Corbenic (6 page)

He put the phone down, and found he was sweating. As if he'd run for miles and miles. In the warm, still room he felt exhausted, and it was true, he had run, hadn't he; run away and left her to fend for herself, though everyone knew she couldn't. And it was illness, it wasn't her fault, not really. But he couldn't take it anymore, and he wouldn't think about it, because Sally lived down the road and it'd be all right. And he wouldn't think about Corbenic, either, because that was in him, that was worse.

So he washed up, and when Trevor came home he said hello to Thérèse, who turned out to be as well dressed and elegant as he'd thought she would, her voice faintly accented. French, maybe. Waiting for Trevor, she perched on the edge of the sofa. “So. You'll be working at the accountants'?”

“Four days a week. On Wednesdays I have to go to college. For a course.”

She smiled, her dark hair gleaming. A faint scent of perfume drifted from her. “Is that what you want?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, surprised.

She nodded kindly. “That's good then. That you know what you want.”

When they'd gone he watched television all night, a meaningless babble of programs and then went up and lay in the comfort of the black-and-white bed, one lamp throwing soft shadows on the ceiling. It was beautifully, wonderfully silent. No baby crying through the walls. No lying awake wondering what time his mother would come in. But he did lie awake, wondering just that, for a long time.

Chapter Six

“Alas that I have you in my sight,” she said, “since you failed so completely.”

Parzival

I
t was the quiet he couldn't get used to. He stared out of the window at the cul-de-sac; even on a Saturday morning it was deserted, except for one man washing his car a few doors down. “They don't live so much outside here,” he said quietly. “It's all indoors.”

“And that's how I like it.” Trevor turned a page of the
Financial Times
and poured another glass of orange juice. Freshly squeezed, of course. He sipped it. “Some of them I've never even seen. It's just a dormitory really.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Five years. Since it was built.” He looked up, and in the shiny reflection of the window Cal saw that his face was amused. “I couldn't get to grips with it either, when I first moved out. No one bothering you. You think it's normal, all that living in each other's pockets, all that rubbish and dog muck on the streets, the boarded windows, the burned-out cars. Knowing what places not to go, who's buying, who's selling, whose eyes not to meet.” He chuckled, but Cal couldn't even smile. “God, I couldn't believe how different things were here. It was like a weight off my shoulders.” For a second then, an odd haunted look came into his eyes. He glanced down at the paper quickly. “It'll be the same for you.”

Cal nodded. It was true. He realized that he could walk down to the town right now and no one—
no one
—would know him. He could do exactly what he liked. He was free. It made him restless; he turned. “Thought I'd go for a walk. Explore.”

Trevor looked slightly relieved, but just nodded. “Fine. I'm at the office till twelve, then golf. The day's yours. You may as well enjoy it. Work starts on Monday.”

As he pulled on his jacket upstairs, Cal grinned to himself. He'd break his rules and buy a few things. Batteries for the Walkman. Maybe some new music. It was a day to celebrate. And he'd find the bank and see about having his account moved down here. For a second he remembered the sword and frowned. There must be a junk shop somewhere. Or antiques. He had a vivid image of himself chatting confidently with an impressed shop owner, being told the sword was worth thousands. Well, it might make a bit. He'd find out.

As he walked down the hill between the open-plan gardens he felt calm. The sunshine was warm on the clean pavements, and the few leaves still on the cherry trees were gloriously red and gold. He felt so happy he even let himself think about Corbenic. That brought the shadows back.

He couldn't explain anything of what had happened. Bron's banquet had been real, but had anyone else seen the strange cup or the bleeding lance, or felt that terrible, devastating longing, that pure joy? And in the morning it had all been ruined. As if there were layers of reality, one inside the other like an onion, and he'd peeled off two, by mistake. The only other explanation—the one Trevor would give—was that he'd been drunk, or had somehow arrived at the ruined castle and dreamed it all. But he hadn't. The sword proved that. And the note, but he'd lost the note. He must have dropped it in the scramble through the neglected garden, but he could remember exactly what it had said. It made him shiver; brought a sudden bitter coldness into his joy. Why did nothing ever go right? What was wrong with him?

