Catherine Fisher: Darkhenge

How could it have been?

Something hard was under the covers. He put his hand under the sheets and tugged it out. It was a journal, purple with stars on the front.

CHLOE’S DIARY it said on the front in felt pen. KEEP OUT. OR ELSE.

Elastic bands kept it shut.

For a long time he looked at it, the childish letters, the silly stars. Then he slid the bands off and let the book fall open on a page.

It’s happened again. I drew a picture of Callie and he made fun of it. He snatched it off me and ran downstairs with it. Dan was there, and I could have DIED. I could hear them giggling about it. I hate him.

Rob hardly breathed. It hurt to breathe.

He remembered the stupid drawing, all out of proportion, and yes, he had snatched it and she’d been furious but … it had been a joke.

She always took things too seriously.

He snapped the book shut and shoved it back. Then he got up and went downstairs.

His father was watching Newsnight and talking to Father Mac; his mother was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. She brought it in and glanced at him quickly. “Hullo, sweetheart. I hear Maria is speaking to us all again.”

Rob nodded. His mother looked tired, but as glamorous as ever. Her makeup was perfect, her pale blue cashmere top casual and expensive. He didn’t know how she kept up the pretense. He said, “How’s Chloe?”

Her eyes widened. Father Mac’s hand made the briefest of pauses in its stretch for the tea. John Drew stared intently at the screen.

“The same.” His mother kept her voice steady. “Her eyes flickered. Just after seven. They said it was a muscular spasm. Otherwise, the same.”

They were silent; he nodded. Chloe was always the same. She had been the same—unmoving, her head lolling, fed intravenously—for three months and eight days. She would always be the same, which was why he couldn’t ask anymore.

He turned away. “I might be getting a job.”

The stillness shattered; they all moved at once. Father Mac took the cup, his father got up and went out, his mother flicked the television channels.

“A job?” the priest growled. “Who’s that desperate?”

“As an archaeological artist.”

“Sounds impressive. What do they pay?”

“No idea.” He sat down. “Actually, I don’t know anything about it, but it might be interesting.”

Father Mac nodded, drinking. “Something a bit different for the portfolio.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

They were doing what they always did. Making a conversation up, acting it out before his parents. Reassuringly normal. His mother was the actress, but now she sat there tired and subdued, like an audience at a boring play. Their whole life was a play, a pretense at normality, he thought, getting up to see Father Mac out.

“You get straight to bed, Katie Mcguire.” The priest took the remote control in his big hands and turned the television firmly off. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

She looked up at him, her eyes red rimmed. “How many more days? How many, Mac?”

Gently, he shook his head. “Trust the Lord, Kate. Trust him. We’ll get her back.” He paused a moment, his gray-stubbled face hard, his eyes steady. Then he called, “God bless, John!”

Out on the porch, Rob breathed in the night air. The darkness of the garden was soft with smells: wet grass, lavender, honeysuckle. Bats flitted, tiny dark flutters around the roof. His godfather came and stood next to him, a big clumsy shape that took out a cigarette and lit it. The lighter made a sputter of sound, a cobalt blue flame. It threw shadows on the priest’s face, moving hollows, darknesses. It would be good to draw him like that, Rob thought, to get all the edginess and danger that was in him.

The lighter went out; Father Mac started to walk down the drive. “So. Is this job at Avebury?”

“Not really. There’s some sort of new dig toward East Kennet. I might not go—it’s just an idea.”

“You go.” Mac turned at once. “If they think you’ve got something to fill your days, that’ll help them. Remember our deal, Robbie. Problems to me, normal face to them. Untroubled. Supportive. Your mother’s acting the biggest part of her life right now. Woman deserves an Oscar.” He smoked rapidly, his weight crunching the gravel on the winding drive. Behind him the trees were dark against the sky. Just before the road he turned. “That reminds me. What’s wrong?”

Rob grimaced. “Apart from the obvious, you mean?”

“Apart from that.”

“Nothing.”

“You look a bit … askew.”

“What?”

Mac snorted. “Knocked sideways.”

Rob smiled, alarmed. The big man was so sharp. It was as if he felt what you were thinking, picked up some sort of invisible vibe. For an instant Rob was ready to blurt it all out, about the girl on the horse who had been Chloe riding Callie, the horse that was dead now, that had been killed in the accident. For a second he was desperate to be reassured, to be told it couldn’t have happened, that it wasn’t real. But Mac wouldn’t say that. Mac would smoke and consider and say something deep that would keep him awake all night, wondering. So instead he opened the gate and laughed. “Think I’ve joined a New Age tribe.”

Mac groaned.

“People of the Cauldron, they call themselves. Waiting for a master to come down and lead them.”

“He’s already been. Hasn’t anyone told them?” Mac ground the cigarette butt out and tapped Rob on the shoulder. “Don’t you get mixed up with that guff. Well-meaning but totally confused, most pagans.”

Going through the gate he took a few steps and turned. “Did he turn up?”

“Who?”

“This guru.”

Rob shrugged. “Yes. His name’s Vetch.”

Father Mac looked at him a moment in disbelief. “Vetch. Very green.”

“What?”

“It’s the name of a plant. Better than Nettle, I suppose.” He snorted. “Or Hemlock.”

Watching the heavy figure wave and walk off up the village lane, Rob thought of the red-haired girl’s wide, astounded eyes. Whatever Darkhenge meant, Vetch had spoken the word they had been longing for. They had crowded around the stranger, talking, questioning, demanding explanations, but he had said little else, smiling wanly and standing there swaying slightly, exhausted, as if at the end of some long journey. And all the time, even when the tribe escorted him toward their dilapidated tents and vans, he had looked beyond them at Rob. A secret look. As if they shared something.

Glancing down at his hand, Rob flexed the fingers, feeling again the man’s wet, slippery grip. In the darkness he let himself think it.

The man had changed shape. Swallow, hare, fish. And so had the woman hunting him.

Wind stirred the trees, dripping spatters of rain, so he turned, and saw the lights were on in his mother’s bedroom. Against the rise of the downs the house was big and dark, holding all its sorrow tight, reclusive in its vast garden, and beyond it the sky faded from palest lemon to cobalt blue in a watercolor wash without boundaries.

The bedroom light went out.

Rob hurried back. On the way he passed Chloe’s old swing.

The wind rocked it, gently, back and forth.

S. SAILLE: WILLOW

This window has a crack. There’s a draft, very faint, coming from outside. Maybe if I can break the glass I can get some sort of message out.

The bird is in a cage. Like me. I hate that.

I won’t eat anything.

All I can see is forest. The castle is in the middle. He calls it a caer.

I wonder if Mum and Dad and Mac are devastated without me.

I wonder if Rob’s sorry now.