghost gave its response. It was brief, pungent, and to the point. I passed it on. Lockwood started. ‘Charming! Hold on – was that from you or the ghost?’ ‘The ghost, of course.’ George whistled. ‘I’m not sure I should write that down.

But certainly the two best-known tales in the neighborhood - the key hauntings, if you will - concern the Red Room and the Screaming Staircase.' There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George's stomach. Plaster didn't actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close. 'Sorry,' he said cheerfully. 'Famished. I think I"ll have another doughnut, if you don't mind. Any takers?

He was very close to me. Our hands stayed on the windowsill like they were glued there. All at once he stepped back. “In the meantime,” he said, “there are ghosts to foil and lives to save. But right now it’s a lovely evening, and I’m going for a stroll. That was the other thing I wanted, to see if you’d come with me.” He adjusted his collar. “It’s the first outing for my new coat. What do you think of it?

Lucy doesn't like orange juice with floating bits,' George said. 'You remember.' 'Oh, yes. That's right. They get caught between your teeth, don't they?' I was staring at him. My warm feeling had partially retreated. 'I'll take the orange juice. So Holly stayed over last night?' 'Personally I've always thought straining it through your teeth is part of the fun,' Lockwood said. 'You can pretend you're a blue whale.

Don’t worry. I know we have our differences, but there’s a lot of mutual respect there. If he hesitates, I’ll sweet-talk him. He won’t let us down.” “That total and utter idiot,” Lockwood growled. “That mustachioed imbecile. That benighted, blinkered jobsworth. He’s a clown! A fraud! An oaf! I hate him.” “How’s the mutual respect thing going?” George said.

Lockwood stepped aside, his boots crunching across the salt, to stand and study the paper beneath the light. No such luck with George; he came in close, his eyes bulging so much behind his spectacles, they almost pressed against the glass. 'I can't *believe* you did that, Lucy. You're crazy! *Purposefully* freeing a ghost!' 'It was an experiment,' I said. 'Why are you complaining? You're always messing about with that stupid jar of yours.' 'There's no comparison. I keep that ghost *in* in the jar. Anyway, it's scientific research. I do it under carefully controlled conditions.' 'Carefully controlled? I found it in the bathtub the other day!' 'That's right. I was testing the ghost's reaction to heat.' 'And to bubble bath? There were bubbles all over the jar. You put some nice soapy fragrance in that water, and...' I stared at him. 'Do you get in the tub with it, George?' His face flushed. 'No, I do not. Not as a rule. I - I was saving time. I was just getting in myself when it occurred to me I could do a useful experiment about the resistance of ectoplasm to warmth. I wanted to see if it would contract...' He waved his hands wildly in the air. 'Wait! Why am I explaining myself to *you*? You just unleashed a ghost in our house!

Lucy, I’ve been meaning to say: that was an impressive move back there – what you did with the rapier.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘You aimed it perfectly, right between their heads. An inch to the left, and you’d have skewered George right between the eyes. Really sensational accuracy there.’ I made a modest gesture. ‘Well . . . sometimes you just do what has to be done.’ ‘You didn’t actually aim it at all, did you?’ Lockwood said. ‘No.’ ‘You just chucked it. In fact, it was pure blind luck that George lost his balance and fell out of the way. That’s why he wasn’t kebabbed by you.’ ‘Yup.

Hey, Flo! It’s Lockwood!’ Silence. The figure straightened abruptly; I thought for a moment it was going to turn and run. But then the voice came again, faint, hostile and guarded. ‘You? What the bloody hell do you want?’ ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ Lockwood murmured. ‘She’s in a good mood.’ He cleared his throat, called out again. ‘Can you talk?’ The distant person considered; for a few seconds we heard nothing except the sloop and slosh of the river along the shore. ‘No. I’m busy! Go away.’ ‘I’ve brought liquorice!’ ‘What, you’re trying to bribe me now? Bring money!’ More silence; just the sucking of the water. Away in the haze a head was cocked to one side. ‘What kind of liquorice?