Corbenic Read online

  Chapter Six

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

  Parzival

  It 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 c
onvex 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!

  Chapter Seven

  Perceval goeth toward the Deep Forest, that is full broad and long and evil seeming.

  High History of the Holy Grail

  “I can give you a lift home if you hang on till about six.” Trevor had put his head around the office door.

  Cal looked up from the pink forms. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks.” Then, “What’s the earliest I can finish?”

  His uncle smiled wryly. “Five. Just because you’re the boss’s nephew . . .”

  “I’ll go then, if you don’t mind. I can walk.”

  Trevor shook his head. “Can’t stand the pace, eh? Have you had a good day?”

  “Fine.” He didn’t know what else to say. When his uncle had gone and the door was safely shut, he tidied the mass of forms on the desk into neat piles and dropped the calculator into the drawer with a sigh. He’d guessed it might be boring. But this was mind-numbing.

  Opposite, Phyllis’s vacant computer station blinked strange images over its screen. Phyllis was his uncle’s PA, but she was well over fifty and as dry as a stick. She didn’t approve of him, he knew. Probably thought he was well-off and spoiled rotten, the boss’s nephew getting a job he wasn’t qualified for and couldn’t do. She certainly wasn’t making things easy.

  He looked up at the clock. Four-thirty. Thank God for that. It was his fourth day at work, and it had seemed endless. They’d been in the office at eight, because Trevor always liked to be first in, and by ten Cal had been bored rigid. They were giving him the dullest work—start with the basics, Trevor had said, learn the business from the bottom up. He was hardly doing that. Making tea. Opening the post. And they wouldn’t even give him a computer yet. All he had done this afternoon was check addresses, postcodes, and put incomprehensible numbers into boxes on pink forms. The trouble was, he knew absolutely nothing about accountancy, tax returns, VAT, all that. Maybe Phyllis was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten the job.

  He stood up and stretched, yawning. Well, boring or not, it paid real money. And he’d get a day a week in college. He’d learn. Give him five years and he’d be a partner. Ten, and he’d have a chain of offices all of his own, and a flashy car and holidays abroad.

  Out of the window, just over the roofs of the next building, he could see a corner of the castle, a dark stone turret. It stopped his thoughts, made him restless, as it had all day, every time he had lifted his eyes from the papers. Probably because of the sword.

  Getting it here had been a real pain. He’d wrapped it in a spare T-shirt and then in a plastic bag, and had slipped it into the back of the car when Trevor was giving his impeccable suit a final brush. It would have been just too hard to explain.

  Yesterday, he’d found an antique dealer’s, in a small alley of tourist shops down by the castle. If he was quick, he could get down there before they closed and sell the thing and be rid of it for good.

  He bent and opened the bottom drawer of the desk and looked at the bundle. For a moment he thought of Bron, that bitter agony of disappointment, that pain. Bron had been real. So had the girl. And the cup, the Grail, as she called it. Maybe . . .

  The door opened; Phyllis came in and raised an eyebrow. “Packing up?” she asked drily, her sharp eyes going straight to the clock. And quite suddenly Cal couldn’t stand the office another minute; the stale room, the stink of the photocopier, the clattering of printers. He picked up the bundle quickly. “Feel a bit queasy. Thought I’d finish early and get some air.”

  “If that’s all right with your uncle,” she said so sourly he could almost hear the acid. Dragon, he thought. As soon as he was gone she’d go hissing to Trevor but that could wait. He grabbed his coat from the peg and swung past her. “See you next week,” he said to the closed door. He walked fast through the outer office, said good night to the glamorous typist who winked at him, and thundered down the stairs into the street, pulling his coat on and dragging in
deep breaths of icy air. Freedom! Thank God.

  It was getting dark, the streetlights were coming on, the gleam of lit windows spilling over the pavements. His breath made clouds; he pulled his gloves on and walked quickly, sword under arm, the cold air shocking him back into alertness, his face stinging with the coming night frost.

  The quickest way down into town was through Castle Dell. He crossed the road, and the streetlights reddened, dull scarlet glimmers high in the misty darkness. The side street was quiet, with few cars. He followed the railings as far as the gate, and turned into the foggy darkness of the Dell. It sloped deeply into the old dry moat of the castle. On his left were trees, black against the purple twilight, and the concrete path ran down into mist, the lamps smaller here and spread out, their islands of light faint and drifting.

  His footsteps were loud; he tried to walk more softly. In daylight this was a busy path, full of dog walkers and small kids out with their mothers, but now in the closing winter night it was lonely and strange and as he went deeper the moat rose around him, crowded with tangled trees and brambles, and behind them, ominously high from down here, the sheer, ruthless bastions of the castle wall.

  He stopped, breathing hard. The night smelled of smoke. It was bitterly cold. In front of him the path was black. If there was another lamp the fog had swallowed it. And it seemed to him, with a shiver of fear, that he had done it again, walked straight out of the normal world into some other that was always there waiting for him, in his mind, at twilight, on borders and boundaries, shadowy crossroads. And if he went on, if he walked down there, it would change his whole life, if he didn’t turn back right now, back to the lit streets, the office, Trevor’s lift in the warm car.

  The sword felt awkward, prodding him urgently; he shifted its weight, and looked behind. The frosty halo of the last lamp lit the bark of a tree; far off, down in the town, cars hummed over the bridge. Here, only the breeze moved. He walked on. At once it was colder, as if the sun never got this deep. Spiny branches crowded the path, furred with frost. Gravel crunched underfoot; he pulled the scarf over his face, ducking under twigs. As if he had traveled into some forest, because the path was not like this in the daytime.