Catherine Fisher - Corbenic

Through the night in the silent house his thoughts tormented him, trapped in the endless agony of his selfishness, of his dread. He must have slept, because at some point the whole mess liquefied, became a whirlpool sweeping him down, into the golden hollow of a great cup, and he was scrambling hopelessly to climb out, but the sides were slippery and sheer and he fell back with a splash.

And there were all sorts of things with him in the red flood; Shadow was there with her face paint washed off, and Hawk, clinging to the wreckage of his shield, and Phyllis, swimming firmly with strong strokes.

“Little apple tree!” A voice hissed above him, and he looked up and saw Merlin. The madman was balanced, feet wide, on the lip of the cup; now he squatted and held out a long, shining lance and said, “Catch hold, knight. For the quest begins here. Here the marvels begin; here begin the terrors!”

With a great effort Cal flung his arm up and grabbed the lance, but his clutching fingers slid on it, and he saw that it was bleeding, great drops of blood, and it was the blood that filled the cup, the blood that was drowning him.

He let go, and fell, down and down, and the darkness came up around him, and it was sleep.

“Have a good time.” Cal leaned into the car.

“Thanks,” Thérèse said happily. “And give your mother my love.”

Trevor was fishing in his pocket. He brought out a small package. “This is for her,” he said. “Tell her . . . tell her Happy Christmas from me.”

Cal took it silently. Behind him the station announcements echoed. He turned. “I’d better go.”

For a second all he wanted to do was get back in the car. Thérèse put her hand on his arm. “It will be all right,” she said quietly. “As soon as you get there you will enjoy it. And it’s only for a few days. Think what it means to her, Cal.”

He nodded.

As the car turned in the forecourt and drove away he waved, seeing Thérèse’s hand waving back until they turned the corner and were gone. Then he picked up his bag and went into the station.

He got into the queue for the tickets but when he was two from the front he turned abruptly and went on to the station and sat on a bench, cold to his bones.

The station clock said nine twenty. At ten twenty he was still there. Trains came in and went out. Announcements echoed, reverberating lists of names and places he’d never been. People got on and off, kissed good-bye, bought newspapers, ran. Ordinary people. People going home for Christmas.

He was frozen; he couldn’t move. He watched them without curiosity, as if all feeling had drained out of him. As if he was invisible among them.

When the third train for Newport had left, the platform was empty. He stood up, numb with exhaustion.

Then he went home. To Otter’s Brook.

Chapter Sixteen

She greeted Arthur and all his household save Peredur.

And to Peredur she spoke wrathful, ugly words.

Peredur

He slept all day.

At six o’clock, bleary and rigidly careful, he dressed in crisp clean jeans, a pale shirt, a warm pullover, his dark jacket. He ate some cold meat and pickles that were in the fridge, washed up, tidied every object in every room, hoovered, rearranged Trevor’s Christmas cards in fanatical order of height and left a note for him on the dustless windowsill.

Hawk and Shadow were meeting him at seven. But first, he had to make that call. It took him five minutes to summon the strength to pick up the phone. Then, cold with fear, he grabbed it and rang his mother. “I can’t get there,” he said quickly, hurriedly. As if saying it fast would help, would make it easier for her. “The trains were all running late, and I got as far as Newport, but then the next two were canceled. Christmas, I suppose. Too many people.”

She was silent.

He said, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” It was very small, barely there.

“I’ll come after Christmas. I promise I will.” As he said it he believed it, and his heart went light and happy. Why not? He’d be part of the Company, it would be done, and he could go. Just for a few days. “And I’ll stay till New Year. You can show me all the things you’ve done. We can go out for a meal . . . it’ll be great.”

Another silence. Then she said, “All right, Cal.”

It wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed anything, even screaming. He was suddenly, breathlessly terrified. “Will you go to Sally’s? They’d love to have you for Christmas dinner. Or Rhian?”

“Rhian’s got her family,” she said. Her voice was distant, as if the line was failing. “I’ll be fine, Cal.”

“I’ll ring you. First thing. Wish you happy Christmas. I’ve got a present to give you from Trevor too.”

There was a small breath and a crackle. Did she believe him? What was she thinking?

“I love you, Cal.” She whispered it like she always did. Then she put the phone down.

He sat there, cold and still, hearing the purr at the other end, listening to it for long moments, before he put the receiver on his lap and rubbed his face with his hands, hard, up into his wet hair. He hated himself. For a terrible instant he thought the guilt would be too much for him, too heavy. And then he told himself it would be all right. Just a day. One day.

He went for a drink of water, downed it in one go, came back and pressed the button and redialed.

“Chepstow Police,” a man said.

Cal swallowed. “The girl on the posters,” he said quickly, in a clipped, hard voice. “Sophie Lewis, the one that’s missing. She’s living in a van parked up most nights in the Dell, by the castle. Tonight she’ll be at the pageant, at Caerleon. She’s dyed her hair black, and there’s a tattoo on her face.”

“Can I have your name . . . ?” The voice was quick but he cut it off, and on a sudden impulse of disgust flung the phone away from him onto the sofa so it bounced and the receiver fell off.

He walked rapidly to the door. But before he’d got three steps he had to come back and tidy the place up.

The night was frosty; all the stars brilliant.

In Caerleon strings of lightbulbs swung over the dark streets; as the van rattled past the museum and down the lane onto the barracks field, Cal saw that all the vans of the Company were parked there, and as Shadow opened the door and jumped out the smell of woodsmoke and trampled grass made Hawk grin.

“Give us a hand,” he said, dragging out swords and helmets and shields. Shadow ran around to help him, laughing.

Her laugh made Cal feel sick at what he’d done. But it was for the best. One day she’d thank him.

He found his own sword, and took it out of the case. It shone in the blue light.

The event for the public was fun, but short. Bonfires burned on the field; among them in the cold wind the Company staged a mock tournament and then a melee, with everyone fighting with swords and axes, pretending to be cut down, the audience clapping and drinking and balancing hot sausages and burgers.

Lying curled on the grass, breathless, Cal grinned to himself. For a second he forgot the whole world with the pleasure of being here, being part of something, the easy jokes, the friendly banter.

Until Kai came around and kicked his leg and said, “Get up, hero. It’s all over.”

He struggled up, and found he was cold. And sore. And muddy. At least he was wearing a costume, a grubby chain mail. As he thought it, he saw the crowd was thinning, the people traipsing to their cars, going home to warm Christmas Eves in decorated houses, the children put to bed early, too excited to sleep. In churches there would be singing, and masses, and small models of the crib. Tomorrow the whole Company would attend. Arthur insisted on it.