Catherine Fisher - Corbenic

He’d sort it out with his mother. New Year’s—he’d go home at New Year’s. He’d tell her, tonight. It would be all right.

Picking up the rest of the clothes he felt the stiffness of satin, and looked at them curiously. Doublets, medieval robes. For a moment, the glimmer of them was the glimmer and rustle of the fabrics at Corbenic. He dumped them and went out.

Chapter Fifteen

She has wronged me too grieviously.

Parzival

The numbers wouldn’t add up. Tossing down the pen he leaned his head on his hands and yawned. He was confused and tired and bored, and to cap it all, just then Phyllis came in and said acidly, “There’s a phone call for you. On your uncle’s private line.” It was like an accusation.

He got up wearily, and went into the other office, closing the door. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver firmly and said, “Yes?” He still hadn’t told her. He’d do it now. But it wasn’t his mother.

“Is this . . . Cal?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh hello, Cal. I’m sorry to ring but this was the only number I could find; I’m so glad I could get hold of you.” A woman. Sounding nervous.

He sat down slowly on Trevor’s chair. “Who is this?”

Some nurse. Some policewoman. But she said, “You don’t know me—well, your mother may have mentioned me. My name’s Rhian. I’m her case worker.”

Dull relief warmed him. “Yes. She’s told me about you.”

“Look. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. I mean, I know how it must have been for you. She’s told me a few things. I know how the children . . . suffer in these cases.”

“What do you want?” he said, his voice tight.

She seemed to hesitate; there was a tiny breath. “It’s about Christmas.”

He was chewing his nails; he made himself stop. “What?”

Then it all came out in a rush. “Cal, you will be home, won’t you? I’m sure you think I’m incredibly rude for interfering like this—Annie doesn’t know, of course—but it’s just that she’s made so much effort. She’s desperate to see you. She feels . . . well she feels she’s driven you away and that you can’t forgive her. That you’ve gone like your father went.”

Cal stood up, shaking with rage. “My father! What do you mean, my father!”

“Cal, I . . .”

“Who the hell are you to talk to me like this! You have no idea who I am!” His voice was raw, stammering. He didn’t care.

“I’m sorry. Please . . .”

He was holding the phone so tight it hurt. “Whether or not I come home at Christmas is up to me, do you understand? Me . No one else! No bloody social worker!”

“It’s for your mother, Cal. That’s the only reason I’m asking you. I know I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. It was clumsy. All I want to know is that you’re coming. I really think that if you don’t come she’ll relapse.”

That sweet, sincere tone. He’d heard it so often it turned him sick.

“That’ll be my fault, will it!”

“Of course not. It’s just . . .”

“Well you needn’t bother worrying. I’m coming home on Christmas Eve. Now get off my bloody back!” He crashed the phone down hard. For a moment he stood there breathing deep. Behind him the door creaked. Phyllis had made sure she had heard every word.

He swung around, grabbed his coat, and slammed out of the office.

Chepstow was cold, frosty. It was four days to Christmas and the schools had broken up; kids were in the shops, and outside Boots a tiny merry-go-round purred round and round, empty except for one little boy sitting on his mother’s lap and laughing. All the windows were lit with fairy lights and tinselly decorations that reflected hundreds of tiny colored glimmers into Cal’s eyes. Hot with rage he walked through them all, then found himself staring in at Oxfam’s old clothes, clutching his arms tight around his body, his mind saying, “Money. I’ll send money,” over and over.

Slowly, he made himself cool down. Getting worked up didn’t help. He had to control it. His training with Hawk had helped him see that.

There was another of the MISSING posters on the Oxfam window. He reached out for it but it was inside, so he touched only glass.

Sophie Lewis. It was her. He should warn her about them. How could she hate what he had always wanted? How could a big house and private school and skiing holidays be hell? What did she know about hell?

When he got home he was surprised to hear Thérèse humming in the kitchen. The immaculate living room was rich with the smells of cooking; Cal knew Trevor would be annoyed about that.

He had meant to march straight upstairs and put the opera on, to slam his door and lie buried in the music of the Grail but Thérèse put her head out and said, “Coffee?”

Cal sank onto the cream sofa. “Thanks.” But if she mentioned Christmas, he thought . . .

She brought it out on a tray, with two delicate cups and some almond biscuits. It smelled as he thought France must smell. One day, when he’d made his money . . .

Thérèse poured from the cafetière and added a splash of hot milk. She sat back and curled her feet up luxuriously. Perhaps she saw he was upset; she sipped the coffee and was quiet for a while, and then said, “Trevor phoned. His client was late. We’re dining in tonight. For a change.”

He nodded, scratching absently at a tiny mark in the blond wood.

“Join us, Cal. We’ve barely eaten with you since you came.”

He smiled, wan. “I thought I’d go to Hawk’s.”

“Your New Age friends?”

He nodded.

“You like them?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

She smiled. “I did too. That girl, I liked her.” She leaned over. “Don’t take any notice of what Trevor says, Cal. Friends are important.”

He rubbed the warm cup between his hands. “Are you going to marry him?” he asked quietly.

Thérèse didn’t seem surprised. Her dark, curly hair had come loose and a trail of it curled on the fluffy sweater she wore. After a moment she said, “Trevor is . . . different from me. I love him, he’s a dear. But . . .”

“He’s too tidy.”

It was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. Instead she said sadly, “He doesn’t want children.”

Cal was silent. No, he thought. Not Trevor. Not a crying baby, not all the mess, the sickness, the toys, the greasy fingermarks on the furniture. Not all the upheaval in this perfect life he’d made for himself.

“But you do?”

She smiled. “I do, Cal. And I want a warm, messy kitchen and flowers and a grubby dog and dirty wellingtons and a real log fire.”

He nodded, and drank the coffee. She said, “You’re like him.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, chéri. But don’t be too like him, Cal. Something died in him, long ago. Don’t let it die in you too.”

Embarrassed, he put the cup down and took one of the biscuits. To change the subject, abruptly he said, “She’s run away from home, did you know? Shadow. There are posters round the town. She should be in Bath doing A levels.”

“No!” Thérèse sat up. “But that’s terrible. Her parents must be frantic! You must tell her to go home, Cal. After all, it’s Christmas, no? How could she do that to them?”

It stung him. He put the biscuit down, untouched.

Trevor’s key rattled suddenly in the lock.

“Don’t tell him,” he whispered urgently. “About Shadow.”

She nodded, reluctant. “Promise me you’ll talk to her.”

“I will,” he muttered.

But it was only after they’d seen the overcooked, crusty ruin of the pizza and Hawk had groaned and threatened the microwave with a battle-axe that he knew he would do it.

Hawk got up, his bristly head brushing the van roof. “That’s it. Chips. Fish. For three?”