Down at the bottom of the road the new houses faded out; he crossed into a street of older properties, and he had no idea where he was, so he followed it, as if walking anywhere would make him forget. And at the end of the street he found the town center.

Chepstow was old, and steep. The main street ran downhill, a haphazard tumble of shops and cafés and banks and a post office, splitting into little side streets so narrow they were more like alleys, with tiny dingy-looking pubs jutting onto the pavements, their blackboards chalked with the soup of the day or the chef's special. He wandered down. He knew that right at the bottom was the river, and the bridge that crossed into England, and the castle, guarding the crossing, but he didn't really want to go that far. Because it was a Saturday the place was busy; he drifted around charity shops and looked idly in window displays and the sun was almost warm and his happiness came quietly back.

He went to the bank and sat at a desk filling in a form, being called sir and enjoying it. In Woolworth's he bought batteries and looked at new CDs, because he couldn't listen to Trevor's stuff, but they were expensive and there was nothing he particularly wanted. In the town's only department store he wandered into the coffee shop and bought an espresso and sat in a corner sipping it, with a family opposite, the boy and girl laughing and drinking Coke, all four of them well scrubbed and well spoken and looking like something from an advertisement.

Tearing open the thin tube of sugar he felt lonely all at once. The woman—the kids' mother—had caught his glance and he looked away in case she guessed. He stirred the dark liquid and sipped it, though it was too hot. He'd have to get some friends. But kids of his age wouldn't be here. They'd be in the pubs and fast-food places. Cal scowled. He hated burgers. They reminded him of home. Anyway, kids of his age weren't much like him, he knew that only too well. He wanted good clothes, classy food. There wasn't anyone, really, much like him.

He put the empty cup down and looked up. There was a girl watching him. She was out in the department beyond the glass door. Curtains, bedding, that sort of thing.

Cal looked away, slightly hot. He tried to sit as if he was relaxed and highly confident, but he felt self-conscious, and couldn't help glancing over again.

She'd gone. No. Moved. Nearer the door. But she was looking at him. A sharp, intent look, as if she knew him, and there was something about her . . .

And in an instant he recognized her, a shock of fear and vivid joy. She had been in Corbenic.
She had carried the golden cup
.

He jumped up, making the crockery topple with a clink. People turned, but he was already elbowing his way through the crowded tables.

“Hey! Excuse me!” A large, slightly grim waitress barred his way. “That'll be one twenty, thank you.”

One twenty! It was extortionate! But he slapped the coins into her palm and she stood back with a sarcastic smile, and he knew she thought he'd been trying to slip off without paying. He wouldn't care. He had to find the girl.

There were racks of curtains, billowing in the air-conditioning. Gauzy fabrics rippled; he ran down the aisles of them but always the movement seemed to be somewhere else, on the other side. She was there, he knew. Dodging through he came to beds, rows of them, and far down at the end a figure slipped out between them.

“Wait!” he called. Pushing past a salesman he raced after her. Outside, somewhere very close, a clock was chiming, loud, like a church, nine, ten, eleven, and the noise almost seemed to obstruct him, to thicken the air, as he turned sideways to edge past women with loaded bags and a bored man with a stroller. Men's wear! She wouldn't be here! But there she was, a slight figure beside a counter of folded pullovers, watching him, her eyes bright. She wore a green dress. The same dress.

Cal cursed. He stood still and told himself he wouldn't take another step; he'd turn and find the door and get out of the shop into the sunshine. Then he was running. Through lingerie and children's wear and home furnishings and books she was always ahead, just out of sight. The clock struck, booming through the building. Surely it shouldn't be that loud! He found stairs and jumped down them, into a dim basement full of shining kitchen appliances.

Abruptly, the chimes stopped. Breathless, he looked around. No one else seemed to be down here. Small echoes shifted.

“It is you, isn't it?” he said quietly. In the dusty silence his words seemed to hang; he said desperately, “I just want to talk to you! About Corbenic.”

No answer.

He took a step forward. In all the kettles and jugs and teapots; in the stainless steel coffee pots and toasters and mixers and drying racks he saw himself move, swollen and distorted and stretched and tiny. His mouth warped in the convex surfaces. “Please,” he whispered.

She was there. Reflected. He turned quickly, but he couldn't find her. Only her reflections watched him, her eyes severe in the dimness.

“How could you let us down like that?” Her whisper was intense and fierce, and it startled him.

“What?”

“You lied! To Bron, to yourself. You saw the Grail . . .”

“That cup!”

“Yes. That cup. And the spear. You saw the door open. And you denied all of it!”

Cal stared at her face, twisted in the shiny handle of a kettle. In milk jugs and sugar basins she watched him, seeming young and then old, warping and changing, her hair fair, like his mother's. “Have you any idea what you've done?” her lips breathed, clouding metal.

“No,” he said quietly, turning, moving along the counters. “I haven't. Tell me.”

She shook her head sadly. “Left us all in our pain. In the Waste Land. Only you can heal us. Come back,” she whispered. “Come home. That's the quest, Cal.”

Cal banged into a stand of saucepans; they clattered into a rolling, crashing confusion and the girl's reflection tumbled with them and in the clattering din she looked out at him with twenty covert glances. “Because you did see, didn't you?”

“That place,” he said urgently. “Was it real? I didn't just dream it all, did I?”

“You tell me,” she said from over his shoulder. “And do you know the pain he's in? That we're all in?”

There were footsteps on the stairs. Cal picked a saucepan up, bewildered. “Back where? It isn't home. It's a ruin.”

“It is now.” Close behind him, his arms full of aluminum, he felt her push something in his pocket. “Use the sword,” she whispered. Though her voice was his.

Lights flickered on. A voice said, “Can I help you, sir?”

In the sudden stark light Cal saw the basement was empty. A man in a white shirt and blue tie was standing on the bottom stair looking at him quizzically.

“Oh, no, sorry. Thanks.” He put the pans down quickly. “I just bumped into these,” he said quickly. “It was very dark down here.”

“Yes. Someone seems to have switched the light off.” The man's voice was oddly acid; now they thought he was a shoplifter, Cal thought bitterly, and that it was saucepans he was after. Saucepans!

The man moved to the cash register. “So you aren't interested in buying anything?”

“No,” he said firmly, and walked to the stairs.

“Er . . .” The man held out a hand. “Even the CD? I can take care of that here.” His grin was spiteful.

“CD?” Cal was blank.

“In your pocket.
Sir
.”

Cal felt for it. It stuck out, still warm from her touch. He pulled it out, not even looking at it, but at the sales assistant, his smile rigid and grim, his heart hammering. “Oh yes,” he said tightly. “I'd forgotten about that.”

The assistant took it from him. There were hot smudges from his fingers on the cellophane wrapping; the man saw them and smiled coldly. “Happens all the time,” he said. He ran the bar code over and took out a plastic bag. “Sixteen fifty.”

Cal heard it and managed not to flinch. Elaborately careless, he took out the money and paid it over, only glad he had that much. The man gave him fifty pence change. Silent, Cal turned and stalked up the stairs. He didn't draw a breath till he was out of the store, and then he marched down the steep street without turning or looking right or left, fury burning in him, and humiliation and dismay. Sixteen fifty! Why couldn't he just have said he'd made a mistake, laughed it off! They couldn't have arrested him. That was only when you left the store. Like the time his mother had . . . forgotten about the lager. His ears hot, he stopped and stared sightlessly in a window, taking a deep breath.

The girl had been there. The Grail girl. She must have been.

After a moment he took the plastic bag from his pocket and tipped the CD out, staring at it. It was called
Parsifal
, and it was all in German. And it looked like opera.

Opera!