Catherine Fisher - Corbenic

Trevor reversed the car into a sloping driveway lined with terracotta pots and pulled up carefully. “This is it. I’ll let you in, and then I’ll have to get back to the office. You can make yourself at home.”

Cal bundled the jacket under one arm, carefully rewrapping the sword’s dangerous blade. He wished he’d left the hateful thing behind. But somehow it was important. It was his sanity; the only thing that proved that Corbenic had been real.

He waited while Trevor unlocked the white door with its gleaming brass knocker, enjoying the quiet. God, this place was so different. Another world. In Sutton Street, right now, a disused stove rusted outside number eight, and the doors would all be open; music would be blaring from somewhere, and tonight there’d be all the usual fights, kids on street corners, new graffiti on the walls. But not here. This was quiet. Detached. He said the word to himself, as if he savored it.

“I’ll just go and check there’s enough milk.” Trevor went quickly into the kitchen, and Cal dumped his rucksack on the spotless cream carpet and stood there, arms full of wrapped sword.

This was it. This was what he’d dreamed of. There were a few magazines at home, glossy, Homes and Gardens . His mother had kept them; sometimes, on her good days, she’d get them out and sit there, among all the mess, flicking the pages, smoking nonstop. “One day, Cal,” she’d say, over the exquisitely tasteful rooms. “One day this’ll be us.” Maybe when he was a kid he had believed her. But not now. Not for years.

Yet here it was. Sofas of softest cream leather, paintings, delicate curtains, big arty-looking vases. A huge, open-plan room, nothing out of place. Warm. Clean. His uncle’s computer on an ebony desk. Television. State-of-the-art sound system. Leatherbound books, all matching. He even felt classier as he looked at it.

“Right.” Trevor came in, gave the rucksack the briefest flicker of annoyance and rubbed his small hands together nervously. “Your bedroom is the one at the back. Have a shower, get yourself something to eat. I’ll be back a bit late, and Thérèse will be coming at about eight; we’re going out for supper. So I’m afraid you’ll have the place to yourself tonight.”

“No problem.” Cal picked the rucksack up, awkward.

“Cal.” Halfway out of the door his uncle paused. He didn’t turn, but spoke to Cal through the chrome-edged mirror. “A few ground rules. No mess. No drugs. No smoking. No fights. No friends—of either gender—back here without asking me. You wash up what you use, look after your own clothes, shop for any food you want.” He pulled an odd, apologetic face. “Though I’m sure you’ve been doing that for a long time now.”

Cal shrugged. They both knew that.

“It’s just . . . It’s a big thing I’m doing here for you. Getting you this job. Having you in my house. A risk. Don’t let me down, Cal.”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” Cal said drily. He knew a threat when he heard it. “Do you think I’m going to jeopardize all this?”

Trevor shook his head, half-smiling. “No, I don’t. You’re like me, I know that. But this is my place, Cal, that’s all. I’ll see you about six then.”

After the car had pulled away Cal stood in the room, listening to its silence, smelling the faint leathery, soapy smells of the house. In the quiet the fridge hummed. Then he kicked his boots off and crossed the immaculate carpet. He wanted to dump the sword but nowhere seemed right. Through the first door was a kitchen, just as spick-and-span, obviously barely used. A chrome espresso machine—at least that’s what he thought it was—had a postcard propped against it, a photo of some vineyard, with a French stamp. See you Friday , it said. Brought us a good vintage. Thérèse.

For a second as he put the card down Cal knew he was in a place as alien to him as the castle of Corbenic, if not more so. Then the feeling was gone, and he looked for the stairs. They were open-plan, blond wood. A great skylight let a shaft of sunlight down on him as he found the back bedroom and went in. The walls, like all those in the house, were palest cream, with an abstract print of some blotches of orange and green. The carpet was charcoal gray, and the bed had a black-and-white striped duvet. He sat on it slowly. There was a fitted cupboard, which he jumped up and opened. It was empty, but for a neat row of hangers. Cal grinned. At home a whole pile of junk and dirty washing would have tumbled out.

He remembered the sword suddenly and crouched, kneeling, tipping it out of his jacket and shoving it far under the bed, right under because it didn’t fit in this place, didn’t belong. But even when he stood up again he knew it was there, a blot on this perfection. He’d sell it. The thought made him laugh aloud; then he went to the window and drew aside the delicate lace curtains.

The estate was hushed. Birds sang. A car purred softly down the hill. No one passed by, no one. The houses were all new, every garden tended, every errant leaf carefully swept up. Beyond he could see a line of forestry toward Tintern, deep, green wooded slopes. And the castle.

He stared at it almost in dismay. For a moment his fingers were tight on the curtain; then he took a deep breath and made himself smile. It wasn’t the same. It was Chepstow Castle of course, a Norman ruin on the clifftop, a gaunt gray mass of roofless towers and halls. He’d seen it from the train. It was open to the public. It wasn’t the same. Still, it annoyed him. It was old, and broken. It spoiled his view.

He showered and changed in the pristine bathroom and cleaned up carefully afterward, hanging his clothes meticulously, putting his few shirts into the empty drawers, every color separate, then made himself coffee and some sandwiches and took them into the huge room, switching the lamps on and drawing the curtains on the sudden November twilight. Almost reluctantly he sat on the leather sofa; it was so soft he almost spilled the cup and he swore, and then grinned.

There were plenty of CDs; he flicked through them and pulled a face. Sinatra, jazz, middle-of-the-road stuff. Thick square candles lined the fire surround. They’d never been lit.

On the table next to him was a gray, slim phone. He looked at it for a long time, sipping the coffee; even when the cup was empty it was an effort for him to put it down, and reach over and pick the phone up. The dialing tone purred reassuringly. He dialed the number. She took a long time to answer; he almost put it down in relief but then the familiar voice said, “Cal? Is that you?” She was bad. He knew that right away, just from the quaver in her voice.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Oh God, Cal, where are you? Where have you been? Trevor said . . .”

“I’m all right.” He felt it creeping back on him already, the impatience, the irritation. “I had to stop in a hotel last night. I’m here now, at Trevor’s.” He glanced around. “It’s really nice.”

She giggled meaninglessly. “You’re coming back, aren’t you? I forget when. . . .”

“I told you. I’m getting a job here. At Trevor’s office. I told you.”

“The bin’s full,” she said hopelessly. “How do I empty it? And last night, Cal, the voices were in my room. I heard them, they were in the chimney and they were telling that story again. . . .”

His fingers were tight on the phone. “Have you taken your pills?”

“Pills? Which ones?”

“The blue ones. Remember? The ones Doctor Lewis said . . .”

“Oh, I’ve taken them. All of them.”

“ALL of them?” For a second his heart thudded. “What do you mean, all of them?”

“Haven’t I? I thought I had. The story was the one about the bed, Cal, and if you lay in the bed the voices come there too, and there are curtains round it, and a sword in the pillow.